For the past twelve months the family of Pantulu Iyer had been
preparing for the return of the son and heir. In the first place
Gunga, Ananda's mother, had undertaken a pilgrimage to the large
Vishnuvite temple at Srirungam, near Trichinopoly. She was a proud
woman, full of energy, just but strict in the performance of duties,
religious as well as social. She demanded of others the same rigid
adherence to rule, and she countenanced no indulgence nor slackness in
young or old among her dependents. By her decree Dorama and her little
son were to accompany her.
The journey would have been easy by rail; but Pantulu's wife was not a
woman to look for ease and comfort where ceremonial was concerned. She
chose the way of her ancestors and elected to travel by road as they
had travelled in the old days before the fire-carriage revolutionised
the Indian methods of journeying.
It took many days, even though she used her own powerful bullocks.
Besides the coach there was a country cart which carried the
cooking-pots, bedding, and her own caste servants. The people of the
villages through which she passed inquired the name of the gracious
lady who honoured their poor hamlet by her presence. The reply was
given by the drivers; she was the wife of a rich silk merchant of
Chirapore, carrying offerings to the big temple at Srirungam. Why did
she make offerings? Was her husband sick? No; it was because her son
who had been to England was returning, and she was anxious to enlist
the favour of the gods so that he might be restored to her in safety.
The country folk received the information with much salaaming, and
expressed a hope that she would be favoured. They supplied her with
eggs and milk; and admired the fine handsome white cattle that drew her
coach, praising the drooping ears and swinging dew-laps in loud tones
that were intended to penetrate the curtains that hung before the
windows of the carriage.
At the big temple she was honourably received. The gifts she brought
were presented by her tiny grandson in the absence of any other male
member of the family.
The little Royan, named after his great-grandfather, was decked in
purple velvet and crimson satin; and his small person was laden with
jewels of gold and precious stones. The soft baby hand, timidly
extended to the awe-inspiring mahunt--who graciously deigned to receive
the offerings in person--was weighed down by the solid gold lime
resting on his palm. The great man smiled as he stooped and received
the substantial gift. By the side of the child stood his grandmother,
erect in her hale middle-age. Her limbs had not yet lost the lines of
a comely youth, nor the features their haughty beauty.
Half hidden behind her was the smaller figure of Dorama, her eyes cast
down, her rich silk cloth, plain in colour and pattern, veiling her
lately-developed form. The eyes of the mahunt dwelt upon her as he
asked a few questions. He learned that her husband was in England, and
would be returning some time during the year.
"She will rejoin him and give you another grandson to rejoice your
heart," said the mahunt.
"It may be so if the gods will," replied Gunga in a tone that seemed to
dismiss the subject.
"Should your hopes not be fulfilled you must make another pilgrimage to
the temple, and she must keep vigil before the god. It cannot fail to
bring about the desired result."
To this proposition the elder lady made no reply, and the mahunt
retired, casting another glance of approval upon Dorama.
After a few days' rest, Gunga returned as she went, making the journey
by easy stages. The nights were spent at the various rest-houses on
the road, where her attendants cooked the food and saw to her comfort.
She chose a time when the weather promised to be fine, and it did not
disappoint her. The expedition was a pleasant jaunt, which Dorama
enjoyed more than a little.
On her return home Gunga superintended other preparations considered
necessary for the occasion. The whole household--with all its
dependents and caste servants numbering over fifty--had to be fitted
out with new clothes. The little close-fitting jackets of bright
colours affected by the women were fashioned by careful tailors. Men's
coats of brilliant cloth, lined with silk and richly embroidered with
gold, were put in hand. New lengths of muslin of the finest quality
were purchased after careful and deliberate bargaining; and many of the
family jewels were reset.
It was in these heirlooms that Dorama was most interested. According
to time-honoured custom among modest Hindu women, she had laid aside
her jewels on her husband's departure; nor was she permitted to use the
golden saffron powder that is supposed to enhance the beauty of the
Indian skin. With his return all restriction of self-adornment would
end; and the finest and best of the jewels would be hung about her own
neck and arms; and her smooth skin would gleam with powder that would
match the newly-burnished gold.
The tailors needed supervision; the working goldsmiths required
individual watching. A member of the family, usually one of the elder
women, was told off to sit by his crucible and work-table whilst he
plied his bellows and his delicate styles; and the half-finished
ornament was carried home in the evening to be restored to the jeweller
in the morning when the person in charge was able to resume her guard.
Then there were the preparations that belonged to the kitchen, the
chutneys, pickles, and preserves that would be required when the time
arrived for feasting and feeding the poor Brahmans.
Dorama assisted under her mother-in-law's directions, lending a hand
here and there where special care was needed. She was very silent; but
beneath that silence was hidden a fire of emotions varied and deep that
the others little dreamed of. She thought of her wedding, long ago
when she was but a child. At the time the ceremonies had excited her
wonder, and she had experienced a fearful pleasure in the thought that
she was the centre of attention. She remembered Ananda's smooth boyish
face and his gentle acquiescence to all his parents' wishes. He had
glanced at his newly-made wife with childish curiosity, in which
passion and desire found no place.
Later the parents arranged a honeymoon for the young couple, to be
spent under the paternal roof. On her side, at least, there was
nothing but distaste and fear, with not a little grief at having to
leave her own home. Then ensued a dull period when light household
tasks instead of dolls and toys filled her life. It ended in the birth
of a son. With the advent of the baby she was released from domestic
work in the kitchen; and though she found that the wonderful living
doll was not her exclusive property, but seemed to belong to the whole
house as much as to her, existence had a new interest.
Before she was sufficiently recovered to take her new place as the
favoured young mother of a son in the family circle, Ananda departed.
She remembered how he had knelt by her side and looked at the tiny
baby, their joint property, with a kind of delighted surprise, as
though he found it difficult to realise that the little crumpled olive
ball of humanity was his own, his very own. From his child his eyes
went to his child's mother with a light in them that she had never seen
there before. She was no longer one of the mere goods and chattels of
the house to help to minister to his appetite, feed him, keep his
clothes in order and perform other duties that contributed to his
comfort and well-being. In giving him this son, who would one day call
him by the name most highly prized throughout the land, she had done
something purely personal, something exclusively for him; and in so
doing she had endowed him with a delight and joy unknown before.
It was impossible for him to express his gratitude in words. The
presence of his mother standing near with her dark, watchful eyes kept
him silent. He could only gaze from wife to child and then back again
at his wife. In his shining eyes, full of unspoken happiness, the girl
might read what she pleased. Even as he knelt by the mat on which she
lay the new longing arose to possess, to enjoy, to claim his own, and
carry his precious treasures away.
The watching mother detected the emotion, and a twinge of jealousy
caused her to stir uneasily. She advanced and laid a hand upon his
shoulder, her gold bracelets ringing as they fell together upon her
wrist with the movement.
"Come away, my son; she is still weak, and unable to bear a long
farewell. Be assured that we will keep her safe and sound till you
return, her and her little son."
Ananda bent lower over the recumbent figure, and his mother's brow
contracted as she saw the motion.
"Beloved! keep your heart warm for your absent husband," he whispered,
as he kissed the beautiful mouth.
Dorama, as a well-behaved married woman, should have shown no emotion
beyond grief. She should have received the kiss and the words in
silence, allowing the eyelids to droop under his ardent gaze; but in
these latter days of progress the orthodox Hindu feels the insensible
breath of the new spirit, and yields to it without actually breaking
away from the old rules. That same spirit moved her to put her arms
round his neck and to draw him down again till their lips touched a
second time.
"Do not be long, beloved. The slave waits impatiently for her lord."
"Come! come! The carriage is ready, and his honour, your father, is
impatient to be off," said the voice of his mother, as once more her
hand rested on his shoulder.
He rose to his feet and accompanied her without another word, turning
once only to look back and smile at the eyes that followed him so
wistfully. Neither husband nor wife forgot the incident. Every
detail, every look and word were engraved upon their memories, and with
this their aching hungry hearts had to be contented until they should
meet again.
As the time drew near for Ananda's return Dorama moved like one in a
dream. During the day she was abstracted and thoughtful, except when
she was with her little son. If by any chance she could carry him out
of hearing of the other members of the family on pretence of giving him
the air, she spoke of his father, pouring out the pent-up feeling in
words, the meaning of which was beyond the child's comprehension. It
brought relief, although it did not allay the terrible longing.
When the pink satin coat that Royan was to wear on his father's
home-coming was finished, Dorama stole away to the little room she had
shared with her husband, and slipped it on. The boy's eyes sparkled
with delight at the colour and sheen.
"Your father is coming, blessed one! Say 'Father, excellent father!
Your son and slave throws himself before your honourable footsteps!'
Say it! Ah, good child! It was well done! Now again; and carry the
hand to the forehead, thus! Good, little one! Mother's joy!"
Suddenly the sound of Gunga's voice fell on her ear as some order was
given in the distance to one of the dependents.
"Ah! there is the grandmother! Quick! take it off! The coat is only
to be worn in the presence of your father."
She pulled it off, the child entering into the fun and excitement of
doing something that must be hidden from the rigid mistress of the
house. When the coast was clear Dorama crept back, the coat hidden
under her saree and her finger on her lips. The purloined garment was
replaced in the clothes chest without discovery, and the two, laughing
like a couple of mischievous children, ran away in happy glee over
their secret.
At night she lay on her mat in the large room appropriated to the women
of the household, wakeful with busy thought and anticipation. The deep
breathing and occasional snore of her companions told her that they
slept soundly. Then she ventured to move, to stretch her young limbs
and sit up. Her brain seemed on fire. Would her mother give them
again the little room; or would the son of the house be honoured by
being assigned a larger and more important chamber? Would he be
altered in any way? Possibly he had grown older in appearance,
stronger in limb, more manly. How the women of England must have
admired him! Hateful creatures! She detested English women! What was
there to admire in them? They were blocks of ice with hard, cold,
white skins and unkind eyes. She had never seen them except in the
streets as they drove past in carriages or motors; but she was quite
convinced that she read their characters aright, and that her opinion
of them was correct.
She heard the cocks crowing as they marked the progress of the night.
In the midst of her musings she fell asleep, and dreamed that he had
come, that he leaned over her in greeting as he had leaned in parting,
and that their lips met once more.
Among other preparations was the painting and decoration of the house.
As the time approached Venetian masts were erected and wreaths
suspended the length of the road in which they lived. Bunches of
leaves and flowers were tied to the beams of the house, and whole
plantain trees bearing their large clusters of golden fruit were
fastened to every pillar.
Then the guru with his disciple arrived, and the purohit from the
temple, to superintend the ceremonies that were necessary for the
restoration of caste. Gunga, in the absence of her husband in Bombay,
gave the holy men a welcome, and saw that nothing was omitted that was
conducive to their comfort.
As the time drew near the whole household felt the thrill of
expectation that never fails to move a family when one of its members
is expected home after a long sojourn in foreign lands. What news
there would be to hear, and to tell! The traveller would bring gifts
for all. No one would be forgotten.
One morning a post peon appeared carrying a telegram. It was addressed
to Pantulu's brother, Sooba, the little master, as he was called; and
it announced that the ship had come in safely and that the passengers
would land that afternoon.
"Is there anything in the telegram about the time they will leave
Bombay?" asked the guru's attendant, as he waited to carry news to the
great man. Gunga handed him the message in its brown envelope. Ten
minutes later he returned.
"The master says that they will start to-morrow probably, either by the
morning or evening mail, according to the time it takes to clear the
luggage through the custom house."
The guru was well versed in matters temporal as well as spiritual.
"When may we expect them?" asked Gunga.
"It takes two nights and a day to travel from Bombay to Chirapore,"
replied the disciple. "If they leave to-morrow night they will be here
on Wednesday morning."
"The day before the new moon! Not a lucky day to be travelling south,"
remarked Gunga, with a troubled expression upon her face. "If my
husband remembers to go out of the house in which he is staying by a
north door, the bad luck may be averted."
"He will surely think of it," observed the disciple, whose life was
occupied in the consideration of omens.
"In the joy of meeting his son it is quite possible that it may be
forgotten. I know that my lord will be nearly beside himself with
delight at seeing his boy again, his only child!" she added softly,
with a tenderness that she rarely exhibited.
That same afternoon a second telegram was received. It said "Disperse
guests. Discontinue preparations for feasting and rejoicing."
Gunga listened speechless as her brother-in-law read it aloud.
"Again," she commanded.
He read it a second and a third time.
"Is there nothing about illness? Is no reason given for these strange
orders?"
"None, most honourable mother of my brother's family."
"Call his excellency, the swami."
The guru, full of curiosity, came at the summons without delay. He
read the message more than once, but was unable to throw any more light
upon its meaning.
"A letter will come with full explanations," he said at last. "Until
its arrival the directions of the master of the house must be carried
out. My disciple shall tell the company of beggars who are already
assembling that there will be no feasting. He had better give them an
anna apiece, which you will provide, and say that they will be called
together again on the arrival of the master."
"What can be the cause of this change?" asked Gunga, her dark eyes
fixed with a questioning gaze upon the guru.
"Illness, perhaps, or an accident."
"My son is not dead!" she cried in sudden terror.
"No, that cannot be; nor can there be any dangerous illness. It is
possible that your son may have missed his ship, in which case he will
arrive by the next mail boat a week later. We shall learn in time.
Meanwhile, I will go on my way to another house, where my presence is
needed, and will hold myself in readiness to return a fortnight hence."
Pantulu's wife felt slightly relieved by the suggestion that her son
might be coming a week later. It was better than entertaining the fear
that he was ill or even dead. She accepted the situation, and set
about carrying out her husband's directions at once. The new clothes
were packed away in camphor-wood boxes; the pickles and preserves were
tied down and put in the storeroom. The women were ordered to cease
grinding curry-stuffs and pounding rice. The busy household dropped
into sudden inaction, and an unnatural silence reigned everywhere. The
women spoke in whispers, and the men betook themselves to the bazaar,
or to the houses of their fellow-caste people, where they discussed the
ominous message from Bombay without fear of being overheard by the
stern woman who ruled the family.
Dorama with the rest had listened as the telegram was read out. Every
word of it was engraven upon her brain. She went over it again and
again, puzzling herself to find a reason for the strange mandate. If
Ananda had missed his ship surely his father would have said so. On
the other hand, if there was illness or an accident to cause delay, it
might easily have been told in a few words. Some mystery lay beneath
it. What could it be? Had Ananda lost his senses and become mad with
the joy of his home-coming? She had known cases of temporary loss of
the senses through excessive joy or grief.
The child plucked at her saree, jealous of her abstraction. She caught
him up and crushed his soft little body to her heart.
"Thus and thus will thy father hug thee and me, my son, when he comes!"
The boy, irritated at being roughly handled, beat at her with his small
fists.
"Thus and thus will I beat my father if he hurts me like that. Let me
go, or I will ask him to find me another mother."
The senseless words fell upon her ear with strange force. What was it
the child said? Another mother! Could it be possible that her husband
had forgotten her in that foreign country, where he had lived so long?
Was he bringing home another wife? a white woman, a hated European?
No, no! It was impossible!
With a stifled cry she set the child down on his feet, and he seized
the opportunity of escaping to the kitchen, the spot he loved best.
She was left alone, and no one heeded her; they were all too busy
discussing the mystery of the message and attempting to discover its
solution. Suddenly she dropped to the ground, crouching as though some
unseen hand were about to strike a deadly blow, her hands lifted to
guard her head.
"No! no! no! If there were another I could not bear it. I should
die!" she wailed. Then passion took hold of her. She stuffed the
corner of her saree into her mouth and bit it savagely. "No, I will
not die! It is the strange woman who shall die! Hear me, swami of the
big temple! Hear my vow. I will live and have my own! my own!"