Ananda's interview with his wife and the guru produced a curious
result. It not only roused him out of meek resignation, but it
stimulated his nerves, strengthened his will, and focussed his mental
vision on the situation created by his conversion to Christianity. It
was as though a certain visible growth had begun; the fruit of that
growth promised to be action.
Hitherto his policy had been one of waiting and of patience amounting
to little less than apathy. He had been drifting and existing rather
than acting and living. It is true that the passive period was not
without its advantage.
The plant that shows no shoot above ground is not necessarily dormant
and idle. There may be great activity underneath the soil. It was so
with Ananda. Strong roots capable of standing the stress of mental
disturbance developed. From them were to spring actions that would be
marked by endurance and fortitude, where formerly there had been
weakness and timidity.
As he held the soft yielding figure of his wife in his arms he was
conscious of a concentration of purpose he had never experienced
before. The waiting policy insensibly died. Definite determination
took the place of vague desire. He resolved to strike out a line for
himself. The object of it should be to gain possession of his wife and
child and to find a means of providing a home for them both. With this
determination came the conviction that his wishes could not be
fulfilled by remaining any longer under his father's roof. He must
leave home as soon as possible. The opportunity for so doing had been
offered, but he had refused it. He must reconsider it. There was no
necessity to write, it would be better not to do so lest by any chance
the letter was tampered with. He was aware that he would be watched
and spied upon more than ever after what had passed between himself and
the guru; he must be cautious if he wished to escape. Alderbury, he
was sure, would give him a warm welcome, and again proffer the helping
hand.
He counted the change left out of Bopaul's ten rupee note. There was
more than enough left to pay for his journey to the headquarters of the
mission, whether he went by road or by rail.
The next question to be considered was the best means of getting away
from the house with his luggage without raising opposition or provoking
assault. The only servant at his disposal was the pariah, and his good
offices were restricted by the fact that he had again been forbidden to
wait on the young master any longer. His visits had to be paid
secretly and at night. The man need not have come at all; but with
that fidelity so often found among the lower people of India who serve
their superiors, he remained faithful to the son of the house whom he
had known and worshipped from a distance as a child and boy.
When the lights were extinguished and voices ceased murmuring in the
women's rooms, the untouchable, as the caste people termed the pariah,
crept softly into the little yard and entered the room where Ananda
slept. By the dim light of the tumbler lamp he performed the duties he
had been forbidden to do. With quick, silent fingers he tidied the
room, cleaned the shoes and filled the earthen chafing-dish with fresh
charcoal. So quiet was he in all his movements that his master's deep
sleep was undisturbed till the moment when a gentle rattle of the
milkcan against the compound wall outside told of the arrival of the
milkman with his cow. Even then the faithful servitor, remembering his
uncleanness, forbore to lay a hand upon the recumbent figure. Kneeling
by his side he uttered the loud chirrup of the wall-lizard until the
sound pierced the brain of the sleeper. Then Ananda rose, and, taking
up the milk-bottle that belonged to his tiffin-basket, went to fetch
the milk. The pariah watched, and when his master returned he blew up
the charcoal on which the coffee was to be made. No conversation
passed between the two. The one received and the other gave his
services without thanks or apology. Yet Ananda was not ungrateful.
Although nothing of any consequence was said, this curious intimacy had
a beneficial effect upon the 'vert. Unconsciously he was learning that
wonderful lesson of Christianity--the brotherhood of man. His
repugnance to the pariah was decreasing, and he no longer shrank with
disgust as his eye fell upon his figure. The books given by Alderbury
contained much that bore on the subject, and Ananda had had plenty of
leisure to absorb their contents, with the result that in his desperate
need he was able to turn without repulsion to the only human being who
could render help.
In the small hours of the morning after Ananda's interview with Dorama,
the usual routine had been observed, while scarcely a word passed
between the two. The man was turning away to leave, having blown up
the chafing-dish of live coal, when Ananda called softly to him. He
stopped at once, and salaamed, wondering what his master could have to
say if it was not complaint at some unconscious shortcoming in his
service.
"I must leave my father's house, and I require your help."
Again the pariah touched his forehead with both hands; then, placing
them together, palm to palm, he listened deferentially to Ananda's
explanation and instructions. He was to bring a cart to take the
luggage to the station in time to catch the night mail of that day.
The pariah prostrated himself and lifted his folded hands in entreaty.
"Sir! this unworthy slave prays your honour to be careful. There are
men in the town who openly declare that if they meet your excellency
they will beat you and drive away the Christian devil which they say
has entered the noble body of the presence. During the day they wait
outside hoping to catch your honour walking. There is danger also in
the house."
"Danger!" repeated Ananda quickly. "How is that? Stand up and tell me
about it."
The man rose apologetically to his feet and continued his story.
"My wife sweeps out the back yard where the refuse is thrown. She
heard one of the kitchen women telling the girl from the market that
the swami departed in anger, and that his wrath must be appeased,
otherwise worse misfortune will befall the family. He left orders with
the small master, the brother of our most noble big master, that your
excellency was not to be allowed to leave the grounds."
"How can he stop me?" asked Ananda, with some heat.
"By the aid of the men who watch outside."
"Are they there all night?"
"No, sir; they do not think that you will try to leave secretly and at
night. Where could your honour go to hide, they say? Every
hiding-place is known to them, and no one in the town would dare to
give shelter against the wishes of Pantulu Iyer's family. Great care
will be needed in leaving your honourable father's house without
permission."
Ananda was silent. The fact that he was living in a state of siege
that might very soon become close imprisonment was being forced upon
him. It was an unpleasant truth, but one to which he could not remain
blind. His conviction that he must get away as speedily as possible
grew; and the sweeper was right in urging upon him the necessity of
caution if he wished to ensure success in carrying out his intentions.
The coffee seethed on the live coals. As he removed the pot he
motioned to the pariah instinctively to stand away. The action was an
involuntary response to the inherited prejudice. He was obeyed
instantly and without resentment. The man retired to the doorway, and
would have passed out into the darkness had it not been for another
command.
"Come back, I have not finished what I have to say. Tell me, what do
you think ought to be done?"
The other glanced at him in surprise, although he did not venture to
express it. Had ever one of the twice-born been heard to ask the
advice of a sweeper? If he should dare to say in the hearing of men of
caste that he had been thus consulted, he would be beaten for his
presumption until his back streamed with blood.
With ever-recurring apology for daring to advise so great an
excellency, he unfolded a plan of escape which seemed to Ananda, the
more he considered it, the only possible means of getting away. The
excellency was to pack his property into parcels and bundles which the
sweeper would convey away in the night with the assistance of his wife
and son to some safe hiding-place in the jungle. The portmanteaux must
be left behind, empty, or suspicion would be roused if by chance one of
the family paid a visit to the master. On the second night after the
household had retired Ananda was to steal quietly away and walk to a
station some distance from the town, where he would not be recognised.
The sweeper and his relatives would act as carriers for his luggage.
His sister who served the College excellency would obtain a day's
holiday from the housekeeper and help. All might be relied upon for
keeping the secret, and his honour need have no fear.
Ananda made only one suggestion, that he should start with them and
take the train twenty-four hours earlier. To this the man objected on
the score of requiring more time to make the arrangements for the night
march. When Ananda spoke of a reward the pariah protested vehemently
that none was required. Some day in the future, when his honour had
grown rich, perhaps he would allow his son and daughter to serve him--a
promise easy to give and easy to perform when the time should come.
The crowing of cocks fell on their ears, and the men started.
"I must be going, sir. The women will soon awake and be moving to the
cattle shed. Your excellency must forgive this worthless servant for
touching your honour's sacred property; but there is no other way," he
said deprecatingly.
"It is forgiven," replied Ananda, remembering how roughly he had bidden
that same man on his arrival to leave his trunks alone. Rather than
have them contaminated by his touch he had himself hauled them into his
room. "Did you not carry the Englishman's food basket for him? Then
surely you may carry my clothing without offence."
All day Ananda was busy in the privacy of his little den, putting his
personal belongings together in handy portable parcels, tying some in
bundles when his limited supply of brown paper and string came to an
end. Quiet reigned over the house; and if he chanced to look out of
the door no one crossed his line of vision in the compound. By the
afternoon he had finished. He put on his cap to take a little walk.
Beyond the wall that bounded the grounds he caught sight of two or
three figures. They would have attracted no attention had it not been
for the warning of the pariah. The man was correct. Undoubtedly he
was being watched as far as the outside of the house was concerned, and
with no friendly intention either; but as long as he remained indoors
he was left severely alone. This was satisfactory, as the sight of his
preparations would rouse suspicion and endanger the success of his
scheme.
His eyes frequently sought that part of the house in which he knew were
the women's quarters. The small jealously-shuttered windows gave no
hint of what was passing behind the Venetians. Was Dorama there? Did
she seek for a glimpse of her husband as eagerly as he craved for a
sight of his wife?
He paced up and down, book in hand, his thoughts busy elsewhere. The
luggage was ready in its new form, and it was to be carried off that
very night. In the small hours of the following night he would quietly
slip away, and thus cut himself adrift for ever from the home of his
birth.
Again he searched the landscape. A strong desire to see and speak once
more with his wife lay at the back of his mind. He wanted to tell her
of his plans; to ask her to wait and to beg of her to join him as soon
as he had a shelter to offer her.
He cudgelled his brains for some device by which a message might be
conveyed in safety, and could only think of the sweeper. The pariah
servant had no opportunity, however, of approaching the lady Dorama
within speaking distance. Even if chance favoured the messenger he
would be unable to carry out his mission. At the mere sight of him she
would shrink away with all the prejudice of her caste, and resent the
smallest breach of the caste law. The pariah, by the unwritten law,
could not do otherwise than maintain the prescribed distance between
her and himself. If he dropped a letter in her path or placed it where
she might find it, his contaminating touch would be sufficient for her
avoidance of the missive. Moreover, a written letter was of no use.
She could neither read nor write. His only hope was in a chance
interview, and as the hours slipped by the hope grew fainter.
The following day passed heavily. The luggage was safely removed
without accident. His books and writing materials were gone with the
rest of his property, and he would not see them again till he arrived
at the distant station. He had biscuits with him and some
pomegranates. The sharp sweetness of the juice served to assuage his
thirst.
He went out into the compound as often as he dared. It did not do to
spend too much time in the open, since it had not been his habit. It
might be remarked upon. He noted the figures beyond the wall, and knew
that he was being watched with the same vigilance as was shown
yesterday and the day before. Frequently his eye turned towards the
blue-green mountain mass with its dark-grey rocks and heavy forest.
Then he looked back at the familiar building, the home of his
ancestors, and once the hot unshed tears made his eyes smart at the
thought of leaving it. The blood rushed to his head and back again to
his heart with a violence that almost threw him off his mental balance.
Could he muster up strength enough to abandon all that the home meant?
Would he have the courage when the moment came to sever the ties that
bound him to father, mother, wife--no, not wife! She and the child
would follow by and by. He refused to entertain any doubt on the
subject.
All the same, he was conscious of a shudder, the kind of inward quake
experienced by the soldier at the sound of the first bullet whizzing
over his head on the battlefield. He checked it at once and took a
fresh grip of himself, sternly and resolutely shutting down sentiment
and its companion emotion.
"I can't go back! I can't go back! There is nothing but hideous
darkness behind me. I must go forward. The light is in front! Ah!
dear Christ, the Son of God! lead me forward in safety! Lead me on!"
The mental disturbance passed as suddenly as it had overwhelmed him.
Once more he was conscious of a great peace. It was as though he had
entered that wonderful temple of God standing in the heart of London,
where the strains of the organ rise above the roar of the streets, and
where a man may feel that he is in the presence of the living God of
Love, the Father of the Universe.
The sun dropped behind a shoulder of the mountain, and the sky broke
into a glory of many colours. He watched it until it faded. Suddenly
he was startled by a sound. As the last ray left the top of the hill
and the forest mantled into a sombre green, a wail arose in the women's
rooms. It was followed by the beat of a tomtom.
He stood at the entrance of the yard and listened. As the light faded
the wailing increased. He could distinguish by the sound of the voices
a movement. They were leaving the house for the garden.
Yes! He knew the ritual of old! Some one was dying, and death was
close at hand. The man or woman--he started as the thought struck him
that it might be his father--had been carried out of the house and laid
upon mother earth to breathe his last.
How well he remembered the ceremonies with which death was greeted; the
lifting with tender care of the dying from the cot or mat and the
gentle placing of the gasping patient upon the smooth ground. Close by
grew the sacred tulsi, without which no spirit could take its flight in
peace. He could picture his mother bending over the plant to gather a
sprig. He fancied he could smell the aromatic scent of the broken
stalk of sweet basil as she placed the sprig above the head of the
sufferer--perhaps touching the dry lips with it, leading as she did so
the wail of mourning.
The chorus of women's voices swelled on the evening air; the whole
household must be joining in. Who could it be? The pariah had said
nothing of any illness in the family. If it had been his father the
man would have mentioned it. He concluded that it must be one of the
many relatives who lived in the house. Some of them had joined the
family during his absence in England; others had grown out of
knowledge; it was useless for him to conjecture.
The presence of death is always a solemn moment, even though the person
may not be known. Ananda remained standing by the entrance of the
yard, his eyes turned towards the west, but his ears bent to catch
every sound that came from the house. Each change in the note of grief
spoke eloquently of the ebbing life, and he listened for the final
cries that would betoken the drawing of the last breath.
The colour died out of the sky except upon the horizon, which glowed
with a vivid luminous green. The steady yellow light of the evening
star shone in the wake of the sun's path. Bats fluttered in the air,
following the strong-winged moth that sought the almond-scented
blossoms of the oleander. In the distance the faint hum of the town
rose occasionally and died away again. A cart went slowly by, its
axles groaning as the bullocks plodded along, urged by the guttural
shouts of the sleepy driver.
The wailing in the house stopped and silence reigned. The stars grew
brighter and the living green of the west was lost in darkening greys.
An owl in the distant forest sent forth a discordant shriek. As if in
reply the familiar note of grief was renewed in slightly different
tones mingled with a violent tomtoming.
Death had come; and the patient, whoever he or she might be, had drawn
the last breath.
Memory was busy with the past once more. Sad though the sound of
mourning might be, it belonged to his life. Death without those
accompanying sounds would not seem to be death, any more than marriage
would seem to be marriage without the dancing girls and their
love-songs.
He had renounced all such things and set them aside for ever. Again,
with a determined effort, he thrust sentiment aside and shut his ears
to the mourning. All night long the mourners would be up and busy over
the preparations for the disposal of the body the next day. There was
no reason why he should not sleep however. He had a long walk before
him. The sweeper was to meet him at the station in the morning at
eight o'clock, and he was to take the train that was due soon after
that hour. He intended starting between three and four. The road was
familiar. India is not troubled with too many by-paths. Even if the
route had been unknown to him, he could not easily have missed it.
He retired to his room and threw himself upon his charpoy bed. He
could still hear the monotonous wailing, but it was not disturbing.
Having reassured himself that it could not possibly be his father, he
troubled no more about the unknown dead. On the whole it was fortunate
that the household was occupied with its own affairs. There was less
likelihood of attention being directed towards himself. His escape
ought to be easy, and, thus thinking, he fell asleep.