The Co-Wife & other Stories

by Ruth Vanita

  The train came and we both boarded it. The cooks saluted Ishwari. They didn’t even look at me.

  Ishwari said, ‘How well mannered they all are! Not like our servants who have no idea how to do things.’

  I said sourly, ‘If you gave your servants a tip of eight annas a day, they would be well mannered too. These fellows are acting polite because they want a tip.’

  ‘No, not at all, good manners and politeness are ingrained in them.’

  The train started. It was a mail train. After setting out from Prayag, it stopped at Pratapgarh. A man opened our door. I immediately shouted in Hindi as well as English, ‘This is the second class.’

  The passenger came in, looked at me with a strange contempt, said, ‘Yes, your servant understands that,’ and sat down on the middle berth. I was overwhelmed with embarrassment.

  At dawn, we reached Muradabad. Several men were waiting at the station to welcome us. Two were respectable gentlemen. Five were peasants enlisted as free labourers. The labourers picked up our luggage. The two respectable gentlemen walked behind. One was a Muslim, Riyasat Ali, the other a Brahman, Ramharakh. Both looked at me speculatively, as if wondering what I, a crow, was doing in the company of a swan.

  Riyasat Ali asked Ishwari, ‘Does this gentleman study with you?’

  Ishwari replied, ‘Yes, he studies with me and lives with me too. In fact, it’s because of him that I stay on in Allahabad, otherwise I would have come away to Lucknow long ago. This time, I compelled him to come with me. Several telegrams arrived from his home, but I had him refuse all of them. The last telegram was urgent, for which the charge is four annas a word, but I made him send a negative reply to that one as well.’

  The two gentlemen looked at me with astonishment. They seemed to be making an effort to look impressed.

  Riyasat Ali said in a half-doubtful tone, ‘But he dresses very simply.’

  Ishwari dispelled the doubt, ‘Yes, sir, he’s a follower of Mahatma Gandhi! He wears nothing but khadi. He’s set fire to all his fine clothes. The truth is he is a prince. His estate produces two hundred and fifty thousand a year, yet he looks as if he has just emerged from an orphanage!’

  Ramharakh said, ‘The rich rarely have such temperaments. One could never tell by looking at him.’

  Riyasat Ali offered another example, ‘If you had seen the maharaja of Changli you’d have been amazed. He went to market wearing a vest of coarse cloth and country-made shoes. I’ve heard that he was once mistaken for a peasant and forced to do free labour. Yet he spent a million on founding a college!’

  I didn’t know where to look, yet for some reason this white lie didn’t seem absurd to me at that moment. It was as if every sentence he uttered brought me closer to that imagined glory.

  I am not a rider. In childhood, I have occasionally climbed on to horses that transport goods. Here, I saw two thoroughbreds waiting for us. My heart sank. I managed to mount, but I was quaking within. I didn’t let my fear show on my face. I didn’t speed up either, or else I might have broken several limbs. Ishwari probably realized the state I was in.

  3

  Ishwari’s home was not a house but a fortress. A gate as large as that of a mausoleum, a watchman at the door, numberless servants, and a tethered elephant. Ishwari introduced me to his father, younger and older uncles, and other relatives, and gave the same hyperbolic account of me. Not only the servants but the family members too began to show me great respect. They were landlords yet they were also rustics, and despite their income of hundreds of thousands, they were simple enough to consider a police constable an officer. Several of them began addressing me as ‘huzoor’.

  When we were alone, I said to Ishwari, ‘You’re very mischievous. Why are you making fun of me?’

  Ishwari said firmly, with a smile, ‘This trick is necessary otherwise these asses won’t give you the time of day.’

  In a little while, the barber arrived to press our feet. The princes had come from the station and must be tired. Ishwari gestured towards me and said, ‘Press the Kunwar Sahib’s feet first.’

  I was lying on a string bed. Rarely if ever in my life has anyone pressed my feet. I used to laugh at Ishwari, calling this practice a whim of the rich, the idiocy of aristocrats, the arrogance of great men, and God knows what else, and here I was, pretending to be to the manner born!

  It was ten o’clock. These were traditional people. The sunrise of modernity had so far only touched the peaks of the mountains here. We were called to eat. We went to bathe. I always rinse out my own dhoti but here, like Ishwari, I left it lying. I felt ashamed to rinse it out with my own hands. We went inside to eat. In the hostel, we used to sit at the table, wearing our shoes. Here, it was necessary to wash our feet. The water bearer was ready with water. Ishwari put out his feet. The water bearer washed his feet. I also extended mine. The water bearer washed my feet too. Where had all my earlier ideas gone?

  4

  I had planned to concentrate on my studies in the countryside, but here the whole day was spent on entertainment. We went on the river in a barge, we hunted birds or went fishing, we watched wrestling matches, we played chess. Ishwari would call for a whole lot of eggs and make an omelette on a stove in our room. A posse of servants always surrounded us. There was never any need to lift a finger. All one had to do was wag one’s tongue. When one went to have a bath, a man appeared to help one with the task; when one lay down, a man showed up to fan one.

  Mahatma Gandhi’s princely disciple had become famous. I was honoured both inside and outside the house. The breakfast should not be even slightly delayed lest the Kunwar Sahib get annoyed; the bed should be made well ahead of Kunwar Sahib’s bedtime. I had become or been compelled to become even more demanding than Ishwari. Ishwari might make the bed with his own hands, but how could his guest, the prince, spread his own bedding? He was far too grand for that.

  One day, such an occasion actually arose. Ishwari was delayed in the house, perhaps talking to his mother. It was ten at night. My eyes were heavy with sleep but how could I make the bed? I was a prince! The servant came at ten-thirty. He was a very presumptuous fellow. He had been so busy with household chores that he had forgotten about making my bed. When he remembered he came running. I scolded him in a way he would remember.

  Ishwari heard me, came out, and said, ‘Well done. All these idle fellows deserve to be taken to task.’

  Another day, Ishwari was invited out to dinner. Dusk fell but the lamp was not lighted. The lamp was on the table. But how could the Kunwar Sahib light it? I was quite irritated. The newspaper had arrived and I wanted to read it, but I couldn’t. Fortunately, the accountant Riyasat Ali came by just then. I lost my temper and rebuked him sharply, ‘You people don’t even bother to light the lamp. I don’t know how such lazy fellows are retained here. At my place, they wouldn’t last an hour.’ Riyasat Ali lit the lamp with trembling hands.

  There was a Thakur who often came by. He was a somewhat capricious fellow, but a prime devotee of the Mahatma. Considering me a disciple of the Mahatma, he always showed me great respect but was shy about asking me anything. One day, he found me alone so he folded his hands and said, ‘Your honour is a disciple of Gandhi Baba, right? People say that once we get self-rule there will be no landlords left?’

  I said grandly, ‘Where’s the need for landlords? What do they do except suck the blood of the poor?’

  The Thakur asked, ‘So the landlords will happily give up their land?’

  I answered, ‘The land will have to be seized from those who do not give it up willingly. My family is ready. As soon as self-rule comes, we will transfer all our land to the labourers.’

  I was sitting with my feet on a chair. The Thakur began to press my feet. Then he said, ‘Landlords these days are very unjust, your honour! If your honour gives me a little land on your estate, I will move there and work for you.’

  I said, ‘Right now, I am not in authority, brother, but as soon as I inherit, I will call you f
irst of all. I will teach you to drive, and make you my chauffeur.’

  I heard that the Thakur took lots of opium that night, beat up his wife, and got ready to fight with the village moneylender.

  5

  The vacation was over, and we set out for Prayag. Many villagers came to bid us farewell. The Thakur accompanied us to the station. I played my part well, and left on every heart the stamp of courtesy and divinity appropriate to the god of wealth that I was. I would have liked to give each of the servants a substantial tip, but how could I afford it? We had our return tickets and had merely to board the train, but when it arrived it was packed. Everyone was returning home from the Durga Puja holidays. There was not an inch of space in the second class. The intermediate class was in an even worse condition. This was the last train. We could not miss it. With great difficulty, we got a place in third class. Our grandeur made an impression, but I was very unhappy at having to sit there. We had come here, lying down comfortably, but were returning in such discomfort. There was barely room to move.

  There were several educated men in the compartment. They were busy praising British rule. One gentleman said, ‘Never has such justice been seen in any kingdom. High and low, all are equal. If a king is unjust to anyone, the court punishes him too.’

  Another gentleman endorsed this, ‘Why, sir, you can sue the king yourself. Courts have been known to rule against kings.’

  A man with a big bundle tied to his back was going to Calcutta. There was no place to put down the bundle. Troubled by this, he kept going and standing in the doorway. I was sitting just by the door and getting increasingly annoyed by his coming and rubbing his bundle against my face again and again. It was already difficult to breathe, and this rustic kept standing right in my face, as though determined to suffocate me. For a while, I put up with it. Then I suddenly flew into a rage. I caught hold of him, pushed him back and slapped him twice, hard.

  He glared at me, and said, ‘Why do you hit me, sir? I paid the same fare as you.’

  I got up and gave him two or three more slaps.

  Commotion arose in the compartment. Reproaches rained on me from all sides.

  ‘Why don’t you travel by first class if you’re so delicate?’

  ‘He thinks he’s a great man. Let him hit me and see what happens.’

  ‘What did the poor fellow do? There’s no place to breathe in the train. He just stood at the door for a breath of air, and you get wild! Do rich people completely lose their humanity?’

  ‘This is the British rule you were praising so highly!’

  One villager said, ‘He probably can’t even get a clerkship yet he’s so arrogant!’

  Ishwari said in English, ‘What an idiot you are, Bir!’

  And my intoxication now seemed to be wearing off a little.

  The Child

  PEOPLE CALL GANGU A BRAHMAN AND HE CONSIDERS HIMSELF A Brahman. My groom and other servants salute me, even from a distance. Gangu never does. Perhaps he expects me to greet him by saying, ‘I touch your feet.’ He never touches a glass from which I have drunk, and I have never dared ask him to fan me. When I am drenched in sweat and none of the other servants is around, Gangu does pick up the fan, but the look on his face indicates that he is doing me a favour. For some reason, I always take the fan from his hand immediately. He’s a man of extremes. He can’t tolerate people’s chatter. He must have very few friends. Perhaps he thinks it beneath his dignity to sit with the groom and the servants. I’ve never seen him socialize with anyone. Surprisingly, he is not given to opium or hemp; this is an extraordinary virtue in men of his class. I have never seen him perform religious rituals or go for a sacred bath in the river. Despite being absolutely illiterate he is still a Brahman, and wants the world to respect and serve him in recognition of this. And why shouldn’t he? If people can not only retain control of property accumulated by their forefathers but also derive status from it as if they had generated it themselves, why should he give up the respect and honour gathered by his forefathers? After all, this is his only inheritance.

  I am not one to talk too much with servants. I don’t want any of them to come and talk to me unless I call them. I don’t approve of having my servants at my beck and call to perform small chores. I find it much easier to pour my own drinking water, light my own lamp, wear my own shoes and take out books from the cupboard myself than to call for Hingan or Maiku. This helps me feel autonomous and self-reliant. The servants are familiar with my temperament, and rarely approach me unnecessarily. So one day, when Gangu appeared before me early in the morning, I was not at all pleased. Whenever these people come to me, they either want an advance on their wages or they want to complain about another servant. I dislike both these things. I pay everyone on the first of the month, and I get angry when anyone asks for an advance. Who has the time to keep detailed accounts of advances given? When someone is paid for the whole month, what right does he or she have to spend all the money in fifteen days, and then seek an advance or a loan? And I hate complaints. I consider complaints a sign of weakness or a base attempt at flattering the employer.

  I said with a frown, ‘What is it? I didn’t call you.’

  I was very surprised to see Gangu’s sharp, proud face looking mild, pleading and bashful. I reckoned he wanted to say something, but was unable to find the right words.

  Somewhat more mildly, I asked, ‘What’s the matter? Why don’t you speak? You know that this is my time to go for a walk. I’m getting late.’

  Gangu said, in a dejected tone, ‘Well, then you go … I’ll come later.’

  This was even more worrisome. Right now, since I was in a hurry, he would have to rush through his story because he knew I didn’t have much time. If he came back later, the wretch would spend hours complaining. Perhaps he realizes that I’m working when he sees me reading or writing; but he thinks I’m resting when I’m thinking, which is actually the hardest of all my tasks. That’s when he’ll come and bother me.

  I said, unkindly, ‘Have you come to ask for an advance? I don’t give advances.’

  ‘No, indeed, sir, I have never asked for an advance.’

  ‘Then do you want to complain about someone? I hate complaints.’

  ‘No, sir, I’ve never complained about anyone!’

  Gangu pulled himself together. It was clear from his expression that he was summoning up his courage, when he said hesitantly, ‘Please give me permission to leave. I won’t be able to work for you any more.’

  This was the first such proposal I had ever received. My self-respect was wounded. I consider myself an embodiment of humaneness; I never speak sharply to the servants; I try my best to keep my dominance sheathed—why wouldn’t I be surprised at this announcement!

  I said sternly, ‘Why, what do you have to complain of?’

  ‘Sir, no one could be as good natured as you, but things have so developed that I cannot remain here any longer. I don’t want anything to happen to give you a bad name. I don’t want your reputation to be sullied because of me.’

  This created a dilemma for me. The fire of curiosity grew fierce. Sitting down on a chair in the veranda, as if making a concession, I said, ‘You are talking in riddles. Why don’t you tell me clearly what the matter is.’

  Gangu said very humbly, ‘That woman, Gomti Devi, who has just been thrown out of the Widows’ Home …’

  He fell silent. I said impatiently, ‘Yes, she’s been thrown out—so what? What has she to do with your job?’

  Gangu seemed to throw a heavy burden off his head onto the ground: ‘I want to marry her, sir.’

  I gaped at him in amazement. This stupid Brahman with his old-fashioned ideas, who has remained entirely untouched by the breezes of modernity, wants to marry that loose woman, whom no decent man would allow inside his house. Gomti had created much turbulence in our peaceful neighbourhood. She had come to the Widows’ Home many years ago. The Home’s administrators had got her married three times, but each time she ran away in a
fortnight or a month’s time, and returned to the Home. This time, the head of the Home had thrown her out. She had rented a room in the neighbourhood, and had become a source of entertainment for the dissolute men of the locality.

  I was angered by Gangu’s simplicity but also pitied him. Is this the only woman in the world this donkey can find to marry? She has run away from three husbands, how long will she stay with him? If he were a very rich man, it might be different. Perhaps she would have stayed for six months or a year. This fellow is as good as a blind man. They won’t get along for even a week.

  I said in a warning tone, ‘Do you know this woman’s life story?’

  Gangu said, as if speaking of events he had witnessed with his own eyes, ‘It’s all lies, sir; people have defamed her for nothing.’

  ‘What do you mean? Didn’t she run away from three husbands?’

  ‘They threw her out so what could she do?’

  ‘What a fool you are! Would anyone travel such long distances and spend thousands of rupees to marry a woman, just in order to throw her out?’

  Gangu said with deep emotion, ‘Sir, a woman cannot live where there is no love. A woman wants more than food and clothes, she wants some love too. Those people think they have done a widow a great favour by marrying her. They want her to become theirs, body and soul; but to make another person one’s own, one has to first become the other person’s, sir. That’s the thing. And then she also suffers from an ailment. She is possessed by a spirit. Sometimes, she gets hysterical and falls down in a faint.’

  ‘And you will marry such a woman?’ I said, shaking my head in dismay. ‘Your life will be ruined.’

  Gangu said, sounding like a martyr, ‘I think my life will be fulfilled, sir. The rest is God’s will!’

  I said firmly, ‘Have you made up your mind?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then I accept your resignation.’