CHAPTER II.
In many respects Vyas Shastree was a remarkable man, and, verydeservedly, he was held in great respect throughout the country. No onecould look on him without being conscious of his extreme good breedingand intellectuality. Well made, there was no appearance of greatstrength, though in the town gymnasium, as a youth, he had held hisown among the wrestlers, and had even been famous as a sword-player.Those were troubled times, when a knowledge of weapons was needed byall men, and even peaceful merchants and priests did not neglect theuse of them; but, as he grew older, the Shastree had laid aside theseexercises, and spare, strong, muscular arms were perhaps the onlyevidence of them that remained. Certainly the head and face were fine.The forehead was high and broad, slightly wrinkled now, and furrowedby parallel lines. The head was shaved, except the lock behind, andits intellectual organs were prominent. The eyebrows, strongly marked,but not bushy, projected boldly over expressive eyes of a deep steelgrey, which were very bright and clear, and a prominent nose of Romancharacter, which corresponded with a well-shaped mouth and chin.Certainly it was a handsome face--pale, sallow perhaps in colour,yet healthy, and which occasionally assumed a noble and even haughtyexpression; but, ordinarily, it was good-humoured: and evidentlyelevated and purified in character by intellectual pursuits.
The Shastree was a man of note, as we have said, as to learning andaccomplishments. He was a profound Sanscrit scholar; and in law,grammar, and logic, with the deep metaphysics of the Vedas, and theircommentators, he had few superiors. With mathematics and astronomyto calculate eclipses and positions of planets, he had sufficientacquaintance to assist an old friend, who was infirm, in thearrangement of the "Tooljapoor Almanac," a task by no means easy, asit included calculation of the eclipses of the year, and astrologicaltables. Of the popular Poorans he had less knowledge, or perhaps didnot believe them; and, as many do now in these later days, held more tothe ancient Vedantic theism than to the modern idolatry of the Pooranicworship. The Shastree, as a devout Brahmun, had made pilgrimages, beingaccompanied by his wife; and in disputations at Benares, Nuddea inBengal, and Gya--as well as at Madura and Conjevaram, in the south ofIndia--had gained credit, if not renown.
In lighter accomplishments, too, such as music, he had a fair amount ofknowledge, and sang sweetly the various R[=a]gs, Droopuds, and othermeasures of the classic styles. He considered, perhaps, ordinary songsbelow notice; yet when he relaxed, and was prevailed upon to sing someof the plaintive ballads of his own Mahratta country, to his own Vinaaccompaniment, or any of his own compositions, the effect was verycharming. Tara had been carefully taught by him, and the neighboursoften listened to her sweet voice in the morning and evening hymns, andchants of the service, in the little temple of the house. Yet with allthis wealth, which he shared liberally with the poor--all this worldlygood and honour--Vyas Shastree had two great cares which pressed uponhim heavily, and were shared by his wife. The first was that he hadno son; the second, that his beautiful daughter was already a virginwidow. And these were heavy griefs.
Anunda Bye had borne him two sons and a daughter, of which Tara wasthe first-born. The others had followed, and had died successivelywhen giving promise of healthy childhood. In vain had the parentsmade pilgrimages to the shrines in the Dekhan after the death of thelast son, and to Benares also, to propitiate Siva in his holiest oftemples, and had from time to time remitted propitiatory gifts to hisshrine--no further offspring followed. An heir was not only desirablefor the property, which, in default of one, must devolve upon a verydistant relative--but, in a higher degree, for the performance of thoseceremonies for himself and his family after death, which could only beeffectual from a son, real or adopted.
Often had Anunda urged him to marry again, and assured him of herlove and protection to a young wife, as a mother or elder sister;and she had even named several parties of good family who would haveconsidered an alliance with the Shastree a positive honour. Why shouldhe not marry? He was yet comparatively young: men older than himselfhad married twice, nay thrice, or till the object of their desire wasaccomplished. Why should he not do the same? Was he too old at forty,nay, even less? So urged his wife and his best friends.
Yet the Shastree had not consented. The fact was, he loved Anunda verydearly; she had been a good and true wife to him. He feared, too, acertain imperious tone of temper which he could control, but which, incontact with a second and younger wife, might change to jealousy, andbecome, to say the least, inconvenient. Or, if he made new connections,there would be the usual tribe of new relations to provide for, or totrouble him with importunate demands. On the whole, it might be betterto adopt a son of that distant cousin who lived at Nassuk, and bringhim up as his own. In any form, his necessity was urgent, and Anundagrew more and more earnest about the matter, and had even induced Tarato join in it.
"If you had a son," she would say to her husband, "he would be a youngman before you were old. Even if you died, the property would descendto him, and the ceremonies would be properly performed. If you grewold, and I were with you, he would take care of us and of Tara. Whowill do this now?"
Yes, the echo in his heart was sad enough. Who would do so? Theremight be two widows, perhaps, mother and daughter, both left to themercies of distant relatives who had no personal knowledge of them,and to whom they would be as ordinary widows only, no matter whatamount of property they had brought with them--shaven, dressed in thecoarsest and scantiest raiment, and used for menial offices--perhapsworse. Yes! the echo--"who would do so?"--often as the words weresaid, fell heavily on the Shastree's heart; and recently he had toldhis wife that--"he would think about it if his life were sparedfor another year; until after the next unfavourable conjunction ofplanets"--"he would think about it;" and so Anunda, without makingany formal propositions, was yet collecting information as to theappearance, character, property, and accomplishments of many girls inthe neighbourhood, and, in short, wherever she had any acquaintance.
Most heavily, however, of all domestic cares did the situation ofhis daughter oppress the Shastree. She was growing very beautiful;in his eyes supremely so. So kind, too, so loving, so thoughtful, sounselfish, so clever a scholar! She might have been a happy wife--erethis, perhaps, a happy mother--yet at sixteen she was a widow, with agloomy future: not felt as yet; for the girl had grown up with him, hadshared in his studies, and had in all respects so entirely enjoyed heryoung and peaceful life, that any thought of change had never occurredto her.
She had been married at an early age, according to the custom of hersect--when, indeed, she was little more than six years old--to a youth,the son of a friend, who was one of the chief priests of the temple ofPunderpoor, a lucrative office, and one which would devolve upon hisson by hereditary right. The family was opulent, and the young man gavepromise of learning and of character. No matter now; he was dead. Threeyears after the marriage he had been cut off suddenly by a fever, tothe grief of his family and to the extinction of the Shastree's hopesfor his daughter. Since then, with no further worldly hope before her,Tara had betaken herself to the study of the holy books in which herfather delighted; and, doomed as it were to a life of celibacy, hadvowed it to the performance of religious exercises after the manner ofher faith.
It was unusual then, that Brahmun girls were taught to read orwrite--more so than it is now; and in accordance with the rules ofthe sect and the customs of the country, Tara, had her husband lived,would ere now have joined him, and become mistress of his household--asufficient distinction for a Brahmun girl; but before that event, theapplication of the child to such rudimental teaching as her father hadgiven her was so remarkable, that in process of years the conventionalrules of the caste had been set aside, and it was a loving and gratefultask to the father to lead his widowed daughter through the difficultmazes of Sanscrit lore, and find in hers an intellect and comprehensionlittle short of his own.
Many of his friends shrugged their shoulders at this strange innovationof ordinary custom, and argued astutely, that it was a d
angerousthing to fill a girl's mind with learning. Others, his enemies, wereloud in their condemnation of the precedent it would afford to many,and the bad uses it could be put to; and in disputes upon the subject,texts were hurled at the Shastree by angry parties, to be answered,however, by appeals to ancient times, as illustrated in holy books,when women were deep scholars and emulated the men; and so Tara'sdesultory education went on. "After all, what does it matter?" said herfather very frequently, if hard pressed by caste clamour; "she does notbelong to the world now: God has seen it good to cut off her hopes:she has devoted herself to a religious life, and I am teaching her andpreparing her for it."
But this did not satisfy the adverse Pundits, still less the fact thatTara as yet wore ordinary clothes, and her head as yet had not beenshaved. The degradation of Brahmun widowhood had not been put on her;and she was too beautiful to escape notice, or the envious comments ofothers, both male and female. The rites of widowhood must be performedsome time or other. Her father and mother both knew that; they wouldhave to take her to Punderpoor, or to Benares, or to Nassuk, or otherholy city, and after ceremonials of purification, all that beautifulhair must be cut off and burned, the pretty chaste bodice discarded,and she must be wrapped, ever after, in a coarse white cotton--orsilk--or woollen--sheet, and all other dresses of every kind or colourbe unknown to her.
Ah! it seemed cruel to disfigure that sweet face which they had lookedupon since she was a child, and had watched in all its growing beauty!Any other less pure, less powerful parents, would long ago have beenobliged to comply with those cruel customs; and were they not performedevery day at the temple itself? "Why should the rite be delayed?" saidmany; "the girl is too handsome; she will be a scandal to the caste.The excuses of going to Benares, or to Nassuk, are mere devices to gaintime, and sinful." "The matter must be noticed to the Shastree himself,and he must be publicly urged and warned to remove the scandal from hishouse and from the sect, which had been growing worse day by day forthe last three years."
Yes, it was true--quite true. Tara herself knew it to be true, andoften urged it. What had she before her but a dreary widowhood? Whyshould she yet be as one who ostensibly lived in the world, and yet didnot belong to it? For whom was she to dress herself and to braid herhair every day? For whom deck herself in jewels? She did not rememberher husband so as to regret his memory. She had had no love for him.Married as a child, she had seen him but a few times afterwards, whenhe came to perform needful annual ceremonies in the house, and she hadthen looked up to him with awe. He had rarely spoken to her, for shewas still a child when he died. Once she remembered, when he was on avisit, her father had made her recite Sanscrit verses to him, and readand expound portions of the Bhugwat Geeta, and had said in joke thatshe would be a better Pundit than he was.
She remembered this incident better than any other, and soon after itsoccurrence he had died. Now she felt that, had he lived, she mighthave loved him, and the reproach of widowhood would not have belongedto her. These thoughts welled up often from her heart with grief, andyearning only known to herself, and as yet only half admitted: yetwhich increased sensibly with time, and recurred, too, more frequentlyand painfully, as girls of her own age, honoured wives and happymothers--girls who had already taken their places in life--met her atthe temple with laughing crowing children on their hips, proud of theiryoung maternity: or came to visit her, and spoke of domestic matterscommonly--interests which she could never create or enjoy, and yet forwhich the natural yearning was ever present.
"Why did he go from me?" she would cry to herself, often with lowmoaning; "why leave me alone? Why did they not make me Sutee with him?Could I not even now be burned, and go to him?" And if these thoughtschanged, it was to the idea of a new wife for her father, who, perhaps,would be as a sister. If a brother were born, what a new source ofpleasant care and occupation! Yet this had its dark side also. "Wouldshe be friendly to her and her mother? and if not----"
Her father and mother observed when gloomy thoughts beset her, and whenshe became excitable and nervous in her manner, and they did their bestto cheer them away. "She might yet be happy in doing charitable acts,"they said, "in reading holy books, in meditation, in pilgrimages; andthey would go with her to Benares and live there." "Why not," theShastree would say; "why not, daughter? We have but thee, and thou hastonly us; it will be good to live and die in the holy city."
Well, it sufficed for the time, and there were intervals when people'stongues were quiet, and these were happy days because so tranquil, andTara had given herself and her destiny into her father's hands.
"Do with me as thou wilt, O father," she said; "what is good to thee isbest for me; but do not risk anything of thy honoured name for one sohopeless as I am. Why should I be a mockery to myself? It may cost me apang to part with all these;" and she would pass her hand through thoselong, glossy, curling tresses; "and ye too will grieve to see themgone, and your poor Tara shaved and degraded; but there is no help forit, and the honour of your house is more to your daughter than theseornaments. Without them I should be a comfort to ye, and at peacewith the world and with myself; with them, only a source of disgraceand calumny, and I were better dead. Yes, let us go to Benares, toNassuk--anywhere--so that I leave my shame behind me."
If that poor struggling heart were laid open, was there nothing inits depths which, as she spoke it, combated this resolve fiercely andunremittingly? If it had not been so, she would have been more thanhuman. There was the natural repugnant dread of this disfigurementand disgrace. Worse, far worse, the endurance of the after-life--thelife of childless barren widowhood of which she knew and saw dailysad examples. She knew of the bitter experience of such widows, whenall modest retirement, respect, and honour of virgin or married lifewas discarded with the ceremonial rites, and men's insult and women'scontempt took their place: and that from this there was no refuge tilldeath.
When she shuddered at these truths--they were no delusions, and hersoul rebelled against them--some ideal being, mingling his life withhers, caressing the beauty she was conscious of possessing, wouldpresent himself in dreamy visions, waking or sleeping, and beset herin terribly seductive contrasts. The very books she read offered suchto her imagination. There were no demigods now, no heroes fightingfor the glory of Hinduism, as related in the Ramayun; but there wereideal examples of nobility--of bravery--of beauty, which enthralledher fancy, and led it to portray to her realities. Yet there was noreality, and could be none. She had not seen any one to love, andnever could see any one. Who would care for her--a widow--who couldlove a widow? And yet the dreams came nevertheless, and her poor heartsuffered terribly in these contests with its necessity. After all, itwas more the calmness of despair than conviction of higher motive whichbrought to her lips words such as we have recorded:--"she would leaveher shame behind her."
But her parents did not go, and the rites were deferred indefinitely.Last year they were to have gone to Nassuk for the purpose to theirrelatives; but the planets were not propitious, or the business ofthe temple and its ceremonies interfered. This year, when the coldseason was nearly over, in the spring, at the Bussunt festival, if theconjunctions were favourable, "they would see about it." They did notget over the--"if."
So here were the two great cares of the household. Which was theheaviest? To the Shastree, certainly, Tara's ceremony of widowhood.His own marriage was a thing which concerned himself only, and, atthe worst, he could adopt an heir; but that Tara should be a reproachto him, the revered Shastree and priest, and remain a reproach amongwomen--it could not be. The caste were becoming urgent, and theGooroo, or spiritual prince, the "Shunkar Bhartee Swami," whose agentstravelled about enforcing discipline and reporting moral and ceremonialtransgressions, sent him word, privately and kindly, that the mattershould not be delayed. He quite approved of the ceremony beingperformed at Benares or at Nassuk, out of sight, for the old man knewTara--knew her sad history, and admired her learning and perseverancein study. At his last visit, two years before, he had put u
p in theShastree's house, and had treated the girl as his daughter; but therequirements of the caste were absolute, and were she his own daughterhe dared not to have hesitated.
But we have made a long digression.
"Come, daughter," said Anunda, "cast that sheet about thy head. Itstrikes me that men look at thee too earnestly now as we pass thebazaar, and the morning air is chill from the night rain."
"Nay, dear mother, not so. Am I a Toorki woman to veil my face?" saidTara, quickly. "Am I ashamed of it? Art thou, mother?"
"If thou wert not so beautiful, Tara. I dread men's evil eyes on thee,my child, and I dread men's tongues more."
"Ah, mother! I dread neither," replied the girl. "They have done meno harm as yet, and if my heart is pure and 'sutee' before God andthe Holy Mother, she will protect me. She has told me so often, andI believe it. Come--I think--I think," she added, with an excitedmanner, as she clasped her heavy gold zone about her waist, her bosomheaving rapidly beneath the silken folds over it, and her eyes glowingstrangely, "I think, mother, she came to me last night in my dream. Shewas very beautiful, O, very beautiful! She took hold of my hair, andsaid, 'Serve me, Tara, I will keep it for thee.'"
"Tara! art thou dreaming still?" exclaimed Anunda. "Holy Mother! whatlight is in thine eyes? Put the thought far from thee, O dearest; it isbut the echo of what thy father said last night when he comforted usboth--it will pass away."
"Perhaps so, mother," answered the girl, abstractedly. "Yet it seemedso real, I think I feel the touch on my hair still. I looked at itwhen I rose, and combed it out, but I saw nothing. Yes, it will passaway--everything passes away."
"And what was she like, Tara?" asked her mother, unable to repress hercuriosity.
"O mother, I was almost too dazzled to see. I am even now dazzled, andif I shut my eyes the vision is there. There!" cried the girl, closingher eyes and pointing forward, "there, as I saw it! The features arethe same; she is small, shining like silver, and her eyes glowing, butnot with red fire like those in the temple. O mother, she is gone!"she continued, after a pause, "she is gone, and I cannot describe her."
"Didst thou tell this to him--to thy father, Tara?" asked her mother,much excited.
"Yes, mother. I awoke before him and could not sleep again. I gotup and drew water for him to bathe. I tended the fire, and sat downto read. Then he went and bathed; and when he had come out of thetemple[2] and put on dry clothes, I read part of the 'Geeta' to him,but I was trembling, and he thought I was cold. Gradually I toldhim----"
"And what said he, daughter?" asked her mother, interrupting her.
"He seemed troubled, mother, and yet glad, I could not say which. Hesaid he would ask 'the Mother' after the morning hymn was ended."
"Come then, Tara, we will go to him at once. Nay, girl, as thou art,thy words have given me strength, my pearl; come."
Tara: A Mahratta Tale Page 4
