by F. E. Penny
CHAPTER XXII
Little news was received from Pantulu Iyer and his wife. It wasconjectured that there was none to impart. If he became decidedlyworse the family at Chirapore would be duly informed; but if he onlycontinued to drift gradually down the hill nothing would be said.Sooba and his wife, ever ready to believe as they hoped, made up theirminds that the head of the house could not last much longer, and thatthe younger brother would soon be called upon to perform thoseceremonies which should belong to the son, the performance of whichestablished the right of the performer to be recognised as head of thehouse. Could they have glanced at the presumably dying man they wouldhave sustained a shock.
Contrary to all expectation Pantulu was improving in health every day.He recovered his appetite as well as his strength and spirits with areadiness that astonished his wife. Away from his home and surroundedby new interests he shook off the terrible depression caused by hisson's conversion to Christianity. A reaction was setting in, enablinghim to detach his thoughts from the trouble and centre them elsewhere.
The silk farm was one of his early ventures, when, as a young man, hehad tried with considerable success to improve the culture ofsilk-worms. The system he introduced answered so well that it wasgenerally adopted throughout the silk-growing districts, with theresult that a finer and stronger silk was produced. Perfection,however, was not attained, and of late years there had been a forwardmovement in the Far East which again placed the silk of Chirakul in thebackground. The relative in charge of the farm was an enthusiast inhis way, and he was delighted to find that in Pantulu he had a readyand sympathetic listener. He was quite sure that further improvementmight be effected in the boiling of the cocoons and the bleaching ofthe silk. He had made a few experiments himself and he exhibited theresults with some pride. Together they pored over the evil-smellingstuff that was one day to robe a woman's dainty form, and exhalenothing but the atta of rose and sandal-wood with which it should bescented. It was a good strand of silk, but the tint, a dull stain,would only take crude strong dyes, that lost their brilliancy andpurity through the stain.
The manager of the farm had recently been to Bombay where he had metsome silk growers from China. Though these men were reticent andjealous of imparting their knowledge to foreigners, he managed toextract some information and to gather that more might be learned by avisit to China and Japan. Since his return he had made the attempt toimprove the silk; and though the result left much to be desired, it wassufficiently encouraging to show the old expert that the experimentshould be pursued.
The second day after his arrival Pantulu spent the morning over thecaldrons; and when summoned to the midday meal he entered the littlebungalow with a firm, brisk step that bespoke an unusual readiness fordinner, and a line of thought that was free from anxiety. Gunga lookedup from the steaming pot of rice which she was manipulating and glancedat her husband with surprise. If this was the result of a return towork it should not be her fault if the cure was not completed.
Always prompt and unusually practical for a woman of her nation, shemade a startling proposition that very afternoon. It was nothing lessthan the despatch of the manager to China and Japan on a tour ofinspection, that he might examine thoroughly into the methods ofsilk-growing and preparation for the dyers' vat. She suggested thatPantulu himself should manage the farm during his absence. Thecousin's wife and family were to remain on the estate and keep house asusual. Every now and then Gunga would go over to Chirapore and seethat all was going well. Meanwhile Sooba and his wife would representthe head of the family and look after the business in the town.
The proposal was received by the two men with approval. Pantulu's eyesgrew bright as he considered the plan; and at her question as towhether he felt strong enough for the work that it would involve, hedrew himself up to his full height and assured her that it would make anew creature of him. The change of air had already wrought wonders andshe must not look upon him as an old man past all business.
"My brother will be surprised when he hears the news," remarked Pantuluwith a new pride in his rejuvenation.
"This is not to be spoken of at present," said Gunga with authority."I have other plans connected with it, and until they are more forwardI wish for secrecy; for I will have no interference; none!"
Her lips closed firmly, and Pantulu knew of old that when his wife wasdetermined on any course of action nothing moved her from her course.
"What are they, wife?" he asked, with a smile of amusement. "May we ofthis house be told?"
"If you can keep your tongues quiet. Our cousin's wife, here, is aMahratta woman who knows Bombay. She has suggested that we should sendour son there to act as agent for the sale of our produce. She saysthat though he is lost to our religion, he need not be lost to thefamily business. Many people of caste in Bombay have joined the BrahmoSomaj and the Arya Somaj and a few have become Christians. With allthese changes before their eyes the people of Bombay feel lessbitterness towards the men who take up a new faith than those of astate like Chirapore; and there is no persecution. The EnglishGovernment protects them all."
Pantulu did not reply immediately, and Gunga continued to unfold plansthat were to include the obstinate son and a compromise. She paused totake breath and he spoke.
"The difficulty over the shraddah ceremonies will still remain, therites by which my ancestors and I may escape the lower rebirths."
Gunga looked at him and pursed up her lips as though she had by nomeans exhausted her resources.
"Our cousin's wife has proposed a remedy for that."
He glanced at her with questioning eyes that showed how near to hisheart the subject and consequent anxiety lay. Before he could framethe query as to ways and means she continued.
"The time has not arrived yet to talk about it. First and foremost,husband, you are the chief consideration. You must get well andstrong. For that purpose there is nothing like work and food andchange of air, as I have told you more than once. Here you will haveall that is necessary."
"What shall we tell my brother?"
"Leave that to me. I will dictate a letter saying that it will beadvisable for you to remain here, and praying him to look well afteryour interests at Chirapore. When I go back, which I shall do beforelong, I will explain more."
Pantulu was well content to leave everything in his wife's hands. Thenew venture had taken hold of his mind, and it dominated every otherconsideration. At the bottom of it lay money; and though his wealthwas great already, "Gold" had a reviving effect upon the man, as theword "rats" had upon the sick terrier.
On the day appointed for the ceremonies to take place, which were tobrand Ananda's wife with the curse of Hindu widowhood, a large partyassembled at Pantulu's family mansion in Chirapore. Relativesaccompanied by relatives arrived from all parts of the State. Gossipcirculated freely. News was given and demanded; and many were thequestions asked concerning the absent master and mistress. Sooba wasready with his tale, adorned and coloured according to his imaginationwithout much regard to the truth. Gunga's letter had been received;and as she made no allusion to her husband's health it seemed safe toassume that there was no improvement.
"My sister-in-law asks me to consider myself the head of the house aslong as my brother is absent. She says that it is best for him toremain where he is; it will give him a better chance of recovery," hesaid.
"Then there is hope that he may get well?" asked one of the guests.
"She may have hope herself; we do not entertain much. It is more thanlikely that he is too sick to move."
"How long do you think he will last?" enquired another.
"A few weeks at the outside," replied Sooba. "The news of thedisappearance of his son will probably hasten his end."
"Has it been sent yet?"
"Not yet; we are waiting till this ceremony is finished. It would bevery bad for him if he insisted on returning for it; so we have thoughtit best to get it all over before mentioning anything.
"
It was very gratifying to be treated as the master of the house. Soobarevelled in the situation, and swaggered about among his guests as ifhe already owned his brother's wealth. It all helped to sooth thewounded self-esteem; and to soften the memory of the insults he hadreceived at the hands of Mrs. Hulver.
The afternoon had been chosen for the ceremony; but ever since daybreakactive preparations had been in progress. The victim had undergoneceremonial ablutions; her hair had been combed and oiled and her wholeperson scented. The long glossy strands of hair were plaited and inthe plaits were woven white jasmine blossoms. Gold ornaments freshlyburnished were fastened on her head and in her ears and nostrils.
A close-fitting jacket of crimson satin and a rich tawny silk saree thecolour of wall-flowers enfolded her figure. Round her neck hung fourbeautiful necklaces of pearl and gold and precious stones, all of whichhad adorned Gunga on her wedding day many years ago. Ankles and wristswere laden, and Dorama's slender fingers were filled to the first jointwith rings that were heirlooms. Her forehead was rubbed with sweetsandalwood paste, her lips touched with rouge, and the beautiful browneyes intensified in size by dark touches beneath them. They needed nopungent juices to make them bright. The unshed tears were sufficientto keep them moist.
The assembled guests had had time to dine and afterwards to talk overall the news. Many had paid a visit to the well down which theyglanced morbidly at the root where the cap was found hanging. By halfpast three the waiting began to grow irksome, and enquiries were madefor the widow. She was coming! they were told. It had taken long tofasten all the jewels. There were so many! not one worn on the weddingday was missing; and in addition she wore others that were purchasedfor her when her son was born.
The mention of little Royan was the signal for sighs and lamentations.They were interrupted by the appearance of Dorama led by her aunt.Dressed as when she was given to her husband she stood before them, hereyes downcast and brimming with tears, her delicate fingers pluckingnervously at the folds of her saree.
At the sight of her the women burst into open wailing. Some of thempressed forward and cracked the joints of their knuckles over her headas though they would still try to avert her hideous fate. Otherskissed her cheek and hair, her soft arms, even the gold embroiderededge of her saree. Tears flowed freely; the sight of the grief ofothers opened the fountain of her own sorrow, and Dorama wept with them.
It was a pathetic sight; the girl dressed in bridal array for the lasttime in her young life, and the sympathetic company bewailing her fate.
A golden ray of the afternoon sun shot slanting downwards into thecourtyard and caught the gleaming jewellery, reddening the rich tint ofher silk garment, and warming the lights in the precious metal. Here acrimson ruby sent out a shaft of fire; there a green emerald and bluesapphire set in gold completed the rainbow colours.
The company revelled in the luxury of grief and prolonged theleave-taking, repeating over and over again their sorrow and regretthat the gods had dealt thus hardly with her. Then as the sun drewdown towards the west, she was led by her uncle and aunt through thelittle yard and into Ananda's room. The company followed, and thespace was quickly filled with the throng of sightseers still wailingand weeping without restraint. The green foliage of the gourd wastrodden down; its fruit and yellow blossoms were crushed under carelessfeet as the crowd pressed forward to see the degrading rites that wereto be carried out by the two relatives who had constituted themselvesmaster and mistress of the ceremonies.
First the jewels were removed. One by one they were unclasped andhanded to members of the family to be held in safe keeping till theycould be restored to the jewel chest. Every woman rich or poor wears afew dark bangles of glass. Among the golden circlets on her armsDorama had three or four such rings on each wrist. With every movementthe bangles clinked musically as they fell against the gold bracelets.Armed with a stone her aunt seized her by the hand and struck thebrittle glass sharply. At the sound of the blows the wail of grief wasagain raised. This was the first act in the tragedy.
Denuded of all her adornments she was next disrobed. The colouredjacket was removed; the silk saree unwound from her limbs. A coarserough cloth of unbleached cotton was produced and twisted round herfigure. Widowhood permitted but one garment; nevermore would she beallowed to wear jacket or petticoat or any soft material that mightprotect her sensitive skin from the rough web of the cotton saree.This was the second act.
The third, by far the worst part of the ordeal, was still to come. Herabundant hair was unplaited slowly and the sweet jasmine blossoms thathad been woven into it dropped upon the ground at her feet, where theylay all unheeded, contaminated and cursed by the touch of the widow.Again the women crowded closely, some of them lifting the tresses totheir lips, with lamentations that one so young and beautiful shouldmeet with such misfortune.
In the light of the sunset glow the scissors shone as the hand of thebarber woman was raised to perform her share of the ceremony. The hairthat reached far below Dorama's waist was gathered in none too gentle agrip and severed close against the head. Not content with this, customdemanded the use of the razor. As the sunlight faded behind the purplemountain, Dorama's head was disfigured beyond recognition. A fresh cryof grief rose from the assembled crowd, as they stared with growingrepulsion at the sight. The only dry eyes were those of the temporarymaster of the house and his wife.
One more ceremony remained to be performed. This was the severing ofthe marriage cord on which the badge corresponding with the Europeanwoman's wedding ring hung, Dorama felt the cord press against the backof her neck as her aunt drew it tight the better to divide it. As itparted the tension relaxed and the gold badge dropped into the handextended by her uncle to receive it.
With a despairing cry Dorama fell upon her knees, and leaning forwardtouched the ground with her forehead as if in resignation to the willof the gods. Round her lay the scattered jasmine blossoms that haddropped from her hair. In their death they exhaled their sweetness onthe evening air. They were no longer the adornment of the bride butthe offering to one who was to suffer a living death. Nevermore wouldthe sight of the wax-white flowers remind her of a happy expectantbridegroom. Thenceforth they would speak only of death and misery.
It is strange how the Hindu who is extravagant in his grief, piles uppain and sorrow for poor suffering humanity. As if the gods had notbrought sufficient wretchedness on the unhappy wife by the loss of herhusband, he devises in his inhuman ingenuity this barbarous method ofenhancing the sorrow that is already almost too great for endurance.When the girl is dressed up for the last time and appears before theassembly she is greeted with profound pity. As the ceremonies proceedthat pity gradually emerges into loathing and contempt. The womanherself with all her sweetness and gentleness is forgotten, and herwidowhood only is remembered. She enters upon an existence that isabsolutely without a relieving ray of hope. She is often the drudge ofthe house; she has no rights moral or otherwise; and she is at themercy of the most tyrannical woman of the household and the mostlicentious man. Her only chance of escape is in death; but even deathhas no promise of greater happiness. Her rebirth on earth will,according to her faith, only plunge her in deeper misery anddegradation.
How such an appalling custom can have arisen out of the past ages it isdifficult to say; and it is still more puzzling to understand why it ismaintained among a people who are neither savage nor uncivilized. Noother nation has anything to offer that is its equivalent in refinedand far-reaching cruelty. Never a day passes but the rites areperformed somewhere throughout the length and breadth of India. Nevera night goes by that does not see some stricken girl or womangrovelling on the floor of her chamber in abject misery alone anduncomforted. Too often the misery is ended by a catastrophe, a rushtowards the well; a plunge and then stillness.
And what then? Does any one care? Not in the least. Even the motherof the girl sheds no tear and makes no lamentation. The house is
relieved of the presence of the ill-starred widow, a certain source ofmisfortune, and her removal is a blessing for which the gods arethanked.
One by one the company drifted away, some to depart at once for theirhomes, others to indulge in fragments of gossip in the back verandah.The place was empty at last of all save the prostrate figure lyingamong the jasmine blossoms in the room where, only a few nights ago,she had crept into the arms of a loving husband. The gourd was crushedand trampled to death in the yard; the glory of its green leaves andyellow cups was as ruthlessly destroyed as her own crown of womanhood.
A cicala in the grass outside began his evening note of challenge. Itwas answered by the metallic defiance of a rival. A pair of littleflycatchers slipped into their roosting place in the oleander bush atthe entrance, with complaining chirrups at having been kept up so lateby the invasion of the yard. A pale, yellow moth fluttered like aghost over the jasmine flowers, puzzled at its inability to draw honeyfrom what had been done to death. The hum of the town, busy with itsevening trading, came faintly through the stillness of the air and dieddown again; and the peace of approaching night dropped softly on theearth.
Not one of that numerous family gave a second thought to the strickenwoman whom they had left. Not a soul returned to offer consolation.Their actions faithfully indicated their minds. No one cared whatbecame of the widow; no one heeded her steps. Under her ban she wasfree to come and go as she chose. From thenceforth she need have nofear of lock and key; unless it might be for the purpose of keeping herout of sight of her more fortunate fellows.
In earlier days Dorama had wondered how Mayita had been able to bearthe fate that had overtaken her. She recalled the fact that she hadherself shrunk from the baldheaded child, and avoided a meeting withoutany attempt at disguising her action. And now she was in exactly thesame case herself! ah! she could not bear it. It was intolerable; amoan broke from her lips as the reality of the present separated itselffrom the shadows of the past. She writhed in rebellion against herfate, and as she did so she felt the iron of the inevitable enter hersoul.
It was unbearable. She could not face it! Cost what it might she mustescape!
There was but one way. She knew it, as she had heard it spoken of whenother women suffered the same fate. Yes: they were right. Death waspreferable to life under such conditions. Her beloved husband hadsought for death in the well. If she ran quickly, and hurled herselfover the low wall before she had time to look into the black colddepths, she could find courage enough to carry out the design withoutfaltering. It would be best too for the house, and relieve it of thedisastrous presence of a widow. Royan was gone; Ananda was gone; itwas only fitting that she should go too.
She rose to her feet determined to act at once before her couragefailed her. She turned and staggered blindly to the entrance thatadmitted the faint starlight of the night. As her foot crossed thethreshold she felt a pair of small arms thrown around her.
"Dorama! sister, it is I! Coomara's widow! I have come to join mytears with yours!"
And promptly Mayita buried her face in the coarse new saree of hersister-widow and gave full rein to her grief.
Dorama felt like a drowning waif who had abandoned hope, and to whomwas suddenly held out a friendly hand. She clung passionately toMayita, trembling and catching her breath in dry sobs.
"Sit down, sister," said Mayita presently. "Let us talk. No one careswhere the widow is, nor what she does. Listen; I have news for you.This morning they put ladders down the well by the cattle shed whereyour husband's cap was found. They searched for his body with hooksand nets, but they found nothing. If he is there he lies like a stoneat the bottom. Some say that as he turned Christian he cannot come up.The devil living in the well has eaten him. My brother laughs and saysthey are all mistaken. He is not there."
"Not there!" cried Dorama startled. Then as the flicker of hopemomentarily kindled died down she added: "But if not there, where canhe be?"
"He has gone to the missionary, the good Englishman, who will be afather to him."
"Impossible! He could not stand, far less walk, after the beating thatthey gave him; and he had no friends."
"My brother assures me that he is alive and he means to make sure of itby secret inquiry. Oh, Dorama! dear sister! I am so sorry for you.But listen! Beloved!--I may call you so now. Beloved! it is so sweetto have a sister! I have been so lonely since my evil fate overtookme. Oh! so lonely! With only the good Bopaul to say a kind word tome. Even my mother hates the sight of me, and curses me because Ibring bad luck to the house."
There was a pause during which the two girls clung together.
"Sister!" whispered Mayita striving to catch sight of the other's facein the dim light. "Sister, where were you going when you fell into myarms?"
Dorama did not reply, but suddenly she began to moan. Mayita strove tocomfort her, and when the agitation lessened she began again.
"Sister! you were going to the well. It must not be. You must livelest by any chance your husband comes to life again. It will be hard,oh, very hard sometimes, almost more than one can bear. But for hissake it must be borne; for, if he ever does come back, it willassuredly send him to the well if he finds that you are dead. Promiseme, sister; promise me that you will not go to the well."
"I promise, little one!" replied Dorama brokenly.
"That's right! Now it is time for me to go back."
"Alone, little sister?"
"My brother waits for me by the gateway. He is so good! oh, so good tothe poor widow. May the blessing of all the gods I have offended restfor ever on his dear head."
Dorama watched her white figure till it was lost in the darkness of thenight. Then she turned her face towards the garden entrance and passedunnoticed into the house. They who happened to be near the path shetook in crossing the courtyard, stepped aside so as to place themselveswell out of reach of possible contact with her shadow. Others seeingher coming turned back into the room they were leaving, and closed thedoor till she should have passed.
When the evening meal was served out, knowing too well what wasexpected of her, she remained outside the family circle until all hadfinished, including the youngest and most insignificant child of theestablishment. Then and then only did she--who among the women hadbeen formerly helped immediately after the big mistress and before heraunt--received her portion. It was ample and sufficing; but it waseaten in bitter humiliation and anguish of heart, as she realised thedreadful fact that this was only the beginning of a lifelong existencefrom which there could be no escape.
