A week passed during which Pantulu's family settled back into the
ordinary routine. Sooba was gratified by the performance of the
widowing ceremonies; he felt to a certain degree revenged upon his
unfortunate nephew. The adulation received from the visitors did
something to restore his wounded vanity; but the disrespect shown by
Dr. Wenaston's housekeeper was not yet atoned for; and his
vindictiveness in that direction continued to smoulder.
A second letter arrived from Gunga asking for news of Ananda. It
contained a message that amounted to a parental order. Gunga desired
her son to come to her at once. She suggested that by this time the
popular feeling against him in the town would have subsided; and it
would be quite safe for him to travel in the bullock coach which had
taken her and her husband to their new home. She went into further
detail about the proposed journey, and asked that some personal
property should be forwarded by the conveyance that brought her son.
Sooba read the letter aloud to his wife in his perplexity.
"It means that my brother is worse and he wants to make one more appeal
to his son," he commented.
"You will have to tell him that Ananda is dead."
"I shall do nothing of the kind--at present. It is strange that the
well refuses to give up the body."
"Not at all, husband. The gods have permitted the demon of the well to
do its worst. Perhaps one day his bones may be brought to light; but
we shall never see his body again."
"As far as we are all concerned it would be a good thing if he were
never seen again. It would solve the difficulty of funeral
ceremonies," remarked Sooba complacently.
"Does our sister say nothing about Dorama?"
"Nothing at all."
"If she knew she would ask for the jewels. You have them all safe?"
"Perfectly safe."
"Why not replace them in the family chest?" she asked, a touch of
anxiety in her voice.
"Because I choose to keep them myself."
She was silent in spite of her uneasiness. She was aware that Sooba
had not only taken possession of the jewels, but had also appropriated
some of the money recently paid in by the middle-men who purchased the
produce of Pantulu's estate. They brought rupee notes and took Sooba's
receipt without a suspicion of anything wrong. Sooba himself saw no
harm in his action. He was a little premature; but as it would all be
his at no distant time there was nothing dishonest about it.
"What answer shall you send?"
"I shall say that we gave Ananda the punishment commanded by the swami,
taking care not to be too severe."
"It was very severe all the same. Sometimes I think that he may have
crawled away into the jungle and died there."
"Chah! woman! you babble like a fool!" retorted Sooba with irritation.
"We are speaking now of what is to be said to our sister. In return
for our leniency--for not having given him the full measure prescribed
by the holy one----"
"The men said that it was more than----"
"Peace, idiot! Let me finish what I intend to say to my sister-in-law.
In return for our kindness he has gone off, we can't say where. He
tried to entice away the foolish deluded Dorama and persuade her to go
with him; but we discovered the plan just in time to stop her."
His wife was not satisfied. She had no objection to the distortion of
the tale. What she feared was the discovery of the truth by Gunga.
The story of the widow ceremony must come to her ears before many more
days were passed; and nothing would be gained by rousing her wrath
unnecessarily. As long as there was a breath of life in Pantulu, Gunga
ruled absolutely; and it was in her power to turn out Sooba and his
wife if serious offence were given.
"Leave it to me," said Sooba confidently and untroubled by any qualms
of conscience. "Our sister is occupied in looking after her husband.
Her own approaching widowhood will take up the rest of her thoughts.
We need not fear that she will make inquiry or trouble about anything
until the end comes. Then I in the absence of Ananda will be chief
mourner and master of the house. It will be your voice and not our
sister's that will hold the attention of the zenana. The jewels may be
worn by you; they will become you well, wife."
She was not satisfied even with this rosy dream of wealth and
authority, and she asked uneasily:
"When will you tell Gunga of her son?"
"In another week perhaps I may begin to break the news."
The days that followed the widowing rites passed strangely for Dorama.
She hated her new position and inwardly revolted against it. She
loathed her rough garment and bare head. The cool evening wind caught
her behind the ears and at the back of her neck--where formerly the
heavy strands of hair formed a covering--and gave her twinges of
neuralgia. She shivered and drew up the saree shawl-wise over her
head, but it slipped down having nothing to cling to. She missed the
daily details of her toilet. There was no hair to comb, and scent, and
plait with fresh blossoms; no jewels to fasten on arm and neck. She
was not permitted to use any of the various cosmetics treasured in the
brass box with its many divisions that was her own special property;
the rouge, sandal-wood paste, saffron powder, lip-salve, henna and the
sweet atta of rose. The only thing allowed was the use of pure water.
The food was good, but the mode of serving deprived her of appetite.
By the time her turn came she was so full of misery and impatience at
her altered circumstances, that she found no pleasure in eating the
excellent curry prepared in the kitchen. Alone and like a guilty thing
she bolted her meals, sometimes shedding bitter tears as she did so.
Even the luxury of grief was denied. If tears were seen or a sob
heard, she was reproved. Did she want to bring bad luck upon the
house? she was asked. If a basin was broken or a pot upset, angry
glances were directed towards her. If the woman slicing vegetables cut
her finger, she showed it to the widow with an injured expression, as
much as to say: Look at the effect of having a person like you in the
house!
Her services were not urgently needed in the kitchen where many hands
made light work; and it frequently happened to her to be ordered out of
the room. She wandered away in listless fashion, aware that wherever
she went her presence would be unwelcome. Only one spot seemed free to
her, and this was because it was deserted by all others. The small
room formerly occupied by her husband was always empty, and thither she
was drawn by memory and association.
At first she merely sat upon the mat and brooded, looking out of the
open door at the forest-clad mountain with eyes that saw nothing of its
beauty in line or colour. On the third day she noticed that the dust
had accumulated, and that the dead jasmin blossoms remained just where
they had fallen. She went out into the compound and gathered a bunch
of twigs with which she swept out the room. In so doing she discovered
a glove that had belonged to her husband. She recognised it as his
and, picking it up, she kissed it passionately. Once, not so very long
ago, it had been a covering to his dear hand. He had worn it in that
far-off smoky city of the west, and the strange scent still clung to it.
When she had finished her self-appointed task, she seated herself on
the mat to indulge in the pleasure of gloating over her treasure; and
to devise a secure hiding place for it in the fold of her saree. A
dozen times it was hidden and brought out again to be fondled and gazed
at, to be tenderly nursed like a baby on her arm. She was startled by
the sound of a footfall. Hastily thrusting her treasure into her saree
she looked up and saw Mayita.
"Ah, dear sister. How good it is to meet again! My brother caught
sight of you as he walked through the compound, and he sent me to talk
to you while he goes to the house to ask for news of your husband."
"There is no news," replied Dorama sadly.
"Not yet; but there will be soon," replied Mayita confidently. The
child entered the room and glanced round with approval. "You have
swept it and made it tidy. Does any one come here?"
"Not that I know of," replied Dorama, her hand slipping under the folds
of her cloth to close secretly over the glove.
"Then it is ours for the present, ours! sister! Think how delightful!
Widows are not allowed to possess anything, so they say! But listen, I
will tell you a secret now that you are my sister. They think I have
nothing, nothing in this big world; but I have lots of treasures. I am
rich. I have silver pots and golden cups and china dishes. Sometimes
they are filled with oranges and mangoes, pomegranates and mangosteens.
I have jewels and silk sarees----"
"What are you talking about, child!" cried Dorama staring at her in
astonishment.
"Hush, speak low, and I will show you some diamonds. They are the
dower of a bride in a marriage I am making."
She untied a corner of her cloth and produced some small white stones
that she had picked up in the compound. She chose one and lifted it
daintily.
"This magnificent stone of the first water was found at Golcondah a
thousand years ago. It was once in the crown of a rich Maharajah. It
is worth twenty lacs of rupees; and if this wedding can be
arranged----" her brow puckered suddenly, "but things are not going
well. The astrologer has pronounced unfavourably on the horoscopes.
The bride's element is water, and the bridegroom's partly air and
partly fire. Air and water will agree; but fire and water!--what can
it mean unless it be misfortune?"
"What will you do?" asked Dorama entering into the fanciful world of
the other with the kindly indulgence of the older woman towards the
younger.
"I have paid a large sum to the astrologer. He is a very clever
man--oh, so wise--and he has gone to a big temple in the south to ask
for the assistance of the gods. I would do anything rather than
disappoint the bridegroom. He is so handsome, so fair, so big and
strong! The bride will die of grief if she is not permitted to marry
him. Already she is drooping and languishing because of the delay.
Beloved sister, you must come to the wedding. You shall be the
bridegroom's mother."
A generous offer that Dorama accepted with a sad smile. There was a
vast gulf between the two widows. One had never tasted the reality.
She had only been a bride in name, and she was still able to live in
the rosy dreams of maiden fancy. The other had drunk the cup and
realised every thing. To her this make-believe was but a mockery, the
dust and ashes of a tantalising memory.
"Where is the bridegroom?" asked Dorama.
Mayita untied another knot in her saree and produced a wood-apple which
she exhibited proudly.
"See, isn't he well made?" she said. "Look at his limbs. Feel his
smooth skin! How tall! how proud he is and how strong. He will be
the father of many sons."
"Have you the bride as well?"
"She has to live with her people at present. Her home is in the datura
bush. She wears a saree of pure white satin and she hangs her head
with beautiful modesty. Sister!" Mayita's eyes surveyed the room with
approval. "We will have the wedding here. The astrologer will soon be
back from the south, and I am sure that his visit to the temple will
have made matters smooth. We shall be able to decorate the place and
lay out the feast. I will bring my silver pots and china dishes
to-morrow and we will hide them behind your husband's boxes. Oh, how
delightful it will be! What a wedding we will have!"
Mayita's eyes sparkled, and the beautiful brown tones of her skin were
enriched as the warm blood coursed through her veins. In spite of her
shaven head and coarse garment, her youth and comeliness asserted
themselves. She babbled on about the wedding, the difficulties that
had occurred over the dower as well as the horoscope, the number of
guests to be invited, and other details to which Dorama listened, her
hand over the hidden glove, her thoughts wandering back into the past
when there was another wedding less nebulous than that of Mayita's
devising, and she herself was the bride. A call outside checked the
flow of description, and Mayita rose quickly to her feet.
"It is my brother. Come to the entrance of the yard while I ask him
for news; and listen."
Bopaul in the customary manner of a caste man, stood a little way off
waiting for his sister to join him.
"What news of Ananda?" asked the child, stopping in the entrance and
calling to him.
"They have none."
"Where is he?"
"They still speak of the well; but I do not believe that he is dead.
Come, little one, it is time we returned."
Mayita kissed Dorama.
"My brother is right. Your husband lives; but for the present you are
his widow. To-morrow Coomara's widow will come again. There will be
news by that time from the astrologer, and we shall be able to begin
the preparations for the wedding. Sister, those big boxes must be
pushed aside; they will be in the way. Do you think that we could move
them? We will try to-morrow."
Another call from Bopaul, and Mayita beat a hasty retreat. Dorama was
left standing at the entrance. The sun had disappeared in a heavy bank
of cloud that later would be streaked with electricity. Rain was
wanted; there had been none for the last few days. Her eye rested on
the gourd that had been trampled by the inquisitive crowd. She went to
it.
"Poor plant! They killed you I am afraid; but no, you are not dead!
Here are some buds coming and fresh leaves!"
She stooped over the vine and plucked away the bruised foliage leaving
the stalks almost as bare as her own poor head. Unlovely though the
rough stems were they were full of virility; and the rain and sun would
mend what was marred and reclothe the plant with verdure. She
straightened out a few twisted stems and lifted some leaves that had
been trodden down but escaped total destruction. It was a curious
sight; the crushed tending the crushed.
Then she entered the room again and thought of the child. Why should
she not have the small pleasure of playing her little game on the
morrow. She looked at the two portmanteaux and considered how they
could be moved out of the way. They were her husband's and must be
cared for, as they contained his clothes and books. Of course they
were heavy and beyond her power to move.
She gripped the handle of one and putting all her strength into the
effort attempted to lift it. To her astonishment it yielded with such
ease that she nearly fell over backwards. A cry escaped her lips as
she dropped it. It was empty. She tested the weight of the other with
the same result. That too was empty, if she might judge by its
lightness.
The knowledge came as a shock; it was a revelation, and threw a fresh
and unexpected light on her husband's disappearance. If he had thrown
himself down the well it was hardly likely that he would have taken all
his clothes and books with him. They would still be here. Where they
had gone he must have followed. But stay! had some thief stolen the
contents? If so the locks would betray him. She examined them
closely. They were sound and unbroken. No sign of the hand of a thief
was to be seen. The boxes were properly locked and their contents had
been removed with the owner's consent.
A great joy swept over her, lifting a dull dead weight from her heart.
Bopaul had asserted his belief more than once that his friend still
lived, and she had heard the assertion with very little faith. This
discovery altered the complexion of affairs completely and brought
conviction. Her husband was surely alive! In spite of the dreadful
bangle-breaking ceremony; in spite of the coarse clothing and shaven
head she was not a widow. One day he would come back to her and claim
her for his own. She would feel his dear arms round her again, his
lips upon hers, his words of love would be breathed in her ears once
more!
The joy of it all deprived her of muscular strength for the time, and
she sank down by those rough battered trunks, leaning her arms upon
them and laying her cheek against the stained leather. She could have
hugged and kissed them in her gratitude for what they had revealed.
Gradually her mind cleared; it seemed to have matured during the last
few weeks and to have aged with experience. She thought of all she had
gone through. First there was the bewilderment caused by his change of
faith, which raised a barrier between him and herself, and she realised
how intensely disappointed she was. Then came the loss of the child
and her sorrow. Lastly, she had had to endure the degradation of
widowhood which, coming as it did on the top of her loss of husband and
child, brought her to the verge of hopeless despair. Had it not been
for the opportune visit of Mayita she would now be lying in the well
where, up to the present, she had believed her husband to be.
The conviction that he was alive grew upon her as she sat there in the
darkening room. She drew out the glove and pressed it to her lips. To
all intents and purposes she was still a widow, and as such she must
remain for the present. As she cherished the glove and hid it, so she
must keep her discovery a secret. She must also guard against showing
the new hope that had sprung up; the hope that he would return, that
sooner or later he would seek her out and bid her come. Could he do it
openly? She doubted the wisdom of such a course. She remembered how
they had failed in their first attempt to escape. There must be no
failure the second time. She must be careful and cautious and trust to
no one.
The more she contemplated the step she might be called upon to take at
any moment, the more clearly she understood its seriousness. The
effect would be far-reaching and irretrievable. To throw in her lot
with her husband would mean that she would cut herself adrift from the
family for ever. She must be one with him, of his faith, and dead to
all her relatives.
Was she prepared to make the sacrifice? Yes, a thousand times, yes!
The old spirit that had led her remote ancestresses to the funeral pile
to die in the flames that devoured their dead husbands' bodies, rose
strongly within her and bound her to her living husband. For his sake
she would endure and bear as he had endured and borne. She would be
ready when his summons came; and she would go gladly, even though he
beckoned to her from the fire of adversity, that burned as fiercely as
the flames of the old suttee funeral pile; she would join him and cling
to him for ever!
She lifted her head with eyes that shone, not with tears but with a new
light. The last vestige of the child died within her; and the woman
who walked thoughtfully back to the zenana, as the shadow of night
settled over the landscape, was a woman of determination and strength
of purpose. The baptism of sorrow had lifted her on to a higher plane,
and had fitted her for better things than a colourless life of inert
misery.