In towns and large villages there are, especially among people of the
higher castes, many rigid customs and formalities regarding marriages
always observed. It is true that the exclusion of women no longer
exists; but young girls after puberty are supposed to be kept within the
house, and only to meet men of the immediate family. A marriage is
arranged formally; a formal proposal is made by the man's father or
mother to the girl's father or mother. There are usually long
negotiations and bargainings between the two families over the dowry.
When at last the preliminaries are settled and the wedding day arrives,
it is a very solemn and formal affair. All the members of each family
are invited; the bridegroom goes with his friends and relations to the
house of the bride, and then conducts her in procession, followed by the
guests, to his own house. Much money is spent upon entertaining, and new
clothes and presents.
But in villages like Beddagama, these customs and formalities are often
not observed. The young girls are not kept within the house; they have
to work. The young men know them, and often choose for themselves. There
is no family arrangement, no formal proposal of marriage; the villagers
are too poor for there to be any question of a dowry.
And yet the villager makes a clear distinction between marriage and what
he calls concubinage. In the former the woman is recognised by his and
her families as his wife; almost invariably she is openly taken to his
house, and there is a procession and feasting on the wedding day: in the
latter the woman is never publicly recognised as a wife. Marriage is
considered to be more respectable than concubinage, and in a headman's
immediate family it would be more usual to find the women 'recognised'
wives than 'unrecognised' wives. And though in the ordinary village life
the 'unrecognised' wife is as common as, or even more common than, the
'recognised' wife, and is treated by all exactly as if she were the
man's wife, yet the distinction is understood and becomes apparent upon
formal occasions. For instance, a woman who is living with a man as his
'unrecognised' wife cannot be present at her sister's wedding. When a
man takes a woman to live with him in this informal way, the arrangement
is, however, regarded as in many ways a formal one, a slightly lower
form than the recognised marriage. The man and the woman are of the same
caste always: there would even be strong objection on the part of the
man or woman's relations if either the one or the other did not come
from a 'respectable' family.
Babun knew well his brother-in-law's dislike of Silindu, and the
contempt with which the 'veddas' were regarded by the other villagers.
He knew that his sister and Babehami would be very angry with him if he
chose a wife from such a family. But he had watched Punchi Menika, and
gradually a love, which was more than mere desire, had grown up in him.
The wildness and strangeness of her father and of Hinnihami were
tempered in her by a wonderful gentleness. Passion and desire were
strong in him: they would allow no interference with his determination
to take her to live with him.
The night after his meeting with Punchi Menika on the path from the
chena, he broke the news to Nanchohami and Babehami, as he and his
brother-in-law were eating the evening meal.
'Sister,' he said, 'it is time that, I took a wife.'
Nanchohami laughed. 'There is no difficulty. When you go to the chena
the women look after you and smile and say, "Chi! chi! There goes a man.
O that he would take my daughter to his house." But there are no women
for you here. They are all sickly things, unfit to bear you children.'
'My father's brother married a woman of Kotegoda,' said Babehami. 'In
those days wives brought dowries with them--of land. He went to live on
her land at Kotegoda: it lies fifty miles away, towards Ruhuna. His sons
and daughters are married now in that village, and have children. They
are rich: it is a good village: rain falls there, and there are cocoanut
lands, and paddy grows. The village spreads and prospers, and the
headman is a rich man. They say that tax is paid upon sixty men every
year. It would be a good thing for you to take a wife from there, for
she would bring you a dowry.'
'Yes,' said Nanchohami, 'it would be a good thing for you to go to
Kotegoda and take a woman from there, a daughter of my man's
brother.[16] She would bring you land, and you could settle there. What
use is it to live in this village? Even the chena crops wither for want
of rain. It is an evil place this.'
'I want no woman of Kotegoda,' said Babun. 'Nor will I leave the
village. There is a woman, this Punchi Menika, the daughter of Silindu.
I am going to take her to live with me.'
Babehami looked at his brother-in-law, his little eyes moving restlessly
in astonishment and anger. Nanchohami threw up her hands, and began in a
voice which shrilled and fluted with anger:
'Ohé! So we are to take veddas into the house, and I am to call a
pariah sister! A fine and a rich wife! A pariah woman, a vedda, a
daughter of a dog, vesi, vesige duwa! Ohé! the headman's brother is to
marry a sweeper of jakes! Do you hear this? Will you allow these
Tamils[17] in your house? Yes, 'twill be a fine thing in the village to
hear that the headman has given his wife and daughters to Rodiyas,[18]
leopards, jackals!'
Babehami broke in upon his wife's abuse; but she, now thoroughly
aroused, continued throughout the conversation to pour out a stream of
foul words from the background in a voice which gradually rose shriller
and shriller.
'The woman is right,' Babehami said angrily to Babun. 'You cannot bring
this woman to the house.'
'I will take no other woman. I have watched her there about the
compound. She is fair and gentle. She is unlike the other women of this
village (here he looked round at Nanchohami), in whose mouths are always
foul words.'
Babehami tried to hide his anger. He knew his brother-in-law to be
obstinate as well as good-humoured and simple.
'No doubt the woman is fair. But if you desire her, is she not free to
all to take? Does she not wander, like a man, in the jungle? They say
that even kings have desired Rodiya women. If you desire her, it is not
hard to take her. But there need be no talk of marriage, or bringing her
to the house.'
'This morning I took her with me into the jungle, but it is not enough;
the desire is still with me. I have thought about it. It is time that I
took a wife to cook my food and bear me children. I want no other than
this. I can leave your compound, and build myself a new house, and take
her to live with me.'
Babehami's anger began to break out again.
'Are you a fool? Will you take this beggar woman to be your wife? Is not
her father always about my door crying for a handful of kurakkan? Fool!
I tell you my brother's children in Kotegoda will bring you land, paddy
land, and cocoanuts. There is no difference between one woman and
another.'
'I tell you I want no Kotegoda woman. I will take the daughter of
Silindu. I want no strange woman or strange village. I can build myself
a house here, and clear chenas, as my father did and his father.'
'Is it for this I took you into my house? Two years you have eaten my
food. How much of my kurakkan have you taken?'
'I have taken nothing from you. I have worked two years in the chena,
and the crop came to you, not to me. Is not the grain now in your barn
from the chena cleared by me?'
Babehami was too quiet and cunning often to give way to anger, but this
time he was carried away by the defiance of his brother-in-law, whom he
regarded as a fool. He gesticulated wildly:
'Out of my house, dog; out of my house. You shall bring no woman to my
compound. Go and lie with the pariahs in their own filth?'
Babun got up and stood over Babehami.
'I am going,' he said quietly, 'and I will take Punchi Menika as my
wife.'
The abuse of the headman and his wife followed him out of the compound.
He walked slowly over to Silindu's hut. He found Silindu squatting under
a ragged mustard-tree which stood in the compound, and he squatted down
by his side. He did not like Silindu; he had always an uncomfortable
feeling in the presence of this wild man, who never spoke to any one
unless he was spoken to; and he felt it difficult to begin now upon the
subject which had brought him to the compound. Silindu paid no attention
to him. Babun sat there unable to begin, listening to the sounds of the
women in the hut. At last he said:
'Silindu, I have come to speak to you about your daughter Punchi
Menika.'
Silindu remained quite still: he apparently had not heard. Babun touched
him on the arm.
'I am talking of your daughter, Silindu, Punchi Menika.'
Silindu turned and looked at him.
'The girl is in the house. What have you to do with her?'
'I want you to listen to me, Silindu, for there is much to say. I have
watched the girl from the headman's compound, and a charm has come upon
me. I cannot eat or sleep for thinking of her. So I said to my sister
and my sister's husband, "It is time for me to take a wife, and now I
will bring this girl into the compound." But they were very angry, for
they want to marry me to a woman of Kotegoda, because of the land which
she would bring as dowry. To-night they abused me, and there was a
quarrel. I have left their compound. Now I will make myself a house in
the old compound where my father lived, and I will take the girl there
as my wife.'
Silindu had become more and more attentive as he listened to Babun. The
words seemed to distress him: he shifted about, fidgeted with his hands,
scratched himself all over his body. When Babun stopped, he took some
time before he said:
'The girl is too young to be given to a man.'
Babun laughed. 'The girl has attained her age. She is older than many a
woman who has a husband.'
'The girl is too young. I cannot give her to you, or evil will come
of it.'
Babun's patience began to be exhausted. His good humour had been
undisturbed during the scene in the headman's compound, but this new
obstacle began to rouse him. His voice rose:
'I cannot live without the girl. I have quarrelled with my sister and
the headman over her; I have left the compound for her. I ask no dowry.
Why should you refuse her to me?'
'They call us veddas in the village, while you are of the headman's
house. Does the leopard of the jungle mate with the dog of the village?'
'That is nothing to me. The wild buffalo seeks the cows in the village
herds. The girl is very gentle, and my mind is made up. Also the girl
wishes to come to me.'
The loud voices of the two men had reached the women in the house. They
had come out, and stood listening behind the men. At the last words of
Babun, Silindu cried out as if he had been struck:
'Aiyo! aiyo! they take even my daughter from me. Is there money in the
house? No. Is there rice? No. Is there kurakkan, or chillies, or
jaggery,[19] or salt even? The house is empty. But there is always
something for the thief to find. They creep in while I am away in the
jungle; they see the little ones whom I have fed, the little ones who
laughed and called me "Appochchi"[20] when I brought them fruits and
honeycomb from the jungle. They creep in like the hooded snake, and
steal them away from me. Aiyo! aiyo! The little ones laugh to go.'
Punchi Menika rushed forward, threw herself at Silindu's feet, which she
touched and caressed with her hands. She struck the ground several times
with her forehead, crying and wailing:
'Appochchi! Appochchi! Will you kill me with your words? I will never
leave you nor my sister.'
Babun turned upon her:
'Are the words in the jungle nothing then? Did you lie to me when you
said you would come to my house? They are right then when they say that
women's words are lies--in the morning one thing, at night another. Did
I not tell you that I cannot be without you? Aiyo! You told me there
under the cassia-tree that you would come to me and cook my rice. And in
the evening I am homeless and without you! I shall go now into the
jungle and hang myself.'
Babun moved away, but Karlinahami caught hold of his hand and pulled him
back. Punchi Menika threw herself on the ground again in front of
Silindu.
'Appochchi! it is true: I said I would go to him. Do not kill me with
bitter words. I must go: I cannot be without him. I gave my word: what
can I do?'
Punchi Menika crouched down at Silindu's feet. He sat very still for a
little while, and then began in a low, moaning voice:
'Did I not often tell you of the devils of the trees that lurk for you
by the way? I have stood by you against them in the day: I have held you
in my arms when they howled about the house at night. I told you that
the place is evil, and evil comes from it. They lie in the shadows of
the trees, and cast spells on you as you pass. And now one has got you,
and you laugh to go from me. They sit in the trees among the grey
monkeys and laugh at me as I pass in the morning: they howl at me among
the jackals as I come back in the evening. They take all from me, and
the house is very empty.'
'Appochchi! the devils are not taking me. I shall not leave you; when
you come from the jungle I shall be here with my sister. But the man has
called to me and I must go to him. The cub does not always remain in the
cave by the father's side: her time comes, and she hears her mate call
from the neighbouring rocks: she leaves her father's cave for another's.
But, Appochchi, she will still look out for the old leopard when he
returns: she will live very close to him.'
'Aiyo! aiyo! the house will be empty.'
'The doe cannot always stay with the herd. She hears the call of the
buck, and they fly together into the jungle.'
'The house is empty. There is no use for me to live now.'
Karlinahami, who had been growing more and more impatient, here broke
in:
'Are you mad, brother? The child is a woman now, and it is time to give
her to a man. Is she to die childless because she has a father? There is
no need for her even to leave the compound. There is room for Babun to
make himself a house here.'
Babun eagerly seized upon this suggestion. He assured Silindu that he
had no intention of taking Punchi Menika out of the compound. Punchi
Menika, still crouching at his feet, told her father that she would
never leave him.
It was eventually arranged that for the present Babun should live in the
house while he put up another house for himself and Punchi Menika.
Silindu took no part in the discussion. After Karlinahami intervened, he
became silent: there was nothing for him to do or to say which could
help him: it was only one more of the evils which inevitably came upon
him. The talk died down: the others went into the house to prepare the
evening meal. He sat on under the mustard-tree, staring at the outline
of the trees against the starlit sky. The silence of the jungle settled
down upon the compound. Punchi Menika brought him his food. She tried to
comfort him, to get him to come into the house, but for once she could
not rouse him. He sat in the compound through the night, staring into
the darkness, and muttering from time to time, 'Aiyo, the house is
empty!'