Chirapore, the capital of the large native state of Chirakul was
situated on plateau land. In the months of March and April the
thermometer rose above ninety degrees; but the rest of the year the
climate was subtropical in character, and accounted cool as compared
with the plains.
The plateau was bounded on one side by hills--spurs of the Western
Ghats--where the virgin forest nestled in the ravines and valleys, and
big game wandered free and unmolested by the war of extermination that
progressive man too often wages in his encroachment upon nature.
Between the hills and Chirapore lay fields of grain and topes of fruit
trees, the latter always green in the subtropical climate; there was a
continual passing from seed-time to harvest, from flower to fruit
without the paralysing inactivity induced by the hard winters of the
temperate zone, or the fiery tropical summers of the torrid regions.
The city itself was built upon undulating ground, its centre being the
old fort. Before British rule was established the inhabitants of
Chirapore lived as near to the fort as was possible, seeking protection
from the guns; but in later days, when there was no longer any fear of
Mahratta horsemen, they ventured further afield, and the town was
extended upon the smiling plateau in nobler lines. Handsome roads
lined with private houses or shops intersected the suburbs. Many of
the larger dwellings were older than the roads, and stood within their
own grounds, a wall dividing them from the public way and ensuring the
privacy essential to the happiness of caste families.
It was in one of these substantial mansions that Ananda's father, known
as Pantulu Iyer, lived. It had belonged to the family for several
generations. In course of time Ananda would inherit it with the silk
farms and looms by which Pantulu and his immediate ancestors had
accumulated a considerable fortune. As is usual with families of good
caste and wealth, the members were numerous, including relatives of
near and distant degree. There was no lack of room for them in the
large house; and many of them gave their services in the domestic work
of cooking and housekeeping.
Pantulu's wife, a woman of character, full of pride and caste
prejudice, ruled the household with a firm but not unkind hand. Her
position was strengthened by the fact that she was her husband's first
and only wife. She had given him a son, and he was satisfied. Ananda
had fulfilled all their dearest expectations; and as has already been
stated, the parents had sent him to England to complete an education
that should eventually fit him for a post in the Maharajah's
Government, an assistant-commissionership; and later, perhaps, a place
on the Council. To a father's ambition for his son there is no limit.
Pantulu saw no reason why his son should not one day step into the
Dewan's shoes should an opportunity occur.
The time approached for the return of the son of the house. News had
been received of Coomara's death, but not a word had been said of the
effect it had produced upon Ananda, nor of the grave consequences that
had ensued.
Bopaul, travelling with his friend, was careful to drop no hint. He
knew intuitively that the step Ananda had taken could not fail to rouse
a disastrous storm. Bopaul had a fastidious dislike to storms; and the
longer the announcement of the change of religion could be deferred the
better pleased he would be. He was in no way responsible for the
actions of the other; but it was possible that he might be drawn into
the trouble that it must inevitably raise.
During the voyage out the subject of Ananda's change of religion was
not mentioned between the two friends. Bopaul felt strongly that there
was nothing to be said one way or the other. The deed was done and
could not be undone. If the step had only been under contemplation and
not irrevocably taken, he might have urged delay, consultation with the
head of the family, consideration for the feelings of others besides
himself. It was too late for all that; therefore it was useless to
discuss it, and he kept a discreet silence.
Ananda attended the services held on Sunday for the benefit of the
passengers and ship's officers. No one spoke to him on the subject of
religion or attempted to win his confidence. His history was not known
nor were his companions aware, with the exception of Bopaul, that he
had accepted Christianity. He followed the service reverently; and if
any one troubled himself with conjectures, he probably came to the
conclusion that the young man had received baptism. For all that was
known he might have been born a Christian.
Bopaul glanced at the peaceful face of his friend when he rejoined him
on deck after the service, and wondered if Ananda realised what was
before him. Of a nature inclined to shrink from any violent display of
emotion, how would he meet the turbulent passions that would be roused
in every member of his family as soon as the news was told. Did he
realise all that was involved? He had been well instructed in the
doctrines of Hinduism by his guru; and he had duly performed the
various ceremonies prescribed at different periods of childhood and
youth by the laws of his religion. What thought was it that stirred in
his mind as he leaned on the taffrail and looked pensively down at the
seething white froth churned by the passage of the big ship through the
waters of the Indian Ocean?
Bopaul would have lifted his eyebrows in amused surprise could he have
seen the figure that filled the mental vision of his friend. It was
none other than Dorama, the young wife to whom after a long absence he
was returning.
When the marriage took place bride and bridegroom were but children.
The depths of their emotions were unruffled by the honeymoon which was
spent, according to custom, three years later under the paternal roof.
Two or three years of placid married life followed, during which Ananda
was still absorbed in his studies, and Dorama was engaged in
housewifely duties under the supervision of an autocratic
mother-in-law, who was not unkind, but rigidly exacting, with no
leaning whatever towards modern innovations.
Then came the birth of the son. Ananda found it a little difficult to
believe that he had really attained the much-desired estate of
paternity. He let his eyes rest on the girl-mother and his child with
wondrous delight. The sight of them stirred him strangely, and awoke
new longings that he did not understand. Those longings were the
instinctive desires of the animal man to claim his mate for himself;
and to carry her and her baby to some remote fastness, where he could
hide her from the swarms of relatives who in their joy seemed to think
that she belonged to them rather than to him. He wanted to gloat over
her beauty, her wifehood and her motherhood, and to exult in sole
possession. What did it mean? It almost awed him in its strength and
insistence. Surely he was not rebelling against the time-honoured
custom of the family life! He was not seeking to leave the home of his
fathers!
Then came the journey to England and the separation. The underlying,
scarcely recognised discontent vanished with the excitement of travel;
but the memory of Dorama in her new character did not fade. On the
contrary, it grew clearer and more beautiful the longer he cherished
it, gathering romance and raising the wife far above all other women.
He determined that he would ask his father to give him a house of his
own on his return with a suitable establishment over which his wife
could rule. The plan commended itself for more reasons than one.
Since he had changed his religion and adopted many western habits as
well, his parents, who were people of discernment, could not fail to
understand the necessity for some such arrangement. They might not
like it; they might not be pleased that those western habits were
adopted; they would assuredly disapprove of the change of religion; but
when they comprehended that the changes had been effected to increase
the comfort and happiness, spiritually as well as bodily, of their son,
they would become reconciled. In sending him to England they must have
been aware of the risks he ran of assimilating the ideas of the people
among whom he had to live in such close intimacy. The doubts that
troubled the keener-witted Bopaul did not therefore ruffle his
serenity. He had no forebodings of the thunder-clouds that were
gathering.
Pantulu, in company with Bopaul's father, went to Bombay to meet the
mail boat. They decided not to go on board, but to await the coming of
the travellers on the landing-stage. As Ananda and his companion
stepped ashore with the throng of passengers the two men pressed
forward. The sons folded their hands in reverence, and then extended
the right in the clasp that is general in these days all over the
world. The greeting attracted no attention, so quiet was it in its
nature; but underneath the simple formalities lay a feeling too deep
for words. Later, when the luggage had been disposed of and they were
in the privacy of their own sitting-room in the hotel, Ananda, who had
been unusually silent, spoke.
"I have something to say, my beloved and honourable father."
At the words Bopaul sprang to his feet.
"Come, sir," he said to his father, "we will leave his Excellency
Pantulu Iyer with my friend Ananda to talk over their private
affairs----"
Before the older man could rise, Ananda said hastily--
"Stop, Bopaul! I wish you to remain and hear what I have to say.
Possibly I may have to ask you to confirm my statement. My father may
otherwise find it difficult of belief."
Bopaul reseated himself, looking ill at ease. His father, influenced
by a suddenly roused curiosity, which he had no scruples in satisfying,
showed a disinclination to move. The eyes of both parents were fixed
in surprise upon the sons, and they waited breathless to hear what
communication Ananda had to make to his father.
Pantulu had removed his turban and replaced it by a velvet cap that
covered his shaven head and the knot of hair on the crown. He had
drawn his feet up beneath him, and his thoughts, if they were occupied
at all, were busy building up a gilded future, in which his son was the
chief figure. It took some seconds to detach his mind from his
ambitious visions and concentrate it upon the fact that Ananda had
something to say. In his old-fashioned opinion, children listened; it
was for the parents to speak.
With mild astonishment he fixed his eyes upon his son. No suspicion of
the blow that was impending crossed his mind. Doubtless Ananda was
going to suggest an extension of the visit to Bombay that they might
see a little of the Presidency town before going south.
"My father, I hope that it will not trouble you to learn that during my
residence in England I have adopted many of the ways of that country."
"They will soon pass off, my son, when you return home and find
yourself in the family once more. It is well to have a knowledge
now-a-days of western customs, many of which the Maharajah himself has
adopted. The time may come when you will often find yourself in his
presence. Your English experience will serve you well on those
occasions."
Ananda listened in silence without interrupting the speaker. Bopaul
showed more uneasiness, rising from his chair and moving restlessly
about the room as though longing to escape.
"I have learned to like the ways I have adopted--and the dress."
Ananda glanced down at the neat frock coat and trousers that became his
figure and set it off to advantage.
"Our Maharajah wears the same kind of garments. There is no reason why
you should not retain the dress in public."
"I intend to retain the dress and habits of English life," he replied
with decision. Then, after a slight pause that seemed to the listeners
to be shadowed by some strange unknown danger, he continued: "But this
is not all. After much thought and deliberation I have also adopted
the religion of England."
A dead silence greeted this announcement. Its full meaning did not
immediately strike the listeners. Bopaul glanced from one to the
other. The expression on the face of his own father held his
attention. It was a curious mixture of astonishment, dismay, and
incredulity. The jaw dropped; the eyes opened to their widest extent,
and the brows were like two rainbows, so arched had they become.
Bopaul had that insane desire to laugh which seizes men and women at a
crisis fraught with possible disaster; he turned his back on the
company to hide his trembling lips. An inarticulate sound made him
look round. It came from his own parent, who struggled in vain to
frame a question.
Bopaul divined its import. Was he, too, a renegade, a 'vert? He
controlled his lips and strangled his ill-timed mirth. A sign in the
negative set his father's mind at rest on that point, and enabled the
older man to give his undivided attention to what was passing between
Pantulu and his son.
Pantulu, like his friend, had been struck dumb by the shock of Ananda's
statement. He moistened his lips, and after a few ineffectual attempts
accomplished articulation. His voice sounded strange and unlike his
usual tone.
"You have--adopted--the religion of--England, my son! I fail to grasp
your meaning!"
"I have become a Christian."
Ananda spoke clearly, but with a doggedness that seemed a little
forced. Under his calmness lurked timidity. Bopaul detected it and
again his lips quivered, this time with the ghost of a scornful smile.
It required a magnificent courage and enormous endurance for a caste
man to make such a change. If he knew Ananda aright his friend had no
great store of either courage or endurance. His Christianity would
soon be knocked out of him when the family had him back again in the
old home away from foreign influences, unless he, Bopaul, was very much
mistaken.
Pantulu dropped his feet to the ground, raised himself by the arms of
the lounge on which he was seated, and rose without haste to his full
height. The folds of his soft white muslin cloth fell over his lower
limbs, the flowing drapery giving him an oriental dignity that was
patriarchal. He wore a dark-blue serge coat, a white shirt and linen
collar, with tie to match the coat. Everything was of the best quality
and fitted his aristocratic well-made figure without fault. On the
little finger of his right hand shone a diamond of rare beauty, his
only ornament. The sparkle of the gem caught Ananda's eye as the hand
was slightly raised in growing horror.
"A Christian! a Christian!" he repeated. Then lowering his hand he
seemed to shake off the horror by an effort of will. "I have not
understood you, my son. There is some mistake. Whatever strange
customs you may have thought fit to adopt during your stay in England,
you must drop them now. They have served their purpose, and they must
be thrown aside like the strange weeds that as a child you gathered in
the jungle, and cast upon the dust heap on your return before entering
the house. You have returned to the home of your fathers a Hindu, an
orthodox Hindu, a Vishnuvite. Even now at this moment the Swami, our
guru, waits at our house in Chirapore to see the ceremonies performed
that will restore your caste and purify you from the pollution of these
western habits."
The voice grew firmer until it rang out like a sharply-struck bell.
Yet for all its firmness there was a strain of desperate entreaty
running through it, as though the speaker waited in passionate hope for
confirmation of his assertions. That confirmation did not come.
Ananda, as he stood before his father, shifted uneasily from one foot
to the other; and as the elder ceased speaking he said falteringly--
"No caste ceremonies will be required. I have given up Hinduism. I
have been baptised and received into the English Church. It is not
necessary to look so serious over it, honoured father. All that will
be needed can be done without difficulty. It will be advisable to give
me a separate house and establishment for myself and my wife and son,
since our presence will naturally create trouble for my mother in the
preparation of food. I am also prepared to find that many members of
your household may demand my exclusion from the family circle."
Ananda's even voice appeared to have a paralysing effect upon both the
older men; for they were silent. Bopaul's father was the first to find
his tongue.
"My friend, I am sorry for this. It is an unspeakable misfortune."
Pity, unsolicited and unexpected, and equally unwelcome, broke the
spell and opened the floodgates of wrath. Again the diamond flashed as
the paternal hand was raised.
"A Christian! My son a cursed Christian! an outcaste! an alien! lower
than the pariah, more loathed than the punchama sweeper! Oh! what have
I done that the gods should curse me thus? What sin have I committed
that I should be thus afflicted and punished? My son! my only son!"
Once more a desperate effort was made to reject, to disbelieve the
terrible news. "My little son!" he used the pet name by which Ananda
had been known as a child, and it came from his lips with infinite
tenderness. "My little son! tell me you have but joked, and that you
have been playing upon your poor old father's fears. Be satisfied that
you have startled and frightened him. Now reassure him! restore him to
happiness, my little son! Be kind and tender in your strong young
manhood to one who is growing old and whose life is bound up in yours."
He placed his hands together, palm to palm, and bowed his proud head in
humble entreaty. Bopaul once more turned his back upon the company and
strode towards one of the windows. The sight of Pantulu's grief and
distress pained him more than he cared to admit. Ananda did not hear
the appeal unmoved. Tears sprang into his eyes, and he too averted his
gaze from a sight that sent a sharp knife through his heart; but, like
all weak natures, he possessed a strain of obstinacy that came now to
his assistance. Bopaul, who had more force of character, could not
have listened to such an appeal from his father without wavering in his
determination, no matter how great might have been his courage. With
Ananda it had a contrary effect. It distressed and pained him beyond
expression; but it strengthened rather than weakened his resolve, and
created a desire to justify his action. He answered firmly and
decisively, and in that answer his father recognised the obstinacy of
the perverse boy who so often succeeded in getting his own way in spite
of his timid nature.
"It is true. I am a Christian, and I intend to remain a Christian. I
am sorry if it hurts you, my father; but I have arrived at man's estate
and must judge for myself. I have taken the step deliberately and with
due thought and consideration."
"This is the Professor's doing, him to whom I entrusted you!" cried
Pantulu, his wrath rising hotly.
"No, it is not! The Professor had nothing to do with it!" replied
Ananda, in a sharp, clear voice. He turned to Bopaul, who was still
standing with his back to them. "Reassure my father on this point,
please. Had Professor Twyford or his family anything to do with the
step I have taken?"
"To the best of my belief, none. He showed as much astonishment when
you announced the change as I felt myself. What was more, he was
terribly disturbed by the news."
Pantulu made no comment on this confirmation of his son's story, and
Ananda began again.
"It happened in this way----"
"Silence!" thundered his father, in a voice that made them all start.
"When the dhoby's donkey falls into the tank, does it bring him to life
again to explain what caused his foot to slip? Thou art cursed!
cursed! cursed! No longer shalt thou be a son of mine! I am
childless! Go from my sight, and never let my eyes fall upon thee
again!"
He used the language usually addressed to inferiors, and it stung.
"Let me explain, most excellent father----"
"Call me not father, son of a dog!"
"If you would only let me speak, I can----"
"Sooner would I listen to the 'untouchable' who cleans the gutters and
carries away the contents of the dustbin! Go!"
He moved towards him threateningly. Ananda stepped back a pace or two,
but did not show any sign of leaving the room.
"It is not fair to judge any one unheard," he began again; but he was
not allowed to finish the sentence. Pantulu, beside himself with rage,
advanced with uplifted hand and brought his fist down upon his son's
face. The diamond caught his lip and tore it open. Blood flowed and
dropped upon the white shirt-front, leaving a large red stain.
Bopaul rushed forward, interposing himself between the two, and pushed
his friend through the doorway leading to his bedroom.
The outraged father glared after his son and panted out in gasps--
"Never in the whole course of the boy's life have I laid a hand upon
him. What have I done! What have I done!"
He sank down into his chair and covered his face with his hands. Joy,
ambition, paternal pride, all had been extinguished, leaving him a
broken and miserable man.