The Outcaste
Page 5
CHAPTER V
For the past twelve months the family of Pantulu Iyer had beenpreparing for the return of the son and heir. In the first placeGunga, Ananda's mother, had undertaken a pilgrimage to the largeVishnuvite temple at Srirungam, near Trichinopoly. She was a proudwoman, full of energy, just but strict in the performance of duties,religious as well as social. She demanded of others the same rigidadherence to rule, and she countenanced no indulgence nor slackness inyoung or old among her dependents. By her decree Dorama and her littleson were to accompany her.
The journey would have been easy by rail; but Pantulu's wife was not awoman to look for ease and comfort where ceremonial was concerned. Shechose the way of her ancestors and elected to travel by road as theyhad travelled in the old days before the fire-carriage revolutionisedthe Indian methods of journeying.
It took many days, even though she used her own powerful bullocks.Besides the coach there was a country cart which carried thecooking-pots, bedding, and her own caste servants. The people of thevillages through which she passed inquired the name of the graciouslady who honoured their poor hamlet by her presence. The reply wasgiven by the drivers; she was the wife of a rich silk merchant ofChirapore, carrying offerings to the big temple at Srirungam. Why didshe make offerings? Was her husband sick? No; it was because her sonwho had been to England was returning, and she was anxious to enlistthe favour of the gods so that he might be restored to her in safety.The country folk received the information with much salaaming, andexpressed a hope that she would be favoured. They supplied her witheggs and milk; and admired the fine handsome white cattle that drew hercoach, praising the drooping ears and swinging dew-laps in loud tonesthat were intended to penetrate the curtains that hung before thewindows of the carriage.
At the big temple she was honourably received. The gifts she broughtwere presented by her tiny grandson in the absence of any other malemember of the family.
The little Royan, named after his great-grandfather, was decked inpurple velvet and crimson satin; and his small person was laden withjewels of gold and precious stones. The soft baby hand, timidlyextended to the awe-inspiring mahunt--who graciously deigned to receivethe offerings in person--was weighed down by the solid gold limeresting on his palm. The great man smiled as he stooped and receivedthe substantial gift. By the side of the child stood his grandmother,erect in her hale middle-age. Her limbs had not yet lost the lines ofa comely youth, nor the features their haughty beauty.
Half hidden behind her was the smaller figure of Dorama, her eyes castdown, her rich silk cloth, plain in colour and pattern, veiling herlately-developed form. The eyes of the mahunt dwelt upon her as heasked a few questions. He learned that her husband was in England, andwould be returning some time during the year.
"She will rejoin him and give you another grandson to rejoice yourheart," said the mahunt.
"It may be so if the gods will," replied Gunga in a tone that seemed todismiss the subject.
"Should your hopes not be fulfilled you must make another pilgrimage tothe temple, and she must keep vigil before the god. It cannot fail tobring about the desired result."
To this proposition the elder lady made no reply, and the mahuntretired, casting another glance of approval upon Dorama.
After a few days' rest, Gunga returned as she went, making the journeyby easy stages. The nights were spent at the various rest-houses onthe road, where her attendants cooked the food and saw to her comfort.She chose a time when the weather promised to be fine, and it did notdisappoint her. The expedition was a pleasant jaunt, which Doramaenjoyed more than a little.
On her return home Gunga superintended other preparations considerednecessary for the occasion. The whole household--with all itsdependents and caste servants numbering over fifty--had to be fittedout with new clothes. The little close-fitting jackets of brightcolours affected by the women were fashioned by careful tailors. Men'scoats of brilliant cloth, lined with silk and richly embroidered withgold, were put in hand. New lengths of muslin of the finest qualitywere purchased after careful and deliberate bargaining; and many of thefamily jewels were reset.
It was in these heirlooms that Dorama was most interested. Accordingto time-honoured custom among modest Hindu women, she had laid asideher jewels on her husband's departure; nor was she permitted to use thegolden saffron powder that is supposed to enhance the beauty of theIndian skin. With his return all restriction of self-adornment wouldend; and the finest and best of the jewels would be hung about her ownneck and arms; and her smooth skin would gleam with powder that wouldmatch the newly-burnished gold.
The tailors needed supervision; the working goldsmiths requiredindividual watching. A member of the family, usually one of the elderwomen, was told off to sit by his crucible and work-table whilst heplied his bellows and his delicate styles; and the half-finishedornament was carried home in the evening to be restored to the jewellerin the morning when the person in charge was able to resume her guard.
Then there were the preparations that belonged to the kitchen, thechutneys, pickles, and preserves that would be required when the timearrived for feasting and feeding the poor Brahmans.
Dorama assisted under her mother-in-law's directions, lending a handhere and there where special care was needed. She was very silent; butbeneath that silence was hidden a fire of emotions varied and deep thatthe others little dreamed of. She thought of her wedding, long agowhen she was but a child. At the time the ceremonies had excited herwonder, and she had experienced a fearful pleasure in the thought thatshe was the centre of attention. She remembered Ananda's smooth boyishface and his gentle acquiescence to all his parents' wishes. He hadglanced at his newly-made wife with childish curiosity, in whichpassion and desire found no place.
Later the parents arranged a honeymoon for the young couple, to bespent under the paternal roof. On her side, at least, there wasnothing but distaste and fear, with not a little grief at having toleave her own home. Then ensued a dull period when light householdtasks instead of dolls and toys filled her life. It ended in the birthof a son. With the advent of the baby she was released from domesticwork in the kitchen; and though she found that the wonderful livingdoll was not her exclusive property, but seemed to belong to the wholehouse as much as to her, existence had a new interest.
Before she was sufficiently recovered to take her new place as thefavoured young mother of a son in the family circle, Ananda departed.She remembered how he had knelt by her side and looked at the tinybaby, their joint property, with a kind of delighted surprise, asthough he found it difficult to realise that the little crumpled oliveball of humanity was his own, his very own. From his child his eyeswent to his child's mother with a light in them that she had never seenthere before. She was no longer one of the mere goods and chattels ofthe house to help to minister to his appetite, feed him, keep hisclothes in order and perform other duties that contributed to hiscomfort and well-being. In giving him this son, who would one day callhim by the name most highly prized throughout the land, she had donesomething purely personal, something exclusively for him; and in sodoing she had endowed him with a delight and joy unknown before.
It was impossible for him to express his gratitude in words. Thepresence of his mother standing near with her dark, watchful eyes kepthim silent. He could only gaze from wife to child and then back againat his wife. In his shining eyes, full of unspoken happiness, the girlmight read what she pleased. Even as he knelt by the mat on which shelay the new longing arose to possess, to enjoy, to claim his own, andcarry his precious treasures away.
The watching mother detected the emotion, and a twinge of jealousycaused her to stir uneasily. She advanced and laid a hand upon hisshoulder, her gold bracelets ringing as they fell together upon herwrist with the movement.
"Come away, my son; she is still weak, and unable to bear a longfarewell. Be assured that we will keep her safe and sound till youreturn, her and her little son."
Ananda
bent lower over the recumbent figure, and his mother's browcontracted as she saw the motion.
"Beloved! keep your heart warm for your absent husband," he whispered,as he kissed the beautiful mouth.
Dorama, as a well-behaved married woman, should have shown no emotionbeyond grief. She should have received the kiss and the words insilence, allowing the eyelids to droop under his ardent gaze; but inthese latter days of progress the orthodox Hindu feels the insensiblebreath of the new spirit, and yields to it without actually breakingaway from the old rules. That same spirit moved her to put her armsround his neck and to draw him down again till their lips touched asecond time.
"Do not be long, beloved. The slave waits impatiently for her lord."
"Come! come! The carriage is ready, and his honour, your father, isimpatient to be off," said the voice of his mother, as once more herhand rested on his shoulder.
He rose to his feet and accompanied her without another word, turningonce only to look back and smile at the eyes that followed him sowistfully. Neither husband nor wife forgot the incident. Everydetail, every look and word were engraved upon their memories, and withthis their aching hungry hearts had to be contented until they shouldmeet again.
As the time drew near for Ananda's return Dorama moved like one in adream. During the day she was abstracted and thoughtful, except whenshe was with her little son. If by any chance she could carry him outof hearing of the other members of the family on pretence of giving himthe air, she spoke of his father, pouring out the pent-up feeling inwords, the meaning of which was beyond the child's comprehension. Itbrought relief, although it did not allay the terrible longing.
When the pink satin coat that Royan was to wear on his father'shome-coming was finished, Dorama stole away to the little room she hadshared with her husband, and slipped it on. The boy's eyes sparkledwith delight at the colour and sheen.
"Your father is coming, blessed one! Say 'Father, excellent father!Your son and slave throws himself before your honourable footsteps!'Say it! Ah, good child! It was well done! Now again; and carry thehand to the forehead, thus! Good, little one! Mother's joy!"
Suddenly the sound of Gunga's voice fell on her ear as some order wasgiven in the distance to one of the dependents.
"Ah! there is the grandmother! Quick! take it off! The coat is onlyto be worn in the presence of your father."
She pulled it off, the child entering into the fun and excitement ofdoing something that must be hidden from the rigid mistress of thehouse. When the coast was clear Dorama crept back, the coat hiddenunder her saree and her finger on her lips. The purloined garment wasreplaced in the clothes chest without discovery, and the two, laughinglike a couple of mischievous children, ran away in happy glee overtheir secret.
At night she lay on her mat in the large room appropriated to the womenof the household, wakeful with busy thought and anticipation. The deepbreathing and occasional snore of her companions told her that theyslept soundly. Then she ventured to move, to stretch her young limbsand sit up. Her brain seemed on fire. Would her mother give themagain the little room; or would the son of the house be honoured bybeing assigned a larger and more important chamber? Would he bealtered in any way? Possibly he had grown older in appearance,stronger in limb, more manly. How the women of England must haveadmired him! Hateful creatures! She detested English women! What wasthere to admire in them? They were blocks of ice with hard, cold,white skins and unkind eyes. She had never seen them except in thestreets as they drove past in carriages or motors; but she was quiteconvinced that she read their characters aright, and that her opinionof them was correct.
She heard the cocks crowing as they marked the progress of the night.In the midst of her musings she fell asleep, and dreamed that he hadcome, that he leaned over her in greeting as he had leaned in parting,and that their lips met once more.
Among other preparations was the painting and decoration of the house.As the time approached Venetian masts were erected and wreathssuspended the length of the road in which they lived. Bunches ofleaves and flowers were tied to the beams of the house, and wholeplantain trees bearing their large clusters of golden fruit werefastened to every pillar.
Then the guru with his disciple arrived, and the purohit from thetemple, to superintend the ceremonies that were necessary for therestoration of caste. Gunga, in the absence of her husband in Bombay,gave the holy men a welcome, and saw that nothing was omitted that wasconducive to their comfort.
As the time drew near the whole household felt the thrill ofexpectation that never fails to move a family when one of its membersis expected home after a long sojourn in foreign lands. What newsthere would be to hear, and to tell! The traveller would bring giftsfor all. No one would be forgotten.
One morning a post peon appeared carrying a telegram. It was addressedto Pantulu's brother, Sooba, the little master, as he was called; andit announced that the ship had come in safely and that the passengerswould land that afternoon.
"Is there anything in the telegram about the time they will leaveBombay?" asked the guru's attendant, as he waited to carry news to thegreat man. Gunga handed him the message in its brown envelope. Tenminutes later he returned.
"The master says that they will start to-morrow probably, either by themorning or evening mail, according to the time it takes to clear theluggage through the custom house."
The guru was well versed in matters temporal as well as spiritual.
"When may we expect them?" asked Gunga.
"It takes two nights and a day to travel from Bombay to Chirapore,"replied the disciple. "If they leave to-morrow night they will be hereon Wednesday morning."
"The day before the new moon! Not a lucky day to be travelling south,"remarked Gunga, with a troubled expression upon her face. "If myhusband remembers to go out of the house in which he is staying by anorth door, the bad luck may be averted."
"He will surely think of it," observed the disciple, whose life wasoccupied in the consideration of omens.
"In the joy of meeting his son it is quite possible that it may beforgotten. I know that my lord will be nearly beside himself withdelight at seeing his boy again, his only child!" she added softly,with a tenderness that she rarely exhibited.
That same afternoon a second telegram was received. It said "Disperseguests. Discontinue preparations for feasting and rejoicing."
Gunga listened speechless as her brother-in-law read it aloud.
"Again," she commanded.
He read it a second and a third time.
"Is there nothing about illness? Is no reason given for these strangeorders?"
"None, most honourable mother of my brother's family."
"Call his excellency, the swami."
The guru, full of curiosity, came at the summons without delay. Heread the message more than once, but was unable to throw any more lightupon its meaning.
"A letter will come with full explanations," he said at last. "Untilits arrival the directions of the master of the house must be carriedout. My disciple shall tell the company of beggars who are alreadyassembling that there will be no feasting. He had better give them ananna apiece, which you will provide, and say that they will be calledtogether again on the arrival of the master."
"What can be the cause of this change?" asked Gunga, her dark eyesfixed with a questioning gaze upon the guru.
"Illness, perhaps, or an accident."
"My son is not dead!" she cried in sudden terror.
"No, that cannot be; nor can there be any dangerous illness. It ispossible that your son may have missed his ship, in which case he willarrive by the next mail boat a week later. We shall learn in time.Meanwhile, I will go on my way to another house, where my presence isneeded, and will hold myself in readiness to return a fortnight hence."
Pantulu's wife felt slightly relieved by the suggestion that her sonmight be coming a week later. It was better than entertaining the fearthat he was ill or even dead. She ac
cepted the situation, and setabout carrying out her husband's directions at once. The new clotheswere packed away in camphor-wood boxes; the pickles and preserves weretied down and put in the storeroom. The women were ordered to ceasegrinding curry-stuffs and pounding rice. The busy household droppedinto sudden inaction, and an unnatural silence reigned everywhere. Thewomen spoke in whispers, and the men betook themselves to the bazaar,or to the houses of their fellow-caste people, where they discussed theominous message from Bombay without fear of being overheard by thestern woman who ruled the family.
Dorama with the rest had listened as the telegram was read out. Everyword of it was engraven upon her brain. She went over it again andagain, puzzling herself to find a reason for the strange mandate. IfAnanda had missed his ship surely his father would have said so. Onthe other hand, if there was illness or an accident to cause delay, itmight easily have been told in a few words. Some mystery lay beneathit. What could it be? Had Ananda lost his senses and become mad withthe joy of his home-coming? She had known cases of temporary loss ofthe senses through excessive joy or grief.
The child plucked at her saree, jealous of her abstraction. She caughthim up and crushed his soft little body to her heart.
"Thus and thus will thy father hug thee and me, my son, when he comes!"
The boy, irritated at being roughly handled, beat at her with his smallfists.
"Thus and thus will I beat my father if he hurts me like that. Let mego, or I will ask him to find me another mother."
The senseless words fell upon her ear with strange force. What was itthe child said? Another mother! Could it be possible that her husbandhad forgotten her in that foreign country, where he had lived so long?Was he bringing home another wife? a white woman, a hated European?No, no! It was impossible!
With a stifled cry she set the child down on his feet, and he seizedthe opportunity of escaping to the kitchen, the spot he loved best.She was left alone, and no one heeded her; they were all too busydiscussing the mystery of the message and attempting to discover itssolution. Suddenly she dropped to the ground, crouching as though someunseen hand were about to strike a deadly blow, her hands lifted toguard her head.
"No! no! no! If there were another I could not bear it. I shoulddie!" she wailed. Then passion took hold of her. She stuffed thecorner of her saree into her mouth and bit it savagely. "No, I willnot die! It is the strange woman who shall die! Hear me, swami of thebig temple! Hear my vow. I will live and have my own! my own!"