Ananda lay in a deep, dreamless sleep, the restful slumber of a healthy
man whose mind was as wholesome as his body. One hand was tucked under
his cheek, the other was thrown forward and hung slightly over the edge
of the cot. All his troubles, his doubts and fears, his deprivations
and hardships, lately inflicted, were forgotten. It was the best
preparation he could have for entrance on the new life, when he would
have to live "by the sweat of his brow," like a multitude of good men
who had gone before him, and others who would come after him.
He had had four hours of solid sleep without stirring, when he became
aware of a touch upon the hand that rested on the border of the bed.
It was a soft, coaxing touch that sent an electric message to his
brain. In the old days before he went to England that same touch had
often roused him at dawn. He lifted his head and breathed one word:
"Wife!"
"I am here!" came the ready response.
She was in his arms the next moment, clinging to him whilst convulsive
sobs--stifled, but none the less strong--shook her from head to foot.
At first words failed them both, he in his astonishment and she in the
violence of her grief; but as tears relieved the overburdened brain of
the woman she regained sufficient command of herself to speak.
"Our little son!--my baby! He is dead!"
Then, as an exclamation escaped Ananda's lips, she placed her hand over
his mouth.
"Ah! hush!" she whispered. "They do not know that I have come to you.
If they find me here they will beat me again!"
"Beat you! My pearl! Who has dared to lay a finger upon my wife?" he
whispered fiercely, drawing her still closer.
"Our uncle's wife. Of late she has taken much upon herself. She has
tried continually to push me from my place, saying that her husband
would be the big master of the house when your father died. Then she
will be mistress, and as such it was only fitting that she should come
next to your mother instead of me."
"But why should she strike you?"
"Ah! husband!--the child! They say that it was through my neglect and
carelessness that the boy came under the influence of the evil eye; it
was but right therefore that I should be punished."
The bereaved mother poured the story of little Royan's illness and
death into her husband's ears. Together the parents wept, stifling
their grief lest the sound of a sob or a sigh should betray them.
Little, indeed, had Ananda suspected that as he listened indifferently
to the wailing his beloved child was passing away from them for ever.
"What will life be without my child or my husband?" cried Dorama at
last. "I cannot bear it; I shall die!"
"No, you will not. Beloved, I am leaving my home to-night to find more
liberty than I am given here in this cruel town. Come with me. Let us
go together. Once across the border of the State our rights will be
respected. We are of age, free to act as we choose, and no one can
separate you from me or do either of us any hurt."
"Husband! I am your obedient wife!"
* * * * *
Ananda looked at his watch. It was half-past two.
"It is time we started, beloved. Can you walk as far?" he asked
anxiously as he made his final preparations.
"I can walk the distance easily if my lord will give me time."
"Then let us begin the journey at once. We will go to the further
corner of the compound and get over the wall. Before the sun is up we
shall be far enough from the town not to fear recognition."
Together they crept across the enclosure, Ananda beating the grass
softly with his stick at each step, to drive away the chance snake.
Dorama followed closely.
The wall presented no difficulty; but as Ananda dropped lightly into
the road he startled a half-starved pariah dog returning to the town
after its nightly prowl for food. The dog, more in fear than anger,
barked wildly at him. Dorama, alarmed, hesitated to follow. He threw
a stone at the animal with the intention of frightening it. As bad
luck would have it the stone struck the dog, and though it was not much
hurt, it shrieked after the manner of the village cur, as if it had
been nearly killed.
"Wait!" said Ananda to his wife, who had not yet joined him in the
road. "Sit down under the wall. The long grass will hide you."
He watched the house for a few minutes to see if a light moved or if
there was any indication of an alarm being raised and a search. If
Dorama's absence were discovered an immediate hunt would be made, and
the noise of the dog would give a hint of the direction she had taken.
No sign of any movement was apparent, and Dorama, recovering her nerve,
climbed the wall and joined him. They set off at a steady pace. There
was no moon; but the stars gave sufficient light to help the travellers
along the broad, well-kept road. Dorama's little feet were bare. They
fell noiselessly except for the chink of her silver toe-rings. Ananda
wore English boots, strong and serviceable; but the warm, sub-tropical
climate had affected the leather and made them creak. Possibly it was
the noise of his tread that drowned the sound of approaching footsteps.
Dorama was the first to hear it. She stopped and laid her hand on her
husband's arm.
"What is that?" she asked sharply.
Before he could reply four men running barefooted came up with them
from behind. Three of them hurled themselves upon Ananda. The fourth
seized Dorama roughly by the arm.
"What madness is this?" cried the voice of their uncle. "Who gave you
permission to take away the daughter of the house?" he demanded of
Ananda.
The only reply of the latter was to struggle violently. He was soon
overpowered, and between his three captors he was marched back towards
his father's house. Ten minutes later he found himself once more in
the little outhouse with his empty trunks. The door was closed upon
him and its primitive hasp secured with a padlock. He was without food
and without his personal property; but his concern was not for himself,
it was for the weeping and trembling woman who was wrested from him to
be driven back in unmerited disgrace and perhaps imprisoned like
himself. There was nothing to be done but to submit, at least, for the
present. He was calm and self-controlled once more now that he was
alone. He would wait patiently for developments, relying on the love
that he knew his parents bore him. It was impossible to believe that
they had any intention of doing him personal violence, though they
might subject him to further humiliation and discomfort.
It was the dog that did the mischief and put Sooba on the track of the
fugitives. Dorama's absence was discovered as soon as she was required
for a ceremony in the death chamber as mother of the dead boy. A
search was made through the house, and some one suggested that possibly
she had gone to the well to put an end to her sorrow for lost husband
and child. Another mentioned Ananda. Could she have sought him in her
trouble? After their interview in the presence of the guru it was not
unlikely. When his room was found to be empty the belief was confirmed
that the two were together somewhere, perhaps on the premises, perhaps
in the forest.
The shriek of the dog betrayed the fact that it had encountered a human
being and received some hurt. Its cry was a howl of pain and not of
anger, as would have been the case had it met one of its own kind. The
sharp ears of the man who of all that numerous family did not mourn the
dead nor the disgraced, caught the sound, and he jumped to a correct
conclusion. Further thought pointed to the obvious fact that the
missing couple would not be likely to take the road leading to the
town. In a short time he gathered a band of willing helpers, and, as
we have seen, the capture was made.
Having disposed of the couple, Sooba called a family council. Pantulu
declined to be present, but Gunga attended it. A decision was arrived
at that she and her husband should leave the house that afternoon
immediately after the funeral. They were to travel by bullock coach to
one of his silk farms some ten miles distant from Chirapore. A small
bungalow occupied by a relative who superintended the silk-worm culture
would house them for a few days or until--Gunga looked at her
brother-in-law sadly--until her husband had recovered his health.
Other matters were discussed with general unanimity as to the course
that should be taken as soon as Pantulu was removed. When it was over
Gunga sought Dorama. The stern, unyielding woman stood in the centre
of the room, her daughter-in-law prostrate at her feet. The younger
woman trembled as she listened, and when the tale was ended she was
shaken with sobs.
"Mother! mother!" she wailed. "Is it necessary? Must it be?"
The tears stood in Gunga's eyes as she pronounced again the sentence
passed by the guru on her son and confirmed by the common consent of
the family.
"Spare him, mother! spare him!" pleaded Dorama.
"He did not spare us his parents, nor his son, whose death he has
caused. In a short time we shall carry his father to the arms of
mother earth, as yesterday we carried the child. Why should we spare
him?"
Dorama bowed her head in silence. She dared not question the
accusation. Being a Hindu she was inclined to the belief that
unconsciously his regard falling on the child as it did might have had
an evil influence. Nor could she be blind to the probability that
Pantulu would die of grief before many weeks were over.
"There must be punishment for you too, daughter," continued Gunga.
Dorama's hands were raised over her bowed head as if to protect herself
from a shower of blows. The fear of immediate violence was without
foundation. Gunga took no pleasure in inflicting pain. The task would
be left to the man whose power in the house was growing more dominant
each day that passed.
The last rites for the disposal of little Royan's body were performed,
and the party had returned to the house to watch the departure of the
master and mistress. The coach was ready, and the bullock bells
jangled as the large white beasts shook the flies from their heads and
stamped a cloven hoof, breathing out heavily through their glistening
nostrils.
Pantulu, bowed like a man of seventy, left the house by himself and
climbed into the bullock coach without waiting for his wife. She
stayed behind to give the final directions to her women. As she
crossed the threshold to the big iron-studded door, Dorama ran forward
and caught her arm.
"Mother! mother! is it not possible to pass over the offence? Oh!
mother! I cannot bear it! I cannot bear it!"
Gunga released herself with no light touch from the clinging hand and
spoke with a roughness that hid her own emotion.
"Go back to your room. You forget yourself, daughter! Look at the big
master! Is not the sight of his deep sorrow and affliction enough to
win the consent of every member of his house?"
Dorama's face sought shelter behind her trembling hands, and she began
to cry piteously like a child. Her mother-in-law strode on towards the
bullock coach, her grey head covered with the saree drawn like a hood
over her forehead till her features were almost hidden. She did not
keep strict purdahnasheen, but she was careful not to expose herself to
the public gaze more than was necessary. Sooba himself closed the door
of the coach.
"Farewell, sister," he said in a smooth voice. "The change will do my
brother good if anything will; but his spirit is too much broken by his
many sorrows to give us any hope of his recovery. It is a matter of
time only."
"We shall see," replied Gunga sharply, and not best pleased at the
assurance with which her husband's death was mentioned.
"By the time you return," continued Sooba, unruffled, "we shall have
better news to tell you of the breaking of an obstinate will."
Gunga turned from him without response. The motherly instinct in her
struggled to make its voice heard. She stifled it ruthlessly. Yet she
looked back as the bullocks moved forward with an uneven jerk and said--
"Do nothing but what the swami commanded," she said. "It will be
sufficient."
The noise of the wheels prevented further conversation. Sooba,
watching the cart as it swayed in its exit through the gateway of the
compound wall smiled unpleasantly.
"It was just as well that I did not tell her all, or she might have
refused to leave the house. Mothers are in the way when troublesome
sons and daughters require chastisement."
He passed through the centre courtyard towards the back of the
building. Dorama, dejected and miserable, her eyelids swollen with
weeping, stood listlessly near the kitchen door. His eyes dwelt on her
jewellery, the gold bangles on her arms, her nose and ear ornaments,
and a pearl necklace that covered the cord on which was suspended the
marriage token.
Inside the kitchen the sharp voice of his wife was raised as she issued
orders to the gang of women employed in cooking the evening meal. She
came to the door and caught sight of her husband. There was an
exchange of glances between the new self-constituted master and
mistress. It was sufficient without speech. She called to Dorama.
"Come, little sister; enough of grieving! Go into the kitchen and see
to the making of the green chutneys. The girl who is pounding them is
too stupid to flavour it to your uncle's liking. Now that the big
mistress is away I must take her place. It is a favour to allow you to
take mine."
Dorama glanced at her through misty eyes. She did not answer, but
entered the kitchen and seated herself by the side of the girl who was
compounding the delicacies known as green chutneys. The work she had
been asked to do was light, and she was glad to be employed. Hitherto
it had not been thought necessary that she should help with the
preparation of meals. The care of the child was considered sufficient
occupation; but now she was without any charge it was only right that
she should take her share in the household duties. She had no
objection to the labour involved; but she could not help feeling the
humiliation of the position assigned her. As wife of the son and heir
she ranked next to the mistress. It was she who should be at the head
of the household giving orders. It was she who should light the lamp
at evening and call together the family at daybreak for the morning
hymn and pujah. Before Ananda returned, and while the child lived, she
had looked forward confidently to the time when she should succeed to
these recognised duties of the mistress of the zenana. Now the bitter
truth was thrust upon her; with her husband outcasted and her son dead
they could never be hers. Silently she took up the work assigned to
her, tears dropping occasionally from her sad eyes.
The women in the kitchen glanced at her with a sympathy they dared not
express. There was not one among them who would not have preferred to
see Dorama in her aunt's place. In view of what the near future
probably held they deemed it wiser to keep their thoughts to themselves
and to obey orders without a murmur.
At the evening meal Dorama was made to feel again her subordinate
position both in serving the men and in being served herself. But it
came to an end at last. When it was finished the green leaf platters
were thrown out on the refuse heap; the brass pots and dishes were
rinsed and turned upside down to drain, and the kitchen fires were
allowed to sink into grey ash. Many of the women, tired out with a
night of preparation for the funeral, lay down on their mats, and
drawing a sheet over their heads, were soon fast asleep. Two or three
continued to move about the house, not having completed their duties.
One by one they too retired, and only Dorama remained awake. As soon
as she was assured that her companions were safely asleep she rose and
opened the door. Placing it ajar, she seated herself close to it, so
that she had a view of the central court through the narrow opening.
Her heart beat like a sledge-hammer. It seemed to her that it must be
heard throughout the house. An hour passed, and still she continued to
watch and wait with wakeful eye and alert ear.
Between ten and eleven she caught sight of the dark forms of men
passing silently through the courtyard towards the back verandah. They
entered the garden, and turning through the gate in the garden wall,
went towards the room occupied by Ananda.
Before daring to follow she waited for sign of further movement in the
men's quarters. There might be others who out of curiosity, if nothing
else, would join their superiors uninvited. All was silent, and she
concluded that they who intended to visit her husband that night had
gone to his room.
Gathering her saree closely round her she crept out into the courtyard,
taking care to close the door of the sleeping-room after her.
Listening and moving with the utmost caution, she went through the
garden door and out into the compound. The stars were bright, and by
their light she could distinguish the footpath leading direct to the
little yard where the green gourd flourished.
She hesitated to venture along the track by which the men might return
at any minute. Her courage failing her she followed the wall till she
reached the first corner. Here she stopped and listened. Feeling her
way, she went on till she arrived at a spot outside the yard which she
calculated was close to the open door of Ananda's room. The fear of
snakes was conquered in her intense anxiety to learn what was
happening, and she crouched low down in the long grass till she was
hidden from sight.
The position she had chosen was the best for the purpose of overhearing
all that passed in Ananda's room. Only twenty-four hours before, she
had entered it with confidence, and sought for consolation in her
distress at the loss of her child. His love and his pity were poured
out upon her. His kisses were still warm upon her lips. She seemed to
hear the words of joy and love that he breathed in her ear as he held
her to him. She thrilled again when she recalled all that he had
promised of the future that should be theirs, if she would take her
courage in her hands and come away with him--future love, future
happiness, future maternity, all might be secured if only she would be
brave. In British territory his rights would be recognised--how
hopefully he spoke!--he could earn enough to keep them both. She would
be a happy wife, her own mistress, with no aunt to bully and tyrannise;
and if the good God willed it, she would also be a happy mother again.
As he pleaded she forgot his broken caste, his disgrace, his
excommunication. A new and great love blossomed out of the old,
bestowing upon her both courage and faith. She would go with him--oh,
so gladly! she whispered. What had she to live for now but her lord,
her husband! The grip of his arms told her how he appreciated her
devotion.
Then came the sudden ending to their dreams. That golden future which
was to begin then and there was shattered; and punishment, dread bodily
punishment, was to be meted out to the one human being left for her to
love.
Her train of thought was disturbed by voices. Her uncle's dominated
the rest. It was loud and overbearing, and it seemed to increase in
acrimony as he talked. Ananda's replies were given temperately yet
firmly. Apparently angry tones and open insults had no power to raise
fear or wrath. He presented a firm front, growing, if anything, calmer
as the other became more excited. The older man would have found his
task easier if his nephew had lost his temper, and become abusive and
violent.
Again and again Sooba demanded recantation. Each demand was met with a
firm refusal, given patiently and without faltering. Threats and
blustering commands produced no effect, and so far the victory lay with
the younger man. That his uncle was fast losing control of himself was
evident by his lapse now and then into a veritable scream of rage.
After an outburst of this kind more virulent than any that had gone
before, came a call to his confederates. Four or five men who were
waiting outside the door, entered, and Dorama could distinguish that
some action was taking place. She divined what it was, though she
heard no words. Violence was being done to her husband's person, and
he had not met it with the calmness that had characterised his speech.
He had fought for his liberty, and in his struggles he had knocked over
two of his assailants and his chair. Five strong men were too many for
him however; and as the noise and the scuffle subsided, Dorama knew
that he was secured and bound.
Once more there was silence; it was presently broken by the hectoring
tones of Sooba. This time they met with no reply. The men who had
helped added their voices and raised an angry chorus of upbraiding and
reproach. It died down when their vocabulary of abuse was exhausted.
This time the silence was so complete that Dorama could hear the
melancholy cry of a night-bird as it passed overhead on its way to the
forest-clad slopes of the mountain. In the distance a jackal howled
and led the yelping of the prowling pack of night-scavengers.
Suddenly she started and shivered as a sound fell on her ear that she
had heard before at rare intervals in her life. It was repeated, and
she trembled from head to foot, burying her face in her hands.
The Hindus, rich and poor, much as they love litigation over
boundaries, irrigation rights and the division of property, rarely
bring family quarrels and offences into court. In cases of murder the
law interferes; but where it is only assault in the privacy of the
family, it is kept strictly private. The victim and the aggressor
equally shrink from the public inquiry necessitating the intrusion of
the police.
Dorama understood perfectly what was happening. It would have been
wise if she had returned then and there to her room. She could do no
good by stopping, and she ran a risk of being discovered. But although
she was aware of what would be discreet and wise, she was unable to
tear herself away. It seemed heartless to the beloved one to leave him
in his dark hour. She could not bring him consolation, but she could
suffer with him.
And suffer she assuredly did. At every recurrence of the dull thud she
shivered as though she herself had been struck. Once a low cry escaped
the lips of the victim, and her nails dug into her breast clawing
unconsciously her own soft smooth flesh in her agony.
Fifteen minutes passed which seemed fifteen hours. Surely it was
enough and more than enough to expiate his sin against the guru and
against his family. Now they would stop! they must stop! that horrible
sound must cease! But the sentence of the swami was not completed yet,
and again her ears were assailed by that ominous thud. He bore it very
silently. Had they gagged him? or was he faint, she wondered?
At last a groan came from the sufferer, as though his endurance were
failing. It was too much for Dorama. She felt that she must shriek
aloud if she remained a moment longer. She rose to her feet and,
impelled by a mad desire to help him, she ran to the entrance of the
yard. How she was to accomplish her purpose she was not composed
enough to think.
The door of the room was open. She hesitated. Dare she enter and bid
them stop in their cruel work? No! no! it would only increase their
fury, and they would visit her offence upon him. Perhaps they would
kill him. In the light of the yellow oil lamp she caught sight of the
bamboo as it was once more lifted with slow, deliberate precision.
Putting her fingers in her ears she fled, never stopping until she
reached the room in which she slept. Prostrate upon her mat, her saree
over her mouth to stifle her sobbing, she lay convulsed with grief.
The women in the room slept heavily. One of them stirred. She lifted
her head, drew aside the sheet that covered her, and listened.
"Is that you, sister? Poor little mother! The child is gone, and all
through that evil husband of yours! May he be cursed in a thousand
miserable births! Lie down, child! Think no more about him!"
Dorama did not reply. She subdued her sobs, and listened once more
with painful alertness for the sound of returning steps through the
inner courtyard. They came, and as the men walked slowly back they
talked in low voices. It was well for Dorama's peace of mind that she
could not hear what they said.
"Will he die under it?" asked one.
"Not he!" replied Sooba. "I took care to use the stick so that it
neither killed nor broke bones. Although a Christian has no standing
in a court of law in the State of Chirakul, there might be trouble with
the English if he were done to death."
"Where was he going when we caught him?"
"To the missionary," replied Sooba, shortly.
"No fear of his attempting to run away again just yet. He will not be
able to stand for a couple of days," remarked one.
"Therefore I did not trouble to lock the door," said another.
"He has starved since last night, and now he has been beaten. All this
will surely drive the devil out of him," said a third.
"If not he can have plenty more of the same medicine," rejoined Sooba,
at which they all laughed in the best of humours.