Little news was received from Pantulu Iyer and his wife. It was
conjectured that there was none to impart. If he became decidedly
worse the family at Chirapore would be duly informed; but if he only
continued to drift gradually down the hill nothing would be said.
Sooba and his wife, ever ready to believe as they hoped, made up their
minds that the head of the house could not last much longer, and that
the younger brother would soon be called upon to perform those
ceremonies which should belong to the son, the performance of which
established the right of the performer to be recognised as head of the
house. Could they have glanced at the presumably dying man they would
have sustained a shock.
Contrary to all expectation Pantulu was improving in health every day.
He recovered his appetite as well as his strength and spirits with a
readiness that astonished his wife. Away from his home and surrounded
by new interests he shook off the terrible depression caused by his
son's conversion to Christianity. A reaction was setting in, enabling
him to detach his thoughts from the trouble and centre them elsewhere.
The silk farm was one of his early ventures, when, as a young man, he
had tried with considerable success to improve the culture of
silk-worms. The system he introduced answered so well that it was
generally adopted throughout the silk-growing districts, with the
result that a finer and stronger silk was produced. Perfection,
however, was not attained, and of late years there had been a forward
movement in the Far East which again placed the silk of Chirakul in the
background. The relative in charge of the farm was an enthusiast in
his way, and he was delighted to find that in Pantulu he had a ready
and sympathetic listener. He was quite sure that further improvement
might be effected in the boiling of the cocoons and the bleaching of
the silk. He had made a few experiments himself and he exhibited the
results with some pride. Together they pored over the evil-smelling
stuff that was one day to robe a woman's dainty form, and exhale
nothing but the atta of rose and sandal-wood with which it should be
scented. It was a good strand of silk, but the tint, a dull stain,
would only take crude strong dyes, that lost their brilliancy and
purity through the stain.
The manager of the farm had recently been to Bombay where he had met
some silk growers from China. Though these men were reticent and
jealous of imparting their knowledge to foreigners, he managed to
extract some information and to gather that more might be learned by a
visit to China and Japan. Since his return he had made the attempt to
improve the silk; and though the result left much to be desired, it was
sufficiently encouraging to show the old expert that the experiment
should be pursued.
The second day after his arrival Pantulu spent the morning over the
caldrons; and when summoned to the midday meal he entered the little
bungalow with a firm, brisk step that bespoke an unusual readiness for
dinner, and a line of thought that was free from anxiety. Gunga looked
up from the steaming pot of rice which she was manipulating and glanced
at her husband with surprise. If this was the result of a return to
work it should not be her fault if the cure was not completed.
Always prompt and unusually practical for a woman of her nation, she
made a startling proposition that very afternoon. It was nothing less
than the despatch of the manager to China and Japan on a tour of
inspection, that he might examine thoroughly into the methods of
silk-growing and preparation for the dyers' vat. She suggested that
Pantulu himself should manage the farm during his absence. The
cousin's wife and family were to remain on the estate and keep house as
usual. Every now and then Gunga would go over to Chirapore and see
that all was going well. Meanwhile Sooba and his wife would represent
the head of the family and look after the business in the town.
The proposal was received by the two men with approval. Pantulu's eyes
grew bright as he considered the plan; and at her question as to
whether he felt strong enough for the work that it would involve, he
drew himself up to his full height and assured her that it would make a
new creature of him. The change of air had already wrought wonders and
she must not look upon him as an old man past all business.
"My brother will be surprised when he hears the news," remarked Pantulu
with a new pride in his rejuvenation.
"This is not to be spoken of at present," said Gunga with authority.
"I have other plans connected with it, and until they are more forward
I wish for secrecy; for I will have no interference; none!"
Her lips closed firmly, and Pantulu knew of old that when his wife was
determined on any course of action nothing moved her from her course.
"What are they, wife?" he asked, with a smile of amusement. "May we of
this house be told?"
"If you can keep your tongues quiet. Our cousin's wife, here, is a
Mahratta woman who knows Bombay. She has suggested that we should send
our son there to act as agent for the sale of our produce. She says
that though he is lost to our religion, he need not be lost to the
family business. Many people of caste in Bombay have joined the Brahmo
Somaj and the Arya Somaj and a few have become Christians. With all
these changes before their eyes the people of Bombay feel less
bitterness towards the men who take up a new faith than those of a
state like Chirapore; and there is no persecution. The English
Government protects them all."
Pantulu did not reply immediately, and Gunga continued to unfold plans
that were to include the obstinate son and a compromise. She paused to
take breath and he spoke.
"The difficulty over the shraddah ceremonies will still remain, the
rites by which my ancestors and I may escape the lower rebirths."
Gunga looked at him and pursed up her lips as though she had by no
means exhausted her resources.
"Our cousin's wife has proposed a remedy for that."
He glanced at her with questioning eyes that showed how near to his
heart the subject and consequent anxiety lay. Before he could frame
the query as to ways and means she continued.
"The time has not arrived yet to talk about it. First and foremost,
husband, you are the chief consideration. You must get well and
strong. For that purpose there is nothing like work and food and
change of air, as I have told you more than once. Here you will have
all that is necessary."
"What shall we tell my brother?"
"Leave that to me. I will dictate a letter saying that it will be
advisable for you to remain here, and praying him to look well after
your interests at Chirapore. When I go back, which I shall do before
long, I will explain more."
Pantulu was well content to leave everything in his wife's hands. The
new venture had taken hold of his mind, and it dominated every other
consideration. At the bottom of it lay money; and though his wealth
was great already, "Gold" had a reviving effect upon the man, as the
word "rats" had upon the sick terrier.
On the day appointed for the ceremonies to take place, which were to
brand Ananda's wife with the curse of Hindu widowhood, a large party
assembled at Pantulu's family mansion in Chirapore. Relatives
accompanied by relatives arrived from all parts of the State. Gossip
circulated freely. News was given and demanded; and many were the
questions asked concerning the absent master and mistress. Sooba was
ready with his tale, adorned and coloured according to his imagination
without much regard to the truth. Gunga's letter had been received;
and as she made no allusion to her husband's health it seemed safe to
assume that there was no improvement.
"My sister-in-law asks me to consider myself the head of the house as
long as my brother is absent. She says that it is best for him to
remain where he is; it will give him a better chance of recovery," he
said.
"Then there is hope that he may get well?" asked one of the guests.
"She may have hope herself; we do not entertain much. It is more than
likely that he is too sick to move."
"How long do you think he will last?" enquired another.
"A few weeks at the outside," replied Sooba. "The news of the
disappearance of his son will probably hasten his end."
"Has it been sent yet?"
"Not yet; we are waiting till this ceremony is finished. It would be
very bad for him if he insisted on returning for it; so we have thought
it best to get it all over before mentioning anything."
It was very gratifying to be treated as the master of the house. Sooba
revelled in the situation, and swaggered about among his guests as if
he already owned his brother's wealth. It all helped to sooth the
wounded self-esteem; and to soften the memory of the insults he had
received at the hands of Mrs. Hulver.
The afternoon had been chosen for the ceremony; but ever since daybreak
active preparations had been in progress. The victim had undergone
ceremonial ablutions; her hair had been combed and oiled and her whole
person scented. The long glossy strands of hair were plaited and in
the plaits were woven white jasmine blossoms. Gold ornaments freshly
burnished were fastened on her head and in her ears and nostrils.
A close-fitting jacket of crimson satin and a rich tawny silk saree the
colour of wall-flowers enfolded her figure. Round her neck hung four
beautiful necklaces of pearl and gold and precious stones, all of which
had adorned Gunga on her wedding day many years ago. Ankles and wrists
were laden, and Dorama's slender fingers were filled to the first joint
with rings that were heirlooms. Her forehead was rubbed with sweet
sandalwood paste, her lips touched with rouge, and the beautiful brown
eyes intensified in size by dark touches beneath them. They needed no
pungent juices to make them bright. The unshed tears were sufficient
to keep them moist.
The assembled guests had had time to dine and afterwards to talk over
all the news. Many had paid a visit to the well down which they
glanced morbidly at the root where the cap was found hanging. By half
past three the waiting began to grow irksome, and enquiries were made
for the widow. She was coming! they were told. It had taken long to
fasten all the jewels. There were so many! not one worn on the wedding
day was missing; and in addition she wore others that were purchased
for her when her son was born.
The mention of little Royan was the signal for sighs and lamentations.
They were interrupted by the appearance of Dorama led by her aunt.
Dressed as when she was given to her husband she stood before them, her
eyes downcast and brimming with tears, her delicate fingers plucking
nervously at the folds of her saree.
At the sight of her the women burst into open wailing. Some of them
pressed forward and cracked the joints of their knuckles over her head
as though they would still try to avert her hideous fate. Others
kissed her cheek and hair, her soft arms, even the gold embroidered
edge of her saree. Tears flowed freely; the sight of the grief of
others opened the fountain of her own sorrow, and Dorama wept with them.
It was a pathetic sight; the girl dressed in bridal array for the last
time in her young life, and the sympathetic company bewailing her fate.
A golden ray of the afternoon sun shot slanting downwards into the
courtyard and caught the gleaming jewellery, reddening the rich tint of
her silk garment, and warming the lights in the precious metal. Here a
crimson ruby sent out a shaft of fire; there a green emerald and blue
sapphire set in gold completed the rainbow colours.
The company revelled in the luxury of grief and prolonged the
leave-taking, repeating over and over again their sorrow and regret
that the gods had dealt thus hardly with her. Then as the sun drew
down towards the west, she was led by her uncle and aunt through the
little yard and into Ananda's room. The company followed, and the
space was quickly filled with the throng of sightseers still wailing
and weeping without restraint. The green foliage of the gourd was
trodden down; its fruit and yellow blossoms were crushed under careless
feet as the crowd pressed forward to see the degrading rites that were
to be carried out by the two relatives who had constituted themselves
master and mistress of the ceremonies.
First the jewels were removed. One by one they were unclasped and
handed to members of the family to be held in safe keeping till they
could be restored to the jewel chest. Every woman rich or poor wears a
few dark bangles of glass. Among the golden circlets on her arms
Dorama had three or four such rings on each wrist. With every movement
the bangles clinked musically as they fell against the gold bracelets.
Armed with a stone her aunt seized her by the hand and struck the
brittle glass sharply. At the sound of the blows the wail of grief was
again raised. This was the first act in the tragedy.
Denuded of all her adornments she was next disrobed. The coloured
jacket was removed; the silk saree unwound from her limbs. A coarse
rough cloth of unbleached cotton was produced and twisted round her
figure. Widowhood permitted but one garment; nevermore would she be
allowed to wear jacket or petticoat or any soft material that might
protect her sensitive skin from the rough web of the cotton saree.
This was the second act.
The third, by far the worst part of the ordeal, was still to come. Her
abundant hair was unplaited slowly and the sweet jasmine blossoms that
had been woven into it dropped upon the ground at her feet, where they
lay all unheeded, contaminated and cursed by the touch of the widow.
Again the women crowded closely, some of them lifting the tresses to
their lips, with lamentations that one so young and beautiful should
meet with such misfortune.
In the light of the sunset glow the scissors shone as the hand of the
barber woman was raised to perform her share of the ceremony. The hair
that reached far below Dorama's waist was gathered in none too gentle a
grip and severed close against the head. Not content with this, custom
demanded the use of the razor. As the sunlight faded behind the purple
mountain, Dorama's head was disfigured beyond recognition. A fresh cry
of grief rose from the assembled crowd, as they stared with growing
repulsion at the sight. The only dry eyes were those of the temporary
master of the house and his wife.
One more ceremony remained to be performed. This was the severing of
the marriage cord on which the badge corresponding with the European
woman's wedding ring hung, Dorama felt the cord press against the back
of her neck as her aunt drew it tight the better to divide it. As it
parted the tension relaxed and the gold badge dropped into the hand
extended by her uncle to receive it.
With a despairing cry Dorama fell upon her knees, and leaning forward
touched the ground with her forehead as if in resignation to the will
of the gods. Round her lay the scattered jasmine blossoms that had
dropped from her hair. In their death they exhaled their sweetness on
the evening air. They were no longer the adornment of the bride but
the offering to one who was to suffer a living death. Nevermore would
the sight of the wax-white flowers remind her of a happy expectant
bridegroom. Thenceforth they would speak only of death and misery.
It is strange how the Hindu who is extravagant in his grief, piles up
pain and sorrow for poor suffering humanity. As if the gods had not
brought sufficient wretchedness on the unhappy wife by the loss of her
husband, he devises in his inhuman ingenuity this barbarous method of
enhancing the sorrow that is already almost too great for endurance.
When the girl is dressed up for the last time and appears before the
assembly she is greeted with profound pity. As the ceremonies proceed
that pity gradually emerges into loathing and contempt. The woman
herself with all her sweetness and gentleness is forgotten, and her
widowhood only is remembered. She enters upon an existence that is
absolutely without a relieving ray of hope. She is often the drudge of
the house; she has no rights moral or otherwise; and she is at the
mercy of the most tyrannical woman of the household and the most
licentious man. Her only chance of escape is in death; but even death
has no promise of greater happiness. Her rebirth on earth will,
according to her faith, only plunge her in deeper misery and
degradation.
How such an appalling custom can have arisen out of the past ages it is
difficult to say; and it is still more puzzling to understand why it is
maintained among a people who are neither savage nor uncivilized. No
other nation has anything to offer that is its equivalent in refined
and far-reaching cruelty. Never a day passes but the rites are
performed somewhere throughout the length and breadth of India. Never
a night goes by that does not see some stricken girl or woman
grovelling on the floor of her chamber in abject misery alone and
uncomforted. Too often the misery is ended by a catastrophe, a rush
towards the well; a plunge and then stillness.
And what then? Does any one care? Not in the least. Even the mother
of the girl sheds no tear and makes no lamentation. The house is
relieved of the presence of the ill-starred widow, a certain source of
misfortune, and her removal is a blessing for which the gods are
thanked.
One by one the company drifted away, some to depart at once for their
homes, others to indulge in fragments of gossip in the back verandah.
The place was empty at last of all save the prostrate figure lying
among the jasmine blossoms in the room where, only a few nights ago,
she had crept into the arms of a loving husband. The gourd was crushed
and trampled to death in the yard; the glory of its green leaves and
yellow cups was as ruthlessly destroyed as her own crown of womanhood.
A cicala in the grass outside began his evening note of challenge. It
was answered by the metallic defiance of a rival. A pair of little
flycatchers slipped into their roosting place in the oleander bush at
the entrance, with complaining chirrups at having been kept up so late
by the invasion of the yard. A pale, yellow moth fluttered like a
ghost over the jasmine flowers, puzzled at its inability to draw honey
from what had been done to death. The hum of the town, busy with its
evening trading, came faintly through the stillness of the air and died
down again; and the peace of approaching night dropped softly on the
earth.
Not one of that numerous family gave a second thought to the stricken
woman whom they had left. Not a soul returned to offer consolation.
Their actions faithfully indicated their minds. No one cared what
became of the widow; no one heeded her steps. Under her ban she was
free to come and go as she chose. From thenceforth she need have no
fear of lock and key; unless it might be for the purpose of keeping her
out of sight of her more fortunate fellows.
In earlier days Dorama had wondered how Mayita had been able to bear
the fate that had overtaken her. She recalled the fact that she had
herself shrunk from the baldheaded child, and avoided a meeting without
any attempt at disguising her action. And now she was in exactly the
same case herself! ah! she could not bear it. It was intolerable; a
moan broke from her lips as the reality of the present separated itself
from the shadows of the past. She writhed in rebellion against her
fate, and as she did so she felt the iron of the inevitable enter her
soul.
It was unbearable. She could not face it! Cost what it might she must
escape!
There was but one way. She knew it, as she had heard it spoken of when
other women suffered the same fate. Yes: they were right. Death was
preferable to life under such conditions. Her beloved husband had
sought for death in the well. If she ran quickly, and hurled herself
over the low wall before she had time to look into the black cold
depths, she could find courage enough to carry out the design without
faltering. It would be best too for the house, and relieve it of the
disastrous presence of a widow. Royan was gone; Ananda was gone; it
was only fitting that she should go too.
She rose to her feet determined to act at once before her courage
failed her. She turned and staggered blindly to the entrance that
admitted the faint starlight of the night. As her foot crossed the
threshold she felt a pair of small arms thrown around her.
"Dorama! sister, it is I! Coomara's widow! I have come to join my
tears with yours!"
And promptly Mayita buried her face in the coarse new saree of her
sister-widow and gave full rein to her grief.
Dorama felt like a drowning waif who had abandoned hope, and to whom
was suddenly held out a friendly hand. She clung passionately to
Mayita, trembling and catching her breath in dry sobs.
"Sit down, sister," said Mayita presently. "Let us talk. No one cares
where the widow is, nor what she does. Listen; I have news for you.
This morning they put ladders down the well by the cattle shed where
your husband's cap was found. They searched for his body with hooks
and nets, but they found nothing. If he is there he lies like a stone
at the bottom. Some say that as he turned Christian he cannot come up.
The devil living in the well has eaten him. My brother laughs and says
they are all mistaken. He is not there."
"Not there!" cried Dorama startled. Then as the flicker of hope
momentarily kindled died down she added: "But if not there, where can
he be?"
"He has gone to the missionary, the good Englishman, who will be a
father to him."
"Impossible! He could not stand, far less walk, after the beating that
they gave him; and he had no friends."
"My brother assures me that he is alive and he means to make sure of it
by secret inquiry. Oh, Dorama! dear sister! I am so sorry for you.
But listen! Beloved!--I may call you so now. Beloved! it is so sweet
to have a sister! I have been so lonely since my evil fate overtook
me. Oh! so lonely! With only the good Bopaul to say a kind word to
me. Even my mother hates the sight of me, and curses me because I
bring bad luck to the house."
There was a pause during which the two girls clung together.
"Sister!" whispered Mayita striving to catch sight of the other's face
in the dim light. "Sister, where were you going when you fell into my
arms?"
Dorama did not reply, but suddenly she began to moan. Mayita strove to
comfort her, and when the agitation lessened she began again.
"Sister! you were going to the well. It must not be. You must live
lest by any chance your husband comes to life again. It will be hard,
oh, very hard sometimes, almost more than one can bear. But for his
sake it must be borne; for, if he ever does come back, it will
assuredly send him to the well if he finds that you are dead. Promise
me, sister; promise me that you will not go to the well."
"I promise, little one!" replied Dorama brokenly.
"That's right! Now it is time for me to go back."
"Alone, little sister?"
"My brother waits for me by the gateway. He is so good! oh, so good to
the poor widow. May the blessing of all the gods I have offended rest
for ever on his dear head."
Dorama watched her white figure till it was lost in the darkness of the
night. Then she turned her face towards the garden entrance and passed
unnoticed into the house. They who happened to be near the path she
took in crossing the courtyard, stepped aside so as to place themselves
well out of reach of possible contact with her shadow. Others seeing
her coming turned back into the room they were leaving, and closed the
door till she should have passed.
When the evening meal was served out, knowing too well what was
expected of her, she remained outside the family circle until all had
finished, including the youngest and most insignificant child of the
establishment. Then and then only did she--who among the women had
been formerly helped immediately after the big mistress and before her
aunt--received her portion. It was ample and sufficing; but it was
eaten in bitter humiliation and anguish of heart, as she realised the
dreadful fact that this was only the beginning of a lifelong existence
from which there could be no escape.