Two

We will not pain our readers' hearts by recounting the lamentations of the wedding-house and the weeping of the orphaned. Whoever it falls upon weeps, laments, beats the breast. This is nothing new. If you wish, however, you may form some idea of that terrible mental anguish that Kalyani suffered from the thought that she herself was the slayer of the very stay of her life. Those words which, in the rush of anger, had escaped her unrestrained lips, now pierced her heart like arrows. Had her husband breathed his last in her lap, moaning, she would at least have had the consolation that she had performed her duty towards him. No other thing brings the grief-stricken heart greater comfort than this. How much consolation she would have had from the thought that her lord had gone away pleased with her, that her love had remained in his heart until the last moment. This consolation Kalyani did not have. She thought—Alas! My twenty-five years of devotion have gone for nothing. At the last moment I was robbed of the love of my own lord. Had I not spoken those harsh words to him, he would never have left the house at night. Who knows what thoughts may have passed through his mind. Imagining his feelings, and magnifying her own offence over and over, she fretted at all eight watches of the day. The children for whom she had been ready to lay down her life she now found loathsome to look upon. It was because of these very children that I had to take on a quarrel with my lord. These are my enemies. Where once a court had sat in session at all eight watches of the day, now dust blew. The whole fair had broken up. When the very feeder was gone, how could the eaters stay on? Slowly, within a month, all the nephews and sister's sons took their leave. Those who had claimed, "We are among the men who would shed blood where others shed water," fled so headlong that they did not so much as look back. The whole world had become another world. The children at the sight of whose faces one had longed to caress them now had flies buzzing about their faces. Who knew where that radiance had gone?

When the violence of grief subsided, the problem of Nirmala's marriage arose. Some people advised that the wedding be postponed for the year; but Kalyani said—"After all these preparations, to postpone the wedding would mean that everything done and made would be ground into dust, and the next year these same preparations would have to be made all over again, with no certainty of it. It is best to have the wedding done. There is, after all, no question of giving or taking anything. The materials for the hospitality of the wedding party are already gathered; in delay there is nothing but loss." So, along with the news of the calamity, this message too was sent to Lala Bhalchandra. In her letter Kalyani wrote—"Take pity on this helpless woman, and bring a sinking boat to shore. My husband had great hopes in his heart, but God had willed otherwise. Now my honour rests in your hands. The girl has become yours. I count it my good fortune to be able to render service and hospitality to your people; but if there is any shortcoming in this, any fault, then consider my condition and forgive me. I trust that you will not let this helpless woman be disgraced," and so on.

Kalyani did not send this letter by post; rather, she said to the family priest—"It will be a trouble to you, but go yourself and deliver this letter, and on my behalf say with all humility that the fewer the people who come, the better. There is no one here to manage things."

The priest, Moteram, took this message and on the third day reached Lucknow.

It was evening. Babu Bhalchandra, stripped down, was lying in an armchair before the sitting-room, smoking his hookah. He was a very stout man, of tall build. He looked like a black demon, or some African brought captive from Africa. From head to foot he was of one colour—black. His face was so dark that one could not tell where the forehead ended and the scalp began. He was simply a living statue of coal. The heat troubled him greatly. Two men stood fanning him, and even so a string of sweat ran down him. He held a high post in the Excise Department. He drew a salary of five hundred rupees. From the contractors he took bribes freely. Let the contractors sell water under the name of liquor, let them keep their shops open round the clock—it was enough simply to keep him pleased. The whole law was his pleasure. So fearsome was his figure that on a moonlit night people would suddenly start at the sight of him—not children and women only, but even men were struck with fright. We say "a moonlit night" because on a dark night no one could see him at all—his blackness dissolved into the darkness. Only the colour of his eyes was red. As a devout Muslim says his prayers five times a day, so he too drank liquor five times. Liquor got for free is lawful even to a qazi—and he, after all, was an officer of liquor itself; let him drink as much as he pleased, there was no one to catch his hand. Whenever he felt thirst, he drank. As there is mutual sympathy among certain colours, so among certain colours there is mutual antagonism. With the touch of red, blackness becomes still more fearsome.

The moment Babu Sahib saw the Pandit, he rose from his chair and said, "Aha! Is it you? Come, come. Blessed is my fortune! Hey—is anyone there? Where have they all gone—Jhagru, Gurdin, Chhakauri, Bhavani, Ramgulam—is anyone there? Have they all died? Come, Ramgulam, Bhavani, Chhakauri, Gurdin, Jhagru. No one answers, they're all dead! There are a dozen men, but when the moment comes, not a single face is to be seen—who knows where they all vanish to. Bring a chair for the gentleman."

Babu Sahib repeated these five names several times over; but it did not occur to him to send one of the two men who were fanning him to fetch a chair. After three or four minutes a one-eyed man came coughing and said, "Sarkar, a job like this can hardly be borne by me! How long is one to keep eating on credit and loans, begging and begging till one has lost all shame?"

Bhal said, "Stop your chatter, go and bring a chair. The moment he's told to do some work, he starts wailing. Tell me, Panditji—is all well over there?"

Moteram said, "What welfare shall I speak of, Babuji—what welfare is there now? The whole household has been ground into the dust."

Just then the bearer brought a broken pinewood chest and set it down, saying, "Chairs and tables can't be lifted by me."

The Pandit, ashamed and afraid, sat down upon it gingerly, lest it should break, and placed Kalyani's letter in Babu Sahib's hand.

Bhal said, "How much more is it to be ground into the dust? What greater calamity than this could fall? Babu Udaybhanu Lal and I were old friends. He was no mere man—he was a diamond! What a heart he had, what courage—" (wiping his eyes) "—it is as though my very right hand has been cut off. Believe me, ever since I heard this news, a kind of darkness has spread over my eyes. I sit down to eat, and the morsel will not go into my mouth. His face keeps standing before my eyes. I rise leaving my food half-eaten. My heart will not settle to any work. The grief at a brother's death is even less than this. No mere man—a diamond!"

Mote said, "Sarkar, there is now no rich man like him left in the city."

Bhal said, "I know it well, Panditji—what do you tell me of it? Such a man is one in a lakh or two lakhs. As well as I knew him, no one else can know him. In two or three meetings I became his devotee, and shall remain so till my dying breath. Tell the lady, my fellow-in-law, that I feel a heartfelt grief."

Mote said, "Such was the very hope I had of you! The sight of gentlemen like you is rare in these days. Otherwise, who today gets his son married without a dowry?"

Bhal said, "Maharaj, the matter of dowry is not discussed with such truthful men. Merely to be connected with them is worth a lakh of rupees. I count this my great good fortune. Ah! What a generous soul he was. As for money, he reckoned it nothing—he cared for it not a straw's worth. It is a bad custom, exceedingly bad! Were it in my power, I would shoot dead both the takers of dowry and the givers of dowry alike—yes, sir, plainly shoot them dead, and then let it even come to the gallows! Ask yourself—are you marrying off your son, or selling him? If you have a longing to spend with an open heart on your son's wedding, then spend it gladly, but whatever you do, do it on your own strength. What is this—to cut the throat of the girl's father? It is baseness, sheer baseness! Were it in my power, I would shoot these scoundrels dead."

Mote said, "Blessings on you, Sarkar! God has given you great wisdom. This is the glory of righteousness. The mistress's wish is that the wedding date should stand as before, and the rest she has written all of it in her letter. Now, if you alone will rescue us, then we can be rescued. We shall, of course, render service and hospitality to all the gentlemen who come in the wedding party; but circumstances have changed greatly now, Sarkar, there is no one to manage things. Just arrange matters in such a way that no stain falls on the lawyer's good name."

Bhalchandra sat for a minute with his eyes closed, then, drawing a long sigh, said—"God simply did not will that this Lakshmi should come to my house, otherwise would this thunderbolt have fallen? All my plans have crumbled into dust. I could not contain myself for joy that the auspicious occasion was drawing near, but what did I know that in God's court some other conspiracy was being woven? The memory of the dead man is enough to make one weep. To see the girl would only make the wound green again. In that state, who knows what I might do. Take it for a virtue, or take it for a fault—that with whomever I once form an intimacy, his memory never leaves my heart again. As yet, well, it is only this much, that his face keeps dancing before my eyes; but if that girl comes into the house, then it will become hard for me to remain alive. Believe me truly, weeping and weeping my eyes will burst. I know that weeping and wailing are in vain. He who is dead cannot come back. There is no remedy but patience; but my heart is helpless. At the sight of that orphaned girl my heart will break."

Mote said, "Do not say so, Sarkar! The lawyer is no more—well, what of that—you are here. Now you are as a father to her. She is no longer the lawyer's daughter; she is your daughter. The feelings of your heart, no one knows; people will think that, because the lawyer passed away, you have gone back on your word. In this lies your dishonour. Compose your heart, and have the girl's hand given to your son in joy and gladness. When an elephant dies, it is worth nine lakhs. A lakh of misfortunes has fallen, but the mistress will leave no shortcoming in the service and hospitality of your people."

Babu Sahib understood that Pandit Moteram was no mere bookish Pandit, but was shrewd in worldly conduct as well. He said, "Panditji, I swear to you, I love that girl more than I love even my own daughter; but when God does not will it, what can I do? That death is a kind of inauspicious omen which Providence has given us. It is a divine warning of some coming calamity. Providence is plainly saying that this marriage will not be auspicious. In such a state, judge for yourself—how far is this union proper? You are a learned man. Consider—can a thing that begins with ill omen end with anything but ill? No, one does not knowingly swallow a fly. Explain it to the lady, my fellow-in-law, and tell her—I am ready to obey her command, but its outcome will not be good. I cannot, ruled by self-interest, do this injustice to the offspring of my dearest friend."

This argument left the Pandit without an answer. The plaintiff had loosed an arrow against which he had no parry. The adversary had struck him with his own weapon, and he could not return the blow. He was still casting about for some reply, when Babu Sahib began once more to call out for the servants—"Hey, have you all vanished again—Jhagru, Chhakauri, Bhavani, Gurdin, Ramgulam! Not one of them answers, every one of them dead. Has anyone seen to water and the rest for the Panditji? There's no telling how far one is to make these fellows understand. Sense has not so much as touched them. They see a gentleman coming from afar, tired and weary, and not one of them cares the least. Come—set out water and the rest. Panditji, shall I have sherbet made for you, or send for some fruit-sweets?"

Moteram would accept no kind of restriction in the matter of sweets. His doctrine was that all things are made pure by ghee. Rasgullas and gram-flour ladoos he loved dearly, but for sherbet he had no taste. To fill the stomach with water was against his rule. Hesitating, he said, "I have no habit of drinking sherbet; I will eat sweets."

Bhal said, "Fruit-sweets, then?"

Mote said, "Of that I have no scruple."

Bhal said, "That is just the thing. All this caste-pollution business is humbug. I myself do not believe in it. Hey—has no one come yet? Chhakauri, Bhavani, Gurdin, Ramgulam—at least let someone answer!"

This time too the same old bearer came coughing and stood there, and said, "Sarkar, pay me my wages and let me go. Such service is not for me. How long is one to keep running and running till one's legs ache?"

Bhal said, "Whether you do any work or not, you must have your wages first! Lie about all day coughing—your wages are mounting up all the same. Go and bring an anna's worth of fresh sweets from the bazaar. Go at a run."

Having given this order to the bearer, Babu Sahib went into the house and said to his wife, "A Panditji has come from over there. He has brought this letter—just read it."

The wife's name was Rangili Bai. She was a fair-complexioned, cheerful-faced lady. Beauty and youth were taking their leave of her; but, like some loving friend who has clung coaxingly to one's neck for thirty years, they could not bring themselves to part from her.

Rangili Bai was sitting preparing paan. She said, "Didn't I tell you that we don't want to have the wedding take place there?"

Bhal said, "Yes, I did say so, but for very embarrassment the words would not come out of my mouth. I had to make a false show of regret."

Rangili said, "What embarrassment is there in speaking plainly? It is our wish; there's nothing—"