Four

From that day onward, Nirmala's whole manner began to change. She resolved to spend herself utterly upon her duty. Until now, sunk in the anguish of despair, she had paid no heed to duty at all; in her heart there had smouldered a kind of insurrectionary fire, whose unbearable pain had left her as if numbed of all feeling. Now the force of that pain began to subside. She came to understand that there was no joy of life left for her. Why ruin this life by dreaming of such joy? In this world not every soul reposes upon a bed of comfort. She too was among the wretched ones. Fate had chosen her, as it had chosen them, to carry the bundle of sorrow. That burden could not be set down from the head. Even if she wished to fling it away, she could not fling it away. Under that cruel weight her eyes might be blinded with darkness, her neck might begin to break, lifting one foot might become an ordeal — yet that bundle would have to be borne. How long can a prisoner sentenced for life keep weeping? And even if such a one weeps, who is there to see it? Who feels pity? Because weeping interferes with the work, the prisoner has only further torments to suffer.

The next day, when the lawyer returned from the courthouse, he saw Nirmala standing smiling at the door of her room. The sight of that flawless beauty gave his eyes their fill. After many long days he saw this lotus in bloom. In the room a large mirror hung against the wall. A curtain usually covered it. Today the curtain was drawn back. As the lawyer set foot in the room, his glance fell upon the glass. He saw his own face plainly. It struck his heart like a blow. The day's labour had dimmed the lustre of his face; for all the nourishing foods he ate, the wrinkles in his cheeks showed clearly. Though his paunch was kept tightly girt, it bulged out like the belly of an unruly horse. Standing before that very mirror, but with her gaze turned the other way, was Nirmala. How great was the contrast between the two figures! One a vast mansion studded with jewels, the other a crumbling ruin. He could not look into that mirror. This image of his own decay was unbearable to him. He moved away from the glass; he began to feel disgust at his own face. And then it was no wonder at all that this beautiful young woman should feel disgust at him. He had not even the courage to look towards Nirmala. Her matchless beauty had become a thorn lodged in his heart.

Nirmala said, "Why so late today? My eyes nearly fail me from watching the road all day long."

Totaram, his gaze fixed on the window, answered, "These lawsuits leave a man no leisure even to draw breath. There was one more case still, but I made an excuse of a headache and slipped away."

"Then why take on so many cases?" said Nirmala. "One should do only as much work as can be done comfortably. Work is not meant to be done at the cost of one's life. Don't keep accepting so many suits. I have no greed for money. If you live in comfort, the money will come in plenty."

"My dear," said Totaram, "even a Lakshmi who comes to one's door of her own accord is not to be turned away."

"If Lakshmi comes bearing a price of blood and flesh," said Nirmala, "then it is better she does not come at all. I am not hungry for wealth."

Just then Mansaram too returned from school. Drops of sweat had gathered on his face from walking in the sun; a flush of blood ran across his fair young face; a kind of light seemed to issue from his eyes. Standing at the door, he said, "Mother, please bring out something to eat — I have to go off to play for a while."

Nirmala went and fetched a glass of water and, placing some dry fruits and nuts on a saucer, gave them to Mansaram. When Mansaram had eaten and was about to leave, Nirmala asked, "When will you be back?"

"I can't say," said Mansaram. "There's a hockey match against the Englishmen. The barracks are a long way from here."

"Brother, come back soon," said Nirmala. "The food will go cold, and then you'll say you have no appetite."

Mansaram looked at Nirmala with a simple, affectionate gaze and said, "If I'm delayed, take it that I'm eating there. There's no need to wait for me."

When he had gone, Nirmala said, "At first he wouldn't even come into the house — he was shy of speaking to me. If he needed anything, he would send for it from outside. Only since I called him and spoke to him has he begun to come."

Totaram said, with a touch of irritation, "Why does he come to you to ask for things to eat and drink? Why doesn't he ask his aunt?"

Nirmala had said this in the hope of being praised. She wished to show how much she cared for his sons. This was no feigned affection. She truly loved the boys. In her character the childlike disposition was still uppermost; the same eagerness, the same restlessness, the same love of play were alive in her, and with the children these girlish impulses came into bloom. The wifely jealousy had not yet awakened in her heart; but not understanding why her husband, instead of being pleased, should wrinkle his nose and brow, she said, "How am I to know why he doesn't ask her? When he comes to me, I don't drive him away. If I did such a thing, the talk would be that I burn with envy at the sight of the boys."

Munshiji gave no answer to this. But that day he did not converse with his clients; he went straight to Mansaram and began to examine him. It was the first occasion in his life that he had shown so much interest in the educational progress of Mansaram, or of any of his sons. He had never had leisure to lift his head from his work. It had been some forty years since he himself had studied these subjects. Since then he had not so much as raised his eyes towards them. Apart from legal books and papers, he read nothing at all; he never found the time. But today he set about testing Mansaram in those very subjects. Mansaram was clever, and a hard worker besides. Although he was captain of the team in sport, he stood first in his class. Any lesson he once looked over became fixed as a line carved in stone. In his haste, Munshiji could think of no such searching questions as would make even a sharp boy pause to think; and Mansaram disposed of his superficial questions in a moment, as if cracking nuts. Just as a soldier, seeing his blows fall harmlessly upon his enemy, grows hot with rage and strikes all the faster, so too the lawyer grew vexed as he listened to Mansaram's answers. He wanted to ask some question that Mansaram could not handle. He wanted to find out where the boy's weak side lay. He could no longer be satisfied with seeing what the boy could do. He wished to see what the boy could not do. Any practised examiner would easily have exposed Mansaram's weaknesses; but how could the lawyer succeed, drawing on his half-century-old, forgotten schooling? At last, finding no pretext on which to vent his anger, he said, "I see that you wander about idly here and there all day long. I understand your character better than your intellect, and this aimless roaming of yours is something I can never tolerate."

Mansaram said fearlessly, "Apart from going out for an hour in the evening to play, I do not go anywhere all day long. Ask Mother or Auntie. I myself do not like to wander about so. Yes, the headmaster does urge me to come and play, and so I am obliged to go. If you do not like my going to play, then from tomorrow I shall not go."

Munshiji saw that the talk was taking quite another turn, and said sharply, "How am I to be assured that you go nowhere but to play? I am forever hearing complaints."

Mansaram said heatedly, "Which gentleman has made this complaint to you? Let me hear it too."

"Whoever it may be is no concern of yours," said the lawyer. "You ought to have enough faith in me to know that I do not make false accusations."

"If anyone comes and says before me that he has seen me wandering about somewhere," said Mansaram, "let me never show my face again."

"What need has anyone," said the lawyer, "to make a complaint against you to your face and earn your enmity — when you and four or five of your companions might go and break the tiles off his roof? It is not one man but several who have made this sort of complaint to me, and there is no reason for me not to believe what my friends say. I want you to live at the school."

Mansaram dropped his face and said, "I have no objection to living there. Whenever you say, I'll go."

"Why have you hung your face like that?" said the lawyer. "Don't you like the idea of living there? It seems as though your very soul is dying at the thought of going there. After all, what is the matter? What hardship will you suffer there?"

Mansaram was not eager to live in the hostel; but when Munshiji had said this much and asked the reason for his reluctance, then, to cover his own embarrassment, he spoke up cheerfully. "Why should I hang my face? A boarding house is just the thing for me. There's no hardship in it — and even if there is, I can bear it. I'll go from tomorrow. Only, if no place is vacant, then there's nothing to be done."

Munshiji was a lawyer. He understood that this young fellow was hunting for some excuse that would spare him having to go there, while letting no blame fall upon his own head. He said, "There is room for all the boys — will there be no room for you alone?"

"A good many boys haven't got places," said Mansaram, "and are lodged in rented houses outside. Just recently one boy's name was struck off the boarding-house roll, and fifty applications came in for that single place."

The lawyer did not think it proper to argue the matter further. Ordering Mansaram to be ready the next day, he had his carriage made ready and went off for a drive. For some days now he had taken to going out in the evening for a ride. Some experienced soul had told him that there was no better charm for a long life. After he had gone, Mansaram came and said to Rukmini, "Auntie, Father has told me to live at the school from tomorrow."

Rukmini asked in astonishment, "Why?"

"How am I to know?" said Mansaram. "He said that I wander about here and there like a vagabond."

"Didn't you tell him you go nowhere?"

"Of course I told him," said Mansaram, "but he won't believe it."

"It must be the doing of your new mother — what else?" said Rukmini.

"No, Auntie, I have no suspicion of her," said Mansaram. "The poor thing never says anything against anyone, not even by mistake. When I go to ask her for something, she gets up at once and gives it to me."

"What do you know of the wiles of women?" said Rukmini. "This is a fire of her own kindling. See, I'll go and ask her."

Rukmini, in a temper, went off to Nirmala. The chance to take her to task, to drag her through thorns, to pierce her with taunts, to make her weep — she would not let such an opportunity slip from her hands. Nirmala respected her, was cowed by her, did not even answer back. What Nirmala wished was that Rukmini would speak to her with words of guidance, would correct her where she went wrong, would keep an eye on the running of the household; but Rukmini remained always coldly at odds with her.

Nirmala rose from her cot and said, "Come, Sister, sit down."

Rukmini said, remaining on her feet, "I ask you — do you mean to drive everyone out of the house and live here alone?"

Nirmala said in a stricken voice, "What has happened, Sister? I have said nothing to anyone."

"You are turning Mansaram out of the house," said Rukmini, "and on top of that you say, 'I have said nothing to anyone.' Can you not even bear the sight of so much?"

"Sister," said Nirmala, "I say this with my hand upon your feet — I know nothing of it. May my eyes go blind if I have so much as opened my mouth concerning him."

"Why swear empty oaths?" said Rukmini. "Until now Totaram never used to speak harshly to the boy. Once Mansaram went off to his maternal grandparents' for a week, and he was so distressed that he went and fetched him back himself. Now he is sending this same Mansaram out of the house to live at the school. If a single hair of the boy's head is harmed, you will know it. He has never lived away from home; he has no thought for his eating or his dressing — wherever he sits, there he falls asleep. He has grown up in name only; in nature he is still like a child. At the school he will perish. Who there will care whether he has eaten or not, where he has taken off his clothes, where he is sleeping? When there is no one in the house to ask after him, who will ask after him outside? I have given you fair warning — from here on it is your affair, and the matter is yours to answer for."

Saying this, Rukmini went away.

When the lawyer returned from his drive, Nirmala at once brought up the subject. For some days now she had been learning a little English from Mansaram. With his departure, would not her studies be set back? Who else would teach her? Until now the lawyer had not known of this. Nirmala had thought that, once she had had some practice, she would one day astonish the lawyer by conversing with him in English. A little smattering she had already picked up from her own brothers; now she was studying regularly. It was as though a snake writhed across the lawyer's breast. His brow darkened and he said, "How long has he been teaching you? You never told me of it."

Nirmala had seen this look on his face only once before, on the day he had beaten Siaram half-dead. That same look, grown more terrible still, appeared before her again now. Shrinking, she said, "His own studies suffer no harm from it. I study with him only when he has the leisure. I ask him first — 'If it interferes with your work, then go.' Most often, when he is about to go off to play, I keep him back for ten minutes. I myself wish that he should suffer no loss."

It was a small matter, but the lawyer, as if all hope had drained from him, dropped onto the cot and, laying a hand on his brow, sank into brooding thought. The matter had gone far beyond what he had supposed. He was angry with himself: why had he not arranged at the very first to keep this young fellow outside? Now he understood the secret of why this great queen had been looking so happy of late. The room had never before been so adorned and decked out; she had never before paid such attention to her dress and looks; but now, he saw, there had been a complete transformation. He had half a mind to go that very moment and turn Mansaram out. But his mature understanding counselled him that this was no occasion for anger. If she got wind of it, there would be no end of trouble. No — he had better probe her feelings a little. He said, "I know well enough that teaching you for two or four minutes does him no harm. But he is an idle boy, and so he gets an excuse for not doing his own work. If he fails next year, he will say plainly, 'I was busy teaching all day.' I will engage a lady teacher — a Miss — for you. It won't cost much. You never told me of it before. And what can he be teaching you, anyway? He says two or four words and runs off. At this rate you'll learn nothing at all."

Nirmala at once refuted the charge. "No, that is not so. He teaches me with real care, and his method too is such that one's mind takes pleasure in the study. Watch him explain something some day. I think a Miss would not teach so attentively."

Munshiji, twirling his moustache, proud of his own skill in cross-examination, said, "Does he teach you once a day, or several times?"

Even now Nirmala did not grasp the import of these questions. She said, "At first he used to teach only in the evening; now, for some days past, he comes once and checks my written work as well. He says he is the best in his class. He stood first in the recent examinations — so how can you suppose his mind is not on his studies? I say all this the more because Sister will think that it is he who has lit this fire. For nothing at all I shall have to listen to taunts. Only a little while ago she came and scolded me."

Munshiji said within himself: "I understand it all very well. A girl of yesterday, and you set about deceiving me. She wants to gain her end under cover of 'Sister.'" Aloud he said, "I cannot understand why the boy's heart should fail him at the mere mention of a boarding house. Other boys are delighted at the thought that they will be among their friends; this one, on the contrary, is in tears. Until a few days ago he used to study with real diligence — it is the fruit of that labour that he is the best in his class. But lately he has caught a taste for gadding about. If he is not checked now, he will be past all correcting later. For you I shall engage a Miss."

The next day Munshiji rose early, dressed himself in his clothes, and went out. Several clients were sitting in his office room. Among them was a Raja Sahib, from whom Munshiji received several thousand rupees a year in fees. But Munshiji, leaving them sitting there with a promise to return in ten minutes, got into his carriage and drove to the house of the school headmaster. The headmaster was a most courteous gentleman. He received the lawyer with great respect; but there was not a place vacant in his school for even one boy. Every room was full. The Inspector's strict order was that the boys from the outlying districts were to be given places first, and only then the town boys. Therefore, even if a place did fall vacant, Mansaram could not get it, for the applications of a great many out-of-town boys were already on file. Munshiji was a lawyer; day and night he dealt with such creatures as can, out of greed, make even the impossible possible and the unachievable achievable. He thought that perhaps the business might be managed by paying something here and there — that he ought to have a sensible word with the office clerk. But the clerk said with a laugh, "Munshiji, this is no courthouse — it is a school. If even a whisper of this reaches the headmaster's ears, he will fly into a rage and turn Mansaram out then and there. He may even complain to the authorities." Poor Munshiji was left with a long face. By the time it was ten o'clock, he returned home in a temper. Mansaram was just then setting out from the house for school. Munshiji looked at him with hard eyes, as though he were an enemy, and went into the house.

After this, for ten or twelve days, the lawyer kept to the same routine: now in the morning, now in the evening, he would meet the headmaster of one school or another and try to get Mansaram admitted to a boarding house. But there was no room in any school. From every place he got a blank refusal. Now there were only two courses open: either Mansaram should be lodged separately in a rented house, or he should be enrolled in some other school. Both were easy enough; in the district schools there was usually room to spare. But by now the lawyer's anxious heart had grown somewhat calmer. From that day onward he never saw Mansaram going into the house. He no longer even went out to play. Before going to school and after returning, he sat constantly in his own room. It was the hot season; in the open fields too the sweat streamed from one's body, but Mansaram would not stir from his room. His self-respect was writhing in its eagerness to clear itself of the charge of vagrancy. By his conduct he wished to wipe away this stain.

One day Munshiji was sitting at his meal when Mansaram, having bathed, came to eat. For months Munshiji had not seen the boy bare-bodied. Today, when his eye fell on him, his senses fled. A skeleton of bones stood before him. There was still the glow of brahmacharya — of disciplined chastity — on the boy's face, but his body had melted away to a husk. He asked, "Are you not well these days? Why are you so weak?"

Mansaram, drawing his dhoti over himself, said, "I am perfectly well."

"Then why are you so weak?"

"I'm not weak at all," said Mansaram. "When was I ever stouter than this?"

"What nonsense," said Munshiji. "Half your body is gone, and you say you are not weak? Sister, was he like this before?"

Rukmini was standing in the courtyard, offering water to the tulsi plant. She said, "Why should he not be thin — now that he is so very well nursed and fed? I was a country woman; I didn't know how to feed and nourish the boys. I used to spoil them by giving them street snacks. Now an educated woman, skilled in household management, is tending them like betel leaves turned with care. Let his enemy be thin, not he."

"Sister, you do a great injustice," said Munshiji. "Who has said to you that you spoil the boys? The work that others fail to do, you ought to do yourself. It is not for you to sever all bond with the household. What care can a girl, who is herself still hardly more than a child, take of the boys? That is your task."

"As long as I thought of them as my own, I did it," said Rukmini. "When you have come to count me a stranger, what concern have I to cling to your neck? Ask him — how many days since he has drunk milk? Go and look in his room — the sweets that were sent for his breakfast lie there rotting. The mistress thinks, 'I have set out the food; if no one eats it, am I to put it into his mouth?' Well, brother, that is how boys are reared who have never known the joy of fondling and love. Your boys have always been turned like betel leaves with care; now they cannot live happily, living like orphans. I speak plainly. What can anyone do but take offence? And on top of that I hear you are arranging to keep the boy at the school. The poor child is even forbidden to come into the house. He is afraid even to come to me — and besides, what have I kept by me that I might go and feed him?"

By this time Mansaram had eaten two rotis and stood up. Munshiji asked, "Have you taken only two rotis? You sat down barely a minute ago. What have you eaten? Just two rotis."

Mansaram said hesitantly, "There were lentils and vegetables too. If I eat more, my throat begins to burn and I get sour belching."

When Munshiji rose from his meal, he was deeply troubled. If the boy went on growing thinner like this, some dreadful disease would seize him. He was very angry with Rukmini just now. "Her grievance is only that she is not the mistress of the house. She does not understand what right she has to be the mistress. How can one who cannot even keep an account of money be the mistress of a household? She was mistress, true enough, for a year — and there was not a paisa saved. Out of this same income Rupkala used to save two or two and a half hundred rupees. In her reign, the same income was not even enough to cover the expenses. Never mind — it is fondling and indulgence that has ruined these boys. What need have such big grown boys to be fed only when someone feeds them? They ought to look after themselves." Munshiji spent the whole day caught in this same tangle of thought. He mentioned it to a few friends as well. People said: "Do not interfere with his games and sports; do not shut him up from now on; in the open air there is far less chance of his character being corrupted than there is in a closed room. Save him from bad company, by all means — but not by forbidding him to leave the house at all. In youth, solitary confinement is most harmful to the character." Now Munshiji understood his mistake. Returning home, he went to Mansaram. The boy had just come from school and, without taking off his clothes, sat with a book open before him, gazing out of the window. His gaze was fixed on a beggar woman who, with her child in her lap, was begging for alms. The child, seated in his mother's lap, was as happy as though he sat upon some royal throne. Seeing that child, Mansaram broke into tears. "Is this child not happier than I? In this boundless universe what thing is there that he could receive in exchange for that lap and be made glad? God himself could not create such a thing. Why, O God, do you give birth to children at all, in whose fate it is written to suffer the sorrow of a mother's loss? Who in the world today is more unfortunate than I? Who has any thought of my eating or drinking, my living or dying? If I were to die today, whose heart would feel the wound? My father now takes pleasure in making me weep; he does not even wish to look upon my face; preparations are being made to drive me out of the house. Ah, Mother — where today is your darling son being driven off as a vagabond? That same father, into whose hands you placed the hands of us three brothers, today calls me a vagabond and a scoundrel. I am not even fit to live in this house." Thinking such thoughts, Mansaram burst into helpless, sobbing tears, overwhelmed with measureless grief.

At that very moment Totaram came and stood in the room. Mansaram swiftly wiped away his tears and stood with his head bowed. It was perhaps the first time Munshiji had set foot in his room. Mansaram's heart began to pound — "Let me see what calamity descends today." When Munshiji saw him weeping, for an instant his sleeping tenderness for the boy started awake. Alarmed, he said, "Why, why are you weeping, son? Has someone said something to you?"

Mansaram, holding back the surging tears with great difficulty, said, "No, sir — I am not weeping."

"Your mother has not said anything to you?"

"No, sir — she does not even speak to me."

"What am I to do, son?" said Munshiji. "I married for the very reason that the children would gain a mother. But if that hope has not been fulfilled — does she really not speak to you at all?"

"No, sir — for months now she has not spoken."

"She is a woman of strange disposition," said Munshiji. "There is no knowing what she wants. Had I known her temper would be like this, I would never have married. Every single day she rises up over one matter or another. It was she herself who told me, 'This boy stays out of sight all day long — who knows where.' How was I to know what was in her heart? I supposed that you had fallen into bad company and were perhaps roaming about all day. What father is there who would not grieve to see his beloved son wandering about idly? That is why I had decided to keep you in a boarding house. There was nothing else to it, son. I did not wish to put a stop to your games and sport. To see your condition like this tears my heart to pieces. Yesterday I learned that I had been mistaken. Play to your heart's content; go out into the fields in the morning and evening. The fresh air will do you good. Whatever you need, ask me — there is no need to ask her. Take it that she is not in the house at all. Your mother left us and went away — but I am still here."

The boy's simple, guileless heart thrilled with love for his father. He felt as though God himself stood before him. Distracted by despair and bitterness, he had imagined his father cruel — and who knows what else. He had no grievance against his stepmother. Now he understood how great an injustice he had done his god-like father. A wave of filial devotion rose in his heart, and laying his head upon his father's feet he began to weep. Munshiji was overcome with compassion. The son whom he could not bear to have out of his sight for an instant, whose gentleness, intelligence and character were praised by friend and stranger alike — why had his heart grown so hard towards that very son? He had come to regard his own dear son as an enemy; he had been ready to send him into exile. Nirmala stood like a wall between father and son. To draw Nirmala towards himself, he had had to withdraw, and the distance between father and son went on widening. The result was that today things had come to such a pass that he was forced to practise so much deceit upon his own dearest son. Today, after long thought, a stratagem had occurred to him, one which gave hope that he might remove Nirmala from between them and draw his other arm — his son — back to himself. He had even begun to put that stratagem into effect. But whether his purpose would be accomplished by it — who can say?

From the day Totaram had resolved, in spite of all Nirmala's pleading and entreaty, to send Mansaram to a boarding house, from that very day she had stopped studying with Mansaram. Indeed, she did not even speak to him. She had gained some inkling of her husband's mistrustful eagerness. "Oh! such a suspicious nature! May God himself guard the honour of this house. His mind is filled with such evil imaginings. He thinks me so low and worthless." Brooding on these things, she wept for several days. Then she began to ask herself: "What suspicion can be in his mind? What is there in me that grates upon his eyes?" For all her thinking, she could find no such thing in herself. "Then is it my studying with Mansaram, my laughing and talking with him, that is the cause of his suspicion? Very well — I shall give up the studying; I shall not speak to Mansaram even by mistake; I shall not look upon his face."

But this penance seemed to her an impossible austerity. In laughing and talking with Mansaram, her pleasure-loving fancy was both stirred and satisfied. In conversing with him she felt an immeasurable joy that she could not put into words. There was not even the shadow of an evil desire in her mind. Not even in a dream could she think of a sullied love for Mansaram. Every creature has a natural thirst for laughing and talking with companions of its own age; this had been an unsuspected means of satisfying that thirst. Now that unsatisfied thirst began to burn in Nirmala's heart like a lamp. Again and again her mind grew distracted by some unknown pain. She wandered here and there in search of some lost, unknown thing; wherever she sat down, there she would simply remain sitting; her heart settled to no task. Yes — when Munshiji came home, she would drown all her thirsting in despair and, smiling, fall to chattering with him of this and that.

Yesterday, when Munshiji had eaten and gone off to the courthouse, Rukmini pierced Nirmala thoroughly with her taunts. "You knew well enough that here you would have to rear and bring up children — so why did you not tell your people, 'Do not marry me there'? You should have gone where there was none but a man — one who would have been glad of all this adorning and dressing and beauty, who would have praised his good fortune. Here, what should an old man care for your colour and looks, your charms and airs? He married you to wait upon these very children, not for the pleasures of love." For a long while she went on rubbing salt into the wound, but Nirmala did not utter a sound. She wished to set forth her defence, but could not. If she said, "I am doing only what is my husband's wish," then the secret of the household would be out. If she admitted her error and set about correcting it, she feared — who knew what the consequence might be? She was, in general, a plain-spoken woman; she felt no hesitation or fear in speaking the truth. But at this delicate juncture she had to keep silent. There was no other course. She saw that Mansaram was very dejected and despondent; she saw too that he grew weaker day by day; but a seal was set upon both her speech and her action. The plight of a man in whose own house a theft has been committed by himself — that was Nirmala's plight at this time.

It is only when something happens contrary to our hopes that we feel pain. Mansaram had never expected of Nirmala that she would complain of him. Therefore he suffered terrible anguish. "Why does she complain of me? What does she want? Nothing but this — that he eats the earnings of her husband, that money is spent on his schooling, that he wears clothes. Her wish will be that he should not stay in the house. By my going, her husband's money will be saved. She keeps very cheerful with me. Never have I heard a bitter word from her lips. Was all that mere artifice? It could be. Before snaring the bird in his net, the fowler scatters grain. Ah! I did not know that beneath the grain there lay a net — that this motherly affection was only the prelude to my exile."

"Well — why does my living here displease her so? He who is her husband — is he not my father? Is the bond of father and son any less close than the bond of husband and wife? If I do not envy her her complete dominion — if she may do as she pleases and I cannot open my mouth — then she does not wish to grant me even a finger's breadth of ground. Why is it that, living herself in a solid mansion, she cannot bear to see me sitting in the shade of a tree?

"Yes, she must be thinking that when he grows up he will become master of her husband's property, and so it is better to drive him out now. How shall I convince them not to harbour such a fear of me? How shall I tell them that Mansaram will swallow poison and give up his life before he does them any harm? Whatever hardships he may have to bear, he will not become a thorn in their hearts. True, my father gave me life, and even now his affection for me is not small; but do I not know even this much — that on the day Father married her, on that very day he cast us out of his heart? Now we may stay here like orphans; we have no claim upon this house. Perhaps, because of past attachments, our condition here is somewhat better than that of other orphans — but orphans we are. We became orphans on the day Mother passed on to the other world. Whatever was left undone, this marriage has completed. I myself, at first, kept no particular intimacy with her. Had she complained of me to Father in those days, perhaps I should not have felt so much pain — I was sitting ready then for such a blow. Can I not even earn my own bread by labour in the world? But it was at a bad time that she struck. Even beasts of prey strike a man only when they catch him off his guard. That is why I was waited upon; if I was even a little late in getting up to eat, summons after summons would come; halwa was prepared for my breakfast in the mornings; again and again I was asked, 'Do you not need money?' That is why she had that hundred-rupee watch sent for me.

"But could she think of no other complaint, that she called me a vagabond? After all, what idleness of mine did she see? She might have said, 'His mind is not on his studies; he is forever asking for money for one thing or another.' Why did just this one charge occur to her? Perhaps because it is the harshest blow she could strike at me. For the very first time she loosed an arrow of fire at me, from which there is no refuge anywhere. Was it not so that I might fall in my father's eyes? Keeping me in a boarding house was merely a pretext. The aim was that I should be flicked away like a fly from the milk. After two or four months the expenses would be cut off, and then let him die or live as he might. Had I known this prompting came from her, I would have found a place for myself even where no place was to be had. I could have got a place in the servants' quarters; for lying out on a veranda there is room enough and to spare. Well — now it is morning. When affection is no more, then to lie here merely to fill one's belly is shamelessness. This is no longer my home. Here I was born, here I played — but it is mine no longer. Father too is not my father. I am his son, but he is not my father. All the bonds of this world are bonds of affection. Where there is no affection, there is nothing. Alas, Mother — where are you?"

Thinking thus, Mansaram fell to weeping. As the old memories of his mother's love awoke, his tears welled up afresh. Several times he cried out, "Mother — Mother," as though she stood listening to him. Today for the first time he felt the sorrow of motherlessness. He was proud-spirited and bold; but, having until now been reared in the lap of comfort, he felt himself at this moment utterly without support.

It had struck ten at night. Munshiji had gone out somewhere that day to a dinner. Twice the maidservant had come to call Mansaram to his meal. The last time, he had said to her irritably, "I am not hungry; I will eat nothing. She keeps coming again and again and sitting on my head." So when Nirmala wished to send her again on the same errand, she would not go.

She said, "Mistress, he will not come at my calling."

"Why should he not come?" said Nirmala. "Go and tell him the food is growing cold. Let him eat a few mouthfuls."

"I have said all this till I'm worn out," said the maid. "He will not come."

"Did you tell him that I am sitting up?"

"No, mistress — that I did not say. Why should I lie?"

"All right — then go and say this: she sits waiting for you. If you do not eat, she will put away the kitchen and go to sleep. Listen, my Bhungi — go just this once more." Then, laughing, she added, "If he won't come, carry him here in your arms."

Bhungi went off, wrinkling her nose and brow, but came back in a moment and said, "Why, mistress — he is weeping! Has someone said something to him?"

Nirmala started up at this and took two or three steps forward, as a mother might who has had news that her son has fallen into a well; then she checked herself and said to Bhungi, "He is weeping? Did you not ask why he is weeping?"

"No, mistress — that I did not ask," said Bhungi. "Why should I lie?"

"He is weeping. In this silent, deep night, sitting alone, he is weeping. He must have thought of his mother. How shall I go and comfort him? Alas — how shall I comfort him? Here, my nose is cut off for so much as a sneeze. O God, you are my witness — if I have said anything to him even by mistake, may it come back upon my own head. What am I to do? In his heart he must be thinking that it is I who complained of him to his father. How shall I convince him that I have never let a single word against him pass my lips? If I could wish ill to a youth of such a god-like character, then there would be no greater demoness in all the world than I."

Nirmala saw that Mansaram's health was failing day by day, that he grew weaker day by day, that the pure radiance of his face grew duller day by day, that his once-smiling features were shrinking and contracting. The cause of it was no secret from her either; but she could say nothing of the matter to her husband. Seeing all this, her heart was torn within her, but her tongue could not open. Sometimes she fretted within herself: "Why does Mansaram grieve so much over such a small thing? Has he become a vagabond merely because they have called him one? My case is different — one little suspicion can be my utter ruin. But why should he care so much for such things?"

"A strong desire rose in her heart to go and quiet him and bring him to eat. The poor boy will lie hungry all night long. Alas — I am the root of all this trouble. Before I came, the kingdom of peace reigned in this house. The father would lay down his life for the boys; the boys loved their father. The moment I came, all these obstacles arose. What will be the end of them? God alone knows. God will not even grant me death. The poor boy lies hungry and alone. Even then he rose with his mouth still soiled from the meal. And how little he eats — what he eats, a child of one or two years would finish off."

Nirmala set out. She set out against her husband's wish. Going to coax the very one who, by the bond of relation, was her son, her heart trembled. First she looked towards Rukmini's room — she had eaten and was sleeping soundly, unaware of anything. Then she went towards the outer room. There was silence there; Munshiji had not yet returned. Having looked all about her, she came and stood before Mansaram's room. The room was open. Mansaram sat at the table, a book before him, his head bowed — as though he were the living image of grief and care. Nirmala wished to call out, but no voice came from her throat.

All at once Mansaram raised his head and looked towards the door. Seeing Nirmala, he could not make her out in the dark. He said with a start, "Who is it?"

Nirmala said in a trembling voice, "It is only I. Why do you not come to eat? How late the night has grown."

Mansaram, turning his face away, said, "I am not hungry."

"That I have already heard three times from Bhungi," said Nirmala.

"Then hear it a fourth time from my own mouth."

"You ate nothing in the evening either," said Nirmala. "Why is it you have no appetite?"

Mansaram, with a bitter, mocking laugh, said, "Even if I were very hungry — where would the appetite come from?"

As he said this, Mansaram tried to shut the door of the room; but Nirmala pushed the doors aside, came into the room, and taking Mansaram's hand, said with tear-filled eyes, in a voice sweet with entreaty, "For my sake, come and eat a little. If you will not eat, then I too shall go and lie down to sleep. Eat just two mouthfuls. Do you mean to keep me hungry all night?"

Mansaram fell to thinking. "She has not yet eaten — she has been sitting all this while waiting for me. Is she a goddess of love, tenderness and humility — or some illusory image of envy and ill omen?" He remembered his own mother. When he had sulked, she too would come like this to coax him, and would not rise from the spot until he went with her. He could not refuse this entreaty. He said, "I am sorry you have taken so much trouble for me. Had I known you were sitting hungry waiting for me, I would have come and eaten then and there."

Nirmala said in a tone of reproach, "How could you suppose that you would stay hungry while I ate and went to sleep? Shall I become so selfish merely because the bond between us is that of a stepmother?"

Suddenly the sound of Munshiji's coughing came from the men's room. It seemed as if he was coming towards Mansaram's room. The colour fled from Nirmala's face. She at once went out of the room, and, finding no chance to slip inside, said in a harsh voice, "I am no servant girl, to sit until this hour of the night at the kitchen door for anyone's sake. Whoever does not mean to eat ought to say so beforehand."

Munshiji saw Nirmala standing there. "What outrage is this! What has she come here to do?" He said, "What are you doing here?"

Nirmala said in a shrill voice, "What am I doing? I am weeping over my fate. There — I am the root of every evil. One sulks here, another stands there with his face swollen. Whom and how many am I to coax, and how far?"

Munshiji, somewhat astonished, said, "What is the matter?"

"He will not go to his meal — what other matter is there?" said Nirmala. "I sent the maid ten times; in the end I came running myself. It is easy enough for him to say this much — 'I am not hungry.' Here I am the servant girl of the whole house, and all the world is ready to smear black upon my face. Even though no one may have an appetite, who is to stop the gossips from saying that the witch gives no one anything to eat?"

Munshiji said to Mansaram, "Why do you not eat, my boy? Do you know what the hour is?"

Mansaram stood as if turned to stone. Before him a mystery was unfolding whose meaning he could not in the least fathom. In those eyes, which a moment before had been filled with the tears of entreaty, whence had this flame of envy suddenly come? From those lips, which a moment before had rained nectar, why had a stream of poison begun to flow? In that same half-conscious state he said, "I am not hungry."

Munshiji said with a scolding tone, "Why are you not hungry? If you had no appetite, why did you not send word in the evening? Who is to sit up the whole night waiting upon your appetite? You never had this habit before. Since when have you learned to sulk? Go and eat."

"No, sir — I have not the slightest appetite."

Totaram said, grinding his teeth, "Very well — eat when you are hungry." Saying this, he went inside. Nirmala too went in after him. Munshiji went off to lie down; she went and cleared away the kitchen and, having rinsed her mouth and eaten betel, came smiling. Munshiji asked, "You have eaten, then?"

"What else could I do?" said Nirmala. "Was I to give up food and drink for anyone's sake?"

"There is no knowing what has come over him," said Munshiji. "It is past all understanding. Day by day he wastes away; all day he lies shut in that room."

Nirmala said nothing. She was plunging and rising in a boundless ocean of anxiety. "Seeing this change in my manner, what must Mansaram have thought in his heart? Will the question not have risen in his mind — why did her brow darken the instant she saw his father? Will he too have understood the cause of it? The poor boy was coming to eat — and then this gentleman burst in from heaven knows where. How am I to explain this mystery to him? Is it even possible to explain it? Into what calamity have I fallen?"

In the morning she rose and busied herself with the housework. Suddenly, at nine o'clock, Bhungi came and said, "Master Mansaram is loading all his papers and books onto a cart."

"I asked him," said Bhungi, "and he said, 'Now I shall live at the school itself.'"

Mansaram had risen at dawn and gone to the headmaster of his school, and had arranged for his lodging there. At first the headmaster had said, "There is no room here; the applications of many boys senior to you are already on file." But when Mansaram said, "If I get no place, perhaps my studies will fail and I shall not be able to sit for the examination," then the headmaster had to give in. There was hope of Mansaram passing in the first division. The teachers were confident that he would bring lustre to the name of that school. How could the headmaster let such a boy slip away? He had his own office room cleared out for him. That was why, the moment Mansaram came back, he began loading his belongings onto a cart.

Munshiji said, "What such hurry is there now? Go in a few days. I wish to engage some good cook for you."

"The cook there cooks very good food," said Mansaram.

"Take care of your health," said Munshiji. "Do not, in pursuit of your studies, lose your health."

"There no one is allowed to study after nine o'clock," said Mansaram, "and everyone has to play, by rule."

"Why are you leaving your bedding behind?" said Munshiji. "What will you sleep on?"

"I am taking a blanket," said Mansaram. "There is no need of bedding."

"While the bearer is putting away your things," said Munshiji, "go and eat something. You ate nothing last night either."

"I'll eat there," said Mansaram. "I've told the cook to prepare a meal. If I begin to eat here, it will get late."

In the house, Jiaram and Siaram too were insisting on going with their brother. Nirmala was coaxing them both: "Son, young ones are not kept there; one has to do all one's own work oneself."

Suddenly Rukmini came and said, "Yours is a heart of iron, Your Majesty. The boy ate nothing last night, and now too he is going off without a bite of food or drink — and you are sitting here talking with the children? You do not know him. Understand this — he is not going to school; he is going into exile. He will not return. He is not one of those boys who forget a beating in their games. A thing once said is carved upon his heart like a line in stone."

Nirmala said in a stricken voice, "What am I to do, Sister? He listens to no one. You go and call him. At your calling he will come."

"After all, what has happened, that he must run off like this?" said Rukmini. "His heart was never weaned from home; nowhere pleased him but his own house. It must be you who said something to him, or made some complaint against him. Why are you sowing thorns for yourself? Rani, you shall not be allowed to grind this house to dust and then sit at your ease."

Nirmala said, weeping, "If I have said anything to him, may my tongue be cut off. Yes — being a stepmother, I bear the bad name already. I fold my hands to you — go, just go and call him back."

Rukmini said in a sharp voice, "Why do you not go and call him? Will you become smaller for it? Had he been your own, would you sit on like this?"

Nirmala's plight was like that of a wingless bird that, seeing a serpent advancing towards it, wishes to fly but cannot — that leaps and falls, and is left only beating its wings. Her heart fluttered and writhed within her, but she could not go out.

Just then the two boys came and said, "Brother has gone."

Nirmala stood as if turned to stone, as though she had lost all feeling. "Gone? He did not even come into the house, did not even meet me, and he is gone. So much hatred of me. Granted I am nothing to him — at least I was his aunt. He ought to have come to meet me. I was here, was I not? How was he to set foot inside? I would have seen him. That is why he has gone."