by Ruth Vanita
Sulochana: ‘You must be getting bored. Why live like an ascetic on my account? I won’t go. Those women disgust me. There’s not one of them who has an untainted character, yet they all pretend to be Sita. The sight of them irritates me, but why don’t you go? It’ll be a change of scene for you.’
Ramendra: ‘No, it won’t. When there’s a fire within, one can’t find peace outside.’
Sulochana was taken aback. Ramendra had never said such a thing before. She had always thought that she alone was the outcast. All of the disrespect was directed at her. All doors were still open to Ramendra. He could go wherever he wished and meet whomever he wished—there were no restrictions on him. But would he have been in this state if he had married a woman from a respectable family? Women from good families would have come to visit, mutual friendships would have developed, and life would have been comfortable, like a silk patch on a silk cloth. Now their life was like a silk cloth patched with sackcloth. She had muddied the whole pond. Her face grew overcast with sadness.
Ramendra immediately realized that the words that had escaped him could have two meanings. He quickly tried to mend matters. ‘Are you and I two separate entities? Your life and mine are one. How can I go where you are not respected? And I too hate these dyed jackals in our society. I know all their dirty secrets. Position, wealth and titles do not purify the soul. If a low-status man did the things these people do, he would not dare show his face anywhere, but these people hide their wrongdoings behind the curtain of liberalism. It’s best to stay away from them.’
Sulochana felt at peace.
4
The next year, a girl, beautiful as the moon, was born to Sulochana. She was named Shobha. These days, Kunwar Sahib was not keeping too well. He had gone to Mussoorie to recover. When he got the news, he sent Ramendra a telegram, asking them to come to Mussoorie.
But Ramendra did not want to go. What better opportunity could there be to finally test the decency and liberalism of his friends? They decided to host a grand party. A musical programme was organized, good singers were invited, and all types of food—English, Hindustani and Musalmani—were prepared.
Kunwar Sahib managed to come from Mussoorie on the day of the party. At the appointed time, the invitees began to arrive, one by one. Kunwar Sahib himself welcomed them. Khan Sahib came, Mirza Sahib came, Mir Sahib came, but Panditji and Babuji, Lala Sahib and Chaudhuri Sahib, Kakkar, Mehra and Chopra, Kaul and Hukku, Srivastava and Khare were nowhere to be seen.
These very people ate everything in restaurants, guzzled eggs and liquor, without thought or discrimination. So why hadn’t they come today? Not because they were worried about eating or touching polluted things, but because they thought their presence would certify their support for this marriage, and they did not want to give that certification.
Kunwar Sahib stood at the gate till ten at night. When none of them arrived, he went and said to Ramendra, ‘It’s useless to wait any longer. Feed the Musalmans and distribute the rest of the food to the poor.’
Ramendra was sitting on a chair, at his wits’ end. He said in a choked voice, ‘Yes, that’s what I’m thinking of doing.’
Kunwar: ‘I expected this. It’s not we who are disgraced. It’s those people who have been exposed.’
Ramendra: ‘Anyway, we have tested them. Do you think I should go and confront each one of them?’
Taken aback, Kunwar said, ‘Do you mean go to their homes?’
Ramendra: ‘Yes. I’ll ask by what right they go around preaching social reform.’
Kunwar: ‘It’s useless. Go to bed and get some rest. One’s own heart is the best judge of good and bad. If our hearts certify that our actions are not bad, we shouldn’t care even if the whole world turns its face away from us.’
Ramendra: ‘But I won’t let these people get away so easily—I’ll expose each one’s secrets, you wait and see.’
So saying, he began to supervise the distribution of the leaf plates and bowls of food to the poor.
5
Ramendra had just returned from his walk when a group of prostitutes arrived to congratulate Sulochana. One was Zuhra’s brother’s daughter, Gulnar. Earlier, she used to regularly visit Sulochana. But she hadn’t come for two years. Now she had brought gifts for the baby. There was quite a crowd at the door. Ramendra heard the commotion. Gulnar stepped forward, saluted him, and said, ‘Babuji, congratulations on your daughter! I’ve brought greetings and gifts for her.’
Ramendra felt as if he had suffered a paralytic stroke. His head was bowed and he felt as if his face had been blackened. Neither did he speak and ask anyone to sit down nor did he move away. He just stood there like a statue. The idea of having any kind of relationship with a public woman was so shameful, so loathsome, that decency was silenced before it. He could not even show them the courtesy of having them sit down in a room. Today, for the first time, he experienced his own fall. He considered his friends’ cruelty and the ladies’ boycott shameful on their part, not an insult to him, but these congratulations proved too much for even his unrestrained liberalism.
Sulochana had been raised in the environment of a respectable Hindu family. True, Sulochana regularly went to visit Zuhra’s tomb, but Zuhra was now a pure memory, free from the world’s stains and blots. A relationship with Gulnar on the basis of his marriage was another matter. Even those who bow before pictures of the dead and garland them with flowers criticize idol worship. One is explicit, the other implied. One is visible, the other hidden from the eyes.
Sulochana was standing in her room, behind the bamboo curtain, watching Ramendra’s uncertainty and anger. Today, her heart was inclined to revolt against the society she had tried to worship and at whose door she had bowed and scraped for so many years but which had led her to despair of it. She felt like calling Gulnar in and embracing her. Why should she pursue those who ignored her? These poor women had come from far off because they considered her their own. There was love in their hearts, and they were ready to share her joys and sorrows.
Finally, Ramendra raised his head and said to Gulnar with a dry smile, ‘Please come in, all of you.’ So saying, he walked ahead, showing them the way to the outer sitting room, when suddenly the maid appeared and handed a note to Gulnar. Gulnar read the note, gave it to Ramendra, and kept standing. Ramendra read the note, ‘Sister Gulnar, there is no point in your coming here. We are already being defamed. Don’t disgrace us further. Take your gifts back. If you ever want to meet me, come at night and alone. I am longing to embrace you and weep, but I am not free to do as I wish.’
Ramendra tore up the note, threw it away, and said brazenly, ‘Ignore what she writes. I am not afraid of anyone. Come in.’
Gulnar turned back and said, ‘No, Babuji, allow us to go now.’
Ramendra: ‘At least sit for a minute.’
Gulnar: ‘No, not even for a second.’
6
After Gulnar left, Ramendra went and sat in his room. Never before had he felt so defeated. The justified anger he had felt when he thought himself unjustly treated had vanished. Shame and remorse had taken its place. What had made her think of bringing gifts? She had never come before, so why had she turned up today? Perhaps Kunwar Sahib was very liberal. He may have maintained a fraternal relationship with Zuhra’s kindred, but Ramendra was not so liberal. He wondered whether Sulochana met with them on the sly. After all, she had written that if Gulnar wanted to meet her she should come by night and alone—and why shouldn’t she? They shared the same blood. The same attitudes, the same thinking, the same ideals. True, she was raised in Kunwar Sahib’s house but the effect of blood is not erased so easily. So, when the two cousins met, what could they be talking about? They could hardly discuss history or ethics. No doubt, they indulged in shameless talk. Gulnar would recount her experiences, and they would discuss the good and bad qualities of the buyers and sellers in the flesh market. After all, it was not possible that as soon as she came to Sulochana, Gulnar forgot her identity a
nd never spoke in a coarse, licentious or polluted way.
But in a moment, Ramendra’s thoughts took another turn. After all, a person cannot live without any social interaction. The desire for company is also a kind of hunger. If a hungry person cannot obtain clean food he will not refrain from eating others’ jootha food. If people had accepted Sulochana, and had not boycotted her, why would she have needed to meet such creatures? It was not her fault, it was the fault of circumstances that kept reminding her of her past.
Ramendra was lost in these thoughts when Kunwar Sahib arrived and said sharply, ‘I heard that Gulnar brought gifts, but you sent her away.’
Ramendra’s feelings of hostility were aroused. He said, ‘I didn’t send her away, Sulochana did, but I think she was right.’
Kunwar: ‘So she acted at your instigation. You have lost an excellent opportunity to draw these fallen ones towards you. You have erased whatever influence Sulochana had on them. It’s quite possible that the pride of being related to a respectable man would have ushered in a new era in their lives, but you didn’t care to think at all about these matters.’
Ramendra didn’t answer. Kunwar Sahib became somewhat more agitated and said, ‘Why do you people forget that all misconduct arises from compulsion? A thief steals not because he particularly enjoys stealing but only because he is compelled by his needs. Yes, it can be debated whether his needs are real or imagined. One man may think it necessary to buy his wife a piece of jewellery when she goes to visit her parents, while another may consider it completely unnecessary. One man may lose his honesty when tormented by hunger while another may die rather than beg, but you scholars should not forget the law of nature whereby the desire to survive impels every living being. A man will do anything to stay alive. Misconduct increases or decreases in proportion to how difficult or easy it is to survive. Our first principle should be to make survival easy for everyone. Ramendra Babu, you have treated these people just the same way that others are treating you, even though your being mistreated is causing you so much grief.’
Ramendra listened to this long lecture as one listens to the ravings of a madman. How often he himself had endorsed such arguments, but arguments do not heal the pain of a wounded limb. The humiliation of having fallen women come to his door as his relatives was so intense that Ramendra could not forget it under the influence of any argument. He said, ‘I don’t want a relationship of any kind with such creatures. I don’t want this poison to spread in my house.’
Suddenly, Sulochana too entered the room. She was still feeling the effects of childbirth, but her face was red with agitation. Ramendra grew more excited when he saw Sulochana. He wanted to make it clear to her that he could go up to a certain point in this matter, but under no circumstances could he go further. He said, ‘I will not have a public woman come to my house under any guise. Coming alone at night or in disguise will not erase the evil effects. I am not afraid of social penalties; I am afraid of moral poison.’
Sulochana felt that she had been sufficiently self-sacrificing in the interests of protecting reputation. Her heart had not yet forgiven her. She said sharply, ‘Do you want me to die alone in this prison? A person has to have someone to talk and laugh with.’
Ramendra said hotly, ‘If you were so fond of talking and laughing, you should not have married me. The bond of marriage is, to a great degree, a bond of sacrifice. As long as society is governed by this law, and women are considered the protectors of family honour, no man will allow his wife to maintain any kind of contact with persons of bad character.’
Kunwar Sahib realized that if they kept debating the issue Ramendra would only grow more obstinate in his position, and the main question would be lost sight of, so he said mildly, ‘But, Beta, why do you think that a highly educated woman will be influenced by others instead of influencing them?’
Ramendra: ‘In these matters, I have no faith in education. Education leads us to accept many things that morality, custom and tradition teach us to avoid. If our foot slips we don’t cut it off and throw it away, yet I am not ready to bow my head before this analogy. I wish to make it very clear that if you want to live with me you will have to give up your old associations. I will even go so far as to say that you will have to change your feelings so that you yourself hate such people. We have to refine our faculties in such a way that society will feel ashamed of its injustice; if we let our conduct become corrupt, society’s contempt for us will appear justified in others’ eyes.’
Sulochana said boldly, ‘A wife is not compelled to look with your eyes and hear with your ears. She has the right to decide what is in her interest and what is not.’
Kunwar Sahib said, fearfully, ‘Silli, you forget that one should always speak gently. We are not fighting. We are just expressing our individual opinions on an issue.’
Sulochana said fearlessly, ‘No, that’s not the case. Fetters are being prepared for me. I cannot accept that. I consider my spirit as free as any man considers his.’
Ramendra, somewhat abashed at his harshness, said, ‘I have never wanted to interfere with your freedom of spirit. Perhaps you too will agree that I am not so thoughtless. But can’t I advise you if I see you going down a wrong path?’
Sulochana: ‘Yes, in the same way that I can advise you. You can’t force me to do anything.’
Ramendra: ‘I can’t agree with that.’
Sulochana: ‘If I go to visit a relative of mine, your honour gets stained. Would you agree that if you socialize with dissolute men my honour gets stained?’
Ramendra: ‘Yes, I agree.’
Sulochana: ‘If one of your dissolute brothers comes over, will you turn him away at the door?’
Ramendra: ‘You cannot compel me to do that.’
Sulochana: ‘But you can compel me?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I am a man, the main member of this small family. Because it is only due to you that I …’ Ramendra stopped as he was speaking, but Sulochana understood what he had meant to say. Her face burnt red, as if a dagger had been plunged into her chest. A wave of passion rose in her; she felt like leaving the house that instant, breaking off relations with the whole world, and never showing her face here again. If marriage meant living as a slave of another’s whims, and putting up with insults, she wanted nothing to do with it.
She was about to leave the room in a rage when Kunwar Sahib darted forward, caught hold of her, and said, ‘What are you doing, Beti? Go into the house. Why are you crying? I am still alive—you have nothing to worry about. Ramendra Babu hasn’t said anything terrible nor did he want to say any such thing. And how can you take offence at each other’s words? Some other time, you also say whatever you feel like.’
Trying to calm her down, Kunwar Sahib took her inside. In fact, Sulochana had never specially desired to meet Gulnar. She herself used to stay away from Gulnar. She had written her that note in a momentary fit of anguish. She knew in her heart that it was not possible to maintain a relationship with those people, but Ramendra’s opposing it was intolerable to her. Why should he forbid her? Had she no common sense? Why was he so suspicious of her? Because she was not from a high-status family? She would go there and then to meet Gulnar, she would insist upon going, and then she would see what his next move was!
Sulochana had been raised with loving tenderness, and no one had so much as frowned at her. Kunwar Sahib was a slave to her wishes. Ramendra too had danced attendance on her all this time. Unexpectedly encountering this contempt and reproach, her self-will clamoured to trample all loving and intimate relationships beneath her feet. She could endure anything, but not this domineering behaviour, this injustice, this humiliation.
She put her head out of the window and called to the coachman. ‘Bring the coach, I am going to the market, bring it right away.’
Kunwar Sahib said cajolingly, ‘Beti Silli, what are you doing? Have pity on me. Don’t go anywhere right now otherwise you may have to regre
t it forever. Ramendra Babu is a very hot-tempered man. He is older than you are, and more thoughtful—listen to what he says. I’m telling you the truth—when your mother was alive, things often came to such a pass that I told her to get out of the house. But that goddess of love never stepped over the threshold. Be patient right now. I am sure that Ramendra Babu will soon feel ashamed and will come to ask your forgiveness.’
Suddenly, Ramendra came in and asked, ‘Why have you called the coach? Where are you going?’
Ramendra was so furious that Sulochana grew afraid. Flames seemed to leap from his eyes, his nostrils flared, and his temples throbbed. She didn’t dare say she was going to Gulnar’s house. She trembled lest the mention of Gulnar’s name lead him to berate her again. Animated by the desire to protect herself, she said, ‘I’ll just go to mother’s tomb.’
Ramendra said angrily, ‘There’s no need to go there.’
Sulochana said timidly, ‘Why, am I forbidden to go to mother’s tomb as well?’
Ramendra said in the same tone, ‘Yes.’
Sulochana: ‘Look after your house, then, I’m going.’
Ramendra: ‘Go—what difference does it make to you? If not this house, another house will do for you.’
The thread that bound them snapped at these words. Had he not spoken these words, Sulochana would probably have gone to Kunwar Sahib’s bungalow, stayed there, upset, for two or three days, then Ramendra would have gone to fetch her, and the matter would have been resolved. But this blow severed the roots of compromise and union. Sulochana had reached the door, and she remained standing there like a figure in a painting. It was as if an ascetic’s curse had drawn the life out of her. She sat down there. She could neither speak nor think. Can one who has been struck by lightning think, weep or speak? These words of Ramendra’s were more terrible than lightning.
Sulochana had no idea how long she remained sitting there. When she returned to consciousness, the house was silent. She looked at the clock—it was one in the morning. Kunwar Sahib, holding the newborn baby, was asleep in the easy chair in front of her. Sulochana got up and looked out at the veranda. Ramendra was lying there on his bed. She felt like going in front of him, driving a knife into her heart, and writhing in her death agony before him. She remembered those fatal words. How could such words come from his mouth? How could such an intelligent, liberal and thoughtful man utter such words?
