THE SENSIBLE SON-IN-LAW

(SHORT STORY)

By SINGARAJU LINGAMURTI

(Rendered from Telugu by ‘Rasika’)

The moment Sitapati set foot in his house his wile Sundari swept into his presence from the kitchen where she had been in tantrums, evidently, for some time. She peered into his face scrutinisingly, curled her lips and returned to the kitchen. Sitapati paused at the doorstep for a moment, mystified by this unusual greeting and walked slowly into his room. He first unbuttoned his coat and hung it on the stand. Significant sounds of falling vessels assailed his ears. He dropped down on the worn-out tape cot staring hard at the wall that stood between him and the kitchen.

What could be the reason for this mood of Sundari? He had not uttered even a single word to provoke her since daybreak. He recollected the smile on her face with which she had sent him off to the office in the morning. ‘What could have occurred subsequently to put her out? Perhaps, the mischief of the children. No, anything so simple and normal could not account for this extraordinary demonstration. He began to revolve in his mind all the conceivable possibilities. But he could not arrive at a satisfactory explanation. The problem, unsolved, developed into a headache.

‘With all our efforts and economies, our earnings suffice at best to make both ends meet. We are never able to spare anything for satisfying the fancy of the children even once in a way.’ Such words also found their way to his ears, from the other side of the wall. He felt mortified.

‘Quite true!’ he reflected. ‘My meagre earnings enable me just to carry on somehow, with difficulty.’ His glance rested on the thread-bare coat on the stand, with the big patches at the elbows and the loose fibres at the edges, and the button-holes gaping at the vacant button-places. The colour of the cloth had long ago changed into a dull grey. This remnant of an ancient coat, he reflected with gratitude, contrived to serve heroically to preserve his respectability, concealing from exposure the tattered shirts underneath. From the coat, his gaze strayed to the sandals below it. As he jerked them off his feet on entering the room one of them had fallen upside down showing the ugly pieces of cardboard with which the sole was stuffed. It was a revolting sight. ‘We have served you loyally for so many years. We have been crushed under your feet every day. We are quite done up. Is there no release for us?’–they seemed to plead.

‘The cobbler demands a rupee and four annas for repairs. Where to find so much for this single item?’ reflected Sitapati and tried to stretch his back full on the cot. The worn-out tape snapped at once. Everything in the house, every individual object seemed to him to bear eloquent testimony to his incompetence. ‘This tape is really very old. How long can it serve? reflected Sitapati very considerately, in an attempt to reconcile himself to his irremediable position. Meanwhile the noise in the kitchen also appeared to have died down. ‘Where is the alternative if I refuse to be provoked and refrain from retorting?’ observed Sitapati in a mood of self-congratulation. This wisdom Sitapati had acquired even before the end of the first year of his married life. Otherwise, if he took notice of the perpetual grumbling and frequent exhibitions of temper of Sundari, where had they been by now?

‘I should be a fool to expect coffee today, considering the storm in the kitchen all this time,’ he thought, and rose from the cot.

‘Tomorrow is the last day for payment of school-fees. Names of defaulters will be struck off the rolls.’ Prasad burst in with this comforting intimation. Sitapati began to scratch his skull, by way of reaction. Prasad repeated his courteous notice, still in doubt whether his jaded father had grasped the significance of the announcement. ‘All right, we shall see about it,’ drawled out Sitapati at last, listlessly, as he stepped out of the room. It was unbearable torture for him to stay in the house. He was only waiting for the coffee, to gulp it down and escape into the street. But now he suddenly recollected: he had himself declared last night, as a measure of economy to balance the tottering budget, that coffee in the evening should be scrapped. He was really a fool to have waited so long. He thrust his feet into the tattered sandals and stepped out.

He was walking along the road briskly, but his mind was all in a whirl. Many agitating thoughts rushed through his mind one after another in quick succession. Many times he asked himself: ‘How long am I to endure this life, so full of woes and only woes?’ He could formulate no answer to the question and therefore, perhaps, he came to it again and again. Somebody wished him. He could grasp it only after be had passed along and out of his sight. He was surprised, at his own absent-mindedness. His glance rested on the big ‘Grow More Food’ poster on the wall opposite. With a smile of derision he commented within himself. ‘Perhaps more food will grow by fixing huge posters on walls in towns at a cost of thousands of rupees!’ He came to the crossroads. He paused for a moment to choose the road he should follow. ‘One may listen to the radio in the public park,’ he thought and took the road to the park. He passed by a Government office. He found, in the yard enclosing it, a number of saplings, planted in lines at regular distances. Each was carefully fenced round, for protection from animals evidently. But the plants within were withered and drooping. ‘This is the result of the tree planting festival (Vanamahotsava)...Thousands of trees planted in a fit of enthusiasm and most of them, like these, withering for want of proper care and nourishment! Who is to blame for this colossal waste of public funds and effort? At this rate how can the movement progress and the ideals bear fruit?’ He reached the park by this time, entered and squatted on the sward in a secluded corner. The radio was pouring out a talk on ‘The Grow More Food Campaign’. ‘Why this obsession with the campaign to grow more food? How is it, no one bothers about fair distribution and healthy consumption of the food that is produced!’ he wondered. The lights were on. It was pleasant to sit on the sward listening to the radio and pursuing his own thoughts. But he felt hungry. ‘God could create man but He could not free him from hunger and thirst!’ he reflected, got up reluctantly and proceeded homeward slowly.

At meals in the night Sitapati scrupulously maintained a discreet silence. Sundari, however, resumed her grumbling, with insinuations and innuendoes aimed at him, every now and then. He felt it rather hot every way. He swallowed a glassful of water, complained of excess of pepper in the sauce and asked for a little extra ghee.

‘Where is the ghee for extras?’ snapped Sundari. ‘The half a seer you brought the other day was over long ago. It was literally the last drop that I flicked on your plate today.’

‘True,’ Sitapati admitted to himself. ‘How long could half a seer of ghee go for a family of half a dozen members? It is creditable on the part of Sundari to have stretched it to go for a week,’ and he kept mum.

Prasad was seated by him. Coolly he added, ‘After you left in the evening, the doctor’s man called with the bill.’

‘Oh!’ exclaimed Sitapati putting down his glass of water which he had again lifted up.

‘The child showed temperature in the evening. You had better take her to the doctor tomorrow morning without fail,’ Sundari rubbed in.

‘If we consult the doctor for every slight ailment, how can we get on? Already we owe him a lot,’ whinced Sitapati.

‘We must first pay up the arrears due to him before we can approach him for fresh attendance,’ laid down Prasad with a judicial air.

‘With all this stinginess of father and son, there does not seem to be any huge saving,’ taunted Sundari, exasperated at their seeming heartlessness. Sitapati realised that unless he could resist the temptation to retort, it would end in a regular scene; he finished his meal quickly and retired to his room.

He lifted the bed sheets from the cot, and attempted to mend the broken tape. At last he managed it after a lot of effort, made his bed and reclined on it. Meanwhile Sundari had finished her work in the kitchen and she now approached the cot, placed a vessel of drinking water under it, and sat at the feet of her husband. Sitapati slyly peered into her face and assured himself that her bad temper had at last subsided.

But she put it straight to him now, without any beating about the bush. ‘Is it true you told Mr. Viswanatham, our neighbour, that you decided not to invite your daughter and son-in-law for the New Year festival?’ Thus Sitapati could at last understand the real source of all the bad temper since early morning. ‘Why don’t you speak out?’ she demanded.

‘So his wife has been in such a hurry to carry the tale to you?’

‘What! you do not deny having said it! But she should not have carried it to me! It seems you had advised him also to follow your glorious example and avoid bringing his daughter and son-in-law too for the festival?

‘There you are wrong. It was quite the other way. It was really his idea. It was he suggested it to me.’

‘Let them alone. Let us attend to our affairs. It was only this year we sent our girl to her father-in-law’s. This is the first New Year festival after she left. Is it fair to refrain from bringing her home for this first festival in her new career? How will she take it? Mr. Viswanatham has been inviting his daughter and son-in-law for the festival and having them with the family every year since her marriage. So he can afford to avoid it once in a way, this year. But how can we follow his example? Already the neighbours are pestering me with their enquiries as to when the girl is to be expected. The festival is not even ten days off...She rattled on without giving him so much as a chance to put in a word, till she had concluded.

‘What you say is quite true,’ Sitapati was obliged to admit, ‘but please consider. Is it a simple affair to get daughter and son-in-law home for the festival? New clothes and decent clothes at that, have to be presented to both of them. It means a lot of money. Can we afford it, in our present circumstances and financial difficulties?’

‘Our financial difficulties are always there,’ came her ready reply, ‘can we hope to be free from them at any conceivable time in the near future? Somehow we have to manage. How can we avoid it?’ she contended. ‘We have to avoid, when we cannot afford it,’ he retorted, ‘we have not been able to clear even a fraction of the debt we contracted for her marriage. And we have to repay a hundred other loans. If I do not pay the school-fees for Prasad tomorrow, his name will be struck off the rolls. The doctor’s bill has to be paid. We cannot postpone it any longer and approach him again for advice and attendance. How to meet all these at once?’

‘You are always ready with your arguments against every suggestion of mine. Always it is the same slogan of “No funds”. You are safe and you do not care. I am the target of criticism in society. This is the first year after Susi’s marriage. If we do not bring her and her husband for the festival, we will be making ourselves contemptible in the eyes of all. It is scandalous and ridiculous.’

‘How can we get on if we fear the criticism and ridicule of neighbours and relations at every step? They can afford to criticise liberally. But if we incur thereby expenditure beyond our means, will they come to our rescue in our troubles?’ demanded Sitapati heroically.

‘What is the use of such unreasonable arguments? Is it no disgrace or dishonour to yon?’

Sitapati realised that further discussion was worse than useless and certain to lead nowhere but to tears in her eyes in the end. So he concluded as usual with–‘We shall see about it’, and saved the situation for the time being. She felt somewhat mollified, got up and approached her bed.

Sitapati had no sound sleep that night. He began to reflect that his case was only one instance of the numerous middle-class population struggling to maintain a false status and prestige to which their finances were unequal, especially in the matter of domestic and social customs and observances. There could be no peace for the individual without a basic reconstruction of the social and economic foundations of society and the middle classes were doomed to frustration and misery till then.

The next day, while Sitapati was at his desk in the office, the postman delivered a letter to him. He scrutinised the superscription for a moment, and recognising the handwriting, guessed it to be from his daughter, tore open the envelope and read the letter through. The blood altogether vanished from his face by the time he had finished.

The clerk at the neighbouring desk observed the rapid change in his countenance and questioned him with anxiety. ‘Wherefrom is the letter? Does it convey good news? Are all your people safe?’ Sitapati nodded to indicate answers in the affirmative to the last questions. ‘Then why do you look so shocked and dazed?’ the friend pursued. ‘No. There is nothing the matter. Only my daughter writes to say she is coming for the festival.’ ‘Why, that is good news and matter for jubilation. My congratulations,’ said the friend in his innocence. ‘How can he divine my misery?’ brooded Sitapati.

In spite of his reluctant promise, ‘Yes, we shall see about it’ extorted from him by his wife the previous night, Sitapati had resolved to drop the idea of bringing over his daughter for the festival. But he found himself in a tight corner now and it seemed unavoidable. His daughter put it so adroitly: ‘We are expecting father any moment to go over here to take us there for the festival.’ His wife had already warned him; if he now refrained from bringing over his daughter and son-in-law for the festival, the parents of his son-in-law would feel entitled to despise and slight him ever after: If he wished to avoid their contempt, he had to incur extra expenditure running up to a hundred rupees. He found himself on the horns of a dilemma.

He could not find a way out, however much he tried. If he invited them he should present to them decent clothes, in keeping with his (imagined) and their (presumed) status. Even at the time of the marriage, there was a complaint that he had presented to his daughter one saree less than the number prescribed by custom. He had managed to avoid a crisis on that issue by promising to present a silk saree to her on the first New Year Day festival after the marriage.

It was imperative for him now to redeem the promise. “But he resolved to invite them only by letter. It was not quite necessary for him to go over personally to fetch them. Why should he put himself to an additional expense of over twenty rupees for the journey? But he had to find a benefactor willing to lend him just a hundred rupees.

His friend Ranganatham, another clerk in the same office, he recollected, had told him once casually that, in an emergency, he had borrowed from some one paying interest at two annas per rupee per month. Suppose he resorted to that course, sure as anything, that way lay ruin for him. He could never extricate himself from the morass. His mind began to work furiously, and in his excitement he waved his hand aside. It struck against the ink bottle on the table, upsetting it and spilling the ink on the files. Thus he came back to the reality of his immediate surroundings, regretted his absent-mindedness due to preoccupation with domestic problems. He called the peon, set the papers right and attended to the work on hand.

Early in the morning, on the day previous to the New Year Day, Susila, his daughter, and her husband Syamala Rao duly arrived. Sitapati and his son Prasad were on the platform when the train steamed in. Sitapati extended a warm welcome to his son-in-law with an affectionate embrace. But the shrewd young man noticed a strange shadow of concern in the countenance of his father-in-law, which he was not able to account for. Sundaramma was extremely happy when the party reached home, and quite pleased that she could have her daughter and son-in-law with her for the festival. Susila caressed her little brother, the latest of the series, and joined her mother in her household work, describing to her at the same time the ways and manners of her husband’s family.

‘Your son-in-law was very reluctant to undertake this visit and agreed at last only after a good deal of coaxing and persuasion,’ she explained to her mother. In the night, when all others had retired to bed, she lay beside her mother and hummed for her the new tunes she had learnt after leaving her parental home.

Sitapati was also happy, but only apparently. He was trying his best to hide the agony at his heart from the observation of others. But the son-in-law, whose suspicion had already been roused, was noticing the shadow all the time, even while engaged in pleasant conversation with all the members of the family.

The New Year Day dawned. The prescribed routine of oil bath, tasting the bitter margosa blossom, etc., was observed. Syamala Rao felt embarrassed by the special attention and regard shown to him in every matter by all the members of the family, including the elders, his father-in-law and mother-in-law. He could not understand why they should be so respectful to a young man simply because he happened to be a son-in-law. Instead of treating him as just another member of the family, they showered presents on him and showed respect and attention as to a superior officer. He wondered, ‘Why so much fuss and so many presents? Is it for fear that otherwise he might not treat their daughter properly? Perhaps many such families are obliged to run into debt on account of these traditional observances.’ The previous night Susila had shown him the new clothes purchased by her father for presentation to them on the New Year Day. He must have spent a lot for these presents while the other children were all evidently neglected, with no decent clothes to wear even on the festival day. He knew it would be so. That was the reason why he had hesitated to undertake the visit. But Susila had insisted, with tears in her eyes, that she would go only if he accompanied her. So he had to yield in the end.

After the formalities in the morning, Syamala Rao went out for a look at the town, and Sitapati to his office to attend to urgent papers.

Sundari, with evident satisfaction and zest, settled in the kitchen for preparing the dishes, ordinary and extraordinary. Susila was with her, helping her in slicing the vegetables for the curry. The children were enjoying the festival in their own boisterous way.

Susila slyly broached, ‘Mother, let us all go to the cinema tonight.’ Her mother responded cautiously, ‘Let us put it to your father. It means a lot of expense, if all of us are to go.’

‘Never mind the expense. Let your son-in-law stand it for this item,’ persisted Susila wilfully.

‘No, no, that is out of the question. How can we allow the son-in-law to spend for us today? But your father is just now short of funds. Already he has borrowed a lot, dear. But my brother gave me ten rupees when he visited me last. I have set it apart for any emergency that may arise. Let us use it now, if you are keen on the cinema.’

The conversation was interrupted at this stage as Syamala Rao entered and passed straight to his room. Susila too left the kitchen and followed him into the room.

‘So you are planning to empty the meagre private purse of your mother to enjoy the cinema tonight?’ Evidently he managed to catch some part of the conversation of mother and daughter, as he passed to his room.

‘No, no, that is what my mother proposes. And we have not yet decided. But what is this parcel? Whom are these clothes for and why have you brought them?’ she asked as she opened the parcel he had brought.

‘Couldn’t you guess? Isn’t it a festival for your brothers and sisters too?’ He had purchased new clothes for all the children of the family.

‘This is nice. But isn’t it strange that a son-in-law should present clothes to the members of his father-in-law’s family? How much have you spent on them?’ she enquired.

‘Why should you consider it strange? We may receive and put on with glee the clothes presented to us by them, but it is strange if we present clothes to the children!’ he retorted. Susila was silenced. She took up the parcel and walked in to her mother, exclaiming with pride and pleasure, ‘Mother, here are clothes for the children, presented by your son-in-law!’

They had finished their meal. All were dressed in new clothes except Sitapati and his wife. Sitapati was in his room, seated on the old cot with the worn-out tape, reviewing mentally the money he had to spend for each item in connection with this visit of his daughter and son-in-law. But he was happy, too, in a way. Pulling at the country cigar between his lips, he reflected, with the satisfaction of having narrowly escaped from a calamity, that his friend and neighbour Viswanatham had nearly given him the slip. After assuring him repeatedly that he did not propose to invite his daughter and son-in-law for the festival this year, he did bring them over even a day earlier than Sitapati. Sitapati had done well in yielding to the importunity of Sundari. Otherwise....

Susila and Syamala Rao, dressed in the new clothes presented to them stood before him. He had not noticed their entering the room.

‘Stretch out your legs, Father. Let us bow before your feet and receive your blessings,’ said Susila. ‘Why so much formality,’ protested Sitapati, but he stretched his legs as desired, nevertheless. Daughter and son-in-law bowed and he blessed them heartily. Susila departed immediately in response to a call from her mother in the kitchen. Syamala Rao also followed her to the door. The gaze of Sitapati involuntarily strayed to the patched-up coat on the coat-stand and the tattered sandals below it. He was startled by the word, ‘Father-in-law, sir,’ from Syamala Rao at the door.

‘What is the matter, my boy,’ he said affectionately.

‘Here is a hundred-rupee note. I have been commissioned by my parents to hand it over to you. It was proposed to present clothes to both of you if you went over there to invite us for the festival, but you did not, and we are obliged to adopt this method,’ and he approached him holding out the note.

Sitapati was stunned. It was so unexpected. There was no such convention, so far as he knew. And if Susila had known of this strange commission from her father-in-law, she would have surely given him an inkling of it in advance. Evidently she did not know. Perhaps the present was only from his sensible son-in-law, Syamala Rao. He must have guessed the real state of affairs here. It was so lucky, after all, and the amount was a godsend. He could clear the new loan altogether with it and the visit would have cost him nothing. But how could he take advantage of the generous impulse of a young man? It was not proper for a father-in-law to accept a present from his son-in-law on the New Year Day. ‘There is no need for any such thing,’ he said aloud, at last. ‘It is not at all unnecessary, nor is there any impropriety in it. Please take it. Susila may come back any moment,’ said Syamala Rao and he handed over the note. Sitapati was in a fix. His heart was in a flutter. He stretched his trembling hand and took it.” Syamala Rao was moved by the sight. The poor gentleman was agitated on receiving money from him. Perhaps he had done wrong in causing him so much mental suffering, through misguided sympathy.

Meanwhile the call came from the kitchen for the evening tea. Syamala Rao went in and Sitapati followed a moment later, putting the hundred-rupee note in his pocket. He was still wavering. I should have refused to take it. But how can I return it now? He may take offence. Anyway, I am extremely lucky in my son-m-1aw. Such a sensible and considerate son-in-law is indeed a rare phenomenon,’ he reflected and tears of Joy gathered in his eyes. He had never relished his tea so well as on this New Year Day.

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