Eleven

Rukmini knitted her brows and said to Nirmala, "Is he to go off to school barefoot, then?"

Plaiting the little girl's hair, Nirmala said, "What can I do? I have no money."

"For ordering jewellery there is always money to be found," said Rukmini, "but when it comes to the boy's shoes, money catches fire. Two have already gone — do you mean to drive the third to his grave with weeping as well?"

Drawing a long breath, Nirmala said, "Whoever is meant to live will live; whoever is meant to die will die. I do not go about killing or sparing anyone."

These days a quarrel sprang up between Nirmala and Rukmini almost daily, over one thing or another. Ever since the jewellery had been stolen, Nirmala's whole nature had changed. She had begun to clutch every farthing between her teeth. Siyaram might weep himself half to death, but he would not be given money for sweets — and this treatment was not reserved for Siyaram alone. Nirmala kept putting off her own needs as well. No new sari was bought until the old one had worn to shreds. For months no oil was sent for to dress her hair. She had been fond of chewing paan, yet for days at a stretch the betel-box lay empty — so much so that even the little girl's milk did not come. The future of that tiny infant rose up before her in monstrous shapes and hovered over the whole field of her thoughts.

Munshiji had surrendered himself entirely into Nirmala's hands. He interfered in none of her affairs. For some reason he kept himself cowed before her. He now went to the court every single day, without a break. He had not worked so hard even in his youth. His eyes had gone weak; Doctor Sinha had forbidden him to read or write at night; his digestion, feeble before, had grown worse; even the beginnings of asthma had appeared — yet the poor man worked from morning till the middle of the night. Whether the spirit was willing or not, whether his health was good or ill, the work had to be done. Nirmala felt not the slightest pity for him. That same dreadful anxiety about the future was destroying every kind feeling within her. The voice of any beggar set her in a temper. She did not wish to part with a single cowrie.

One day Nirmala sent Siyaram to the market to fetch ghee. She had no faith in Bhungi; she no longer sent her to buy anything. Siyaram knew nothing of cheating or guile. He could not haggle. Almost the whole of the marketing fell to him. Nirmala would weigh every article, and if anything fell even a little short in the scales she would send it back. A great deal of Siyaram's time was spent in this carrying back and forth. The shopkeepers were slow to give him anything. Today, too, the same thing came to pass. Siyaram, to the best of his judgment, brought very good ghee, after looking at it in several shops; but the moment Nirmala smelled it she said, "The ghee is bad. Take it back."

Siyaram said irritably, "There is no better ghee in the market than this. I have looked through every shop and brought it."

"So I am lying?" said Nirmala.

"I do not say that," said Siyaram, "but the merchant will not take the ghee back now. He told me, 'Examine it however you wish, examine it here — the goods are before you. At the hour of the first sale of the day I will not take any purchase back.' I smelled it, I tasted it, I took it. With what face shall I go back now?"

Grinding her teeth, Nirmala said, "There is plainly tallow mixed in the ghee, and you say it is good. I will not carry this into the kitchen. Take it back if you like, or eat it yourself — as you please."

Leaving the pot of ghee where it stood, Nirmala went into the house. Siyaram was overcome with anger and distress. With what face was he to go and return it? The merchant would say flatly, "I will not take it back." What was he to do then? Ten or five neighbouring shopkeepers and the men passing along the road would all gather round. Before them all he would be put to shame. No merchant in the market gave him goods readily as it was; he was scarcely allowed to stand at any shop. From every side abuse would rain down on him. Fuming inwardly, he said to himself, "Let the ghee lie there — I will not go to return it."

There is no creature in this world so wretched, so forlorn, as a motherless child, and all his sorrows come crowding back upon him at once. The boy remembered his mother. Had Amma been here, would I have had to bear all this today? Brother has gone; why have I alone been left behind to endure this calamity? A flood of tears welled into Siyaram's eyes. From his grief-stricken throat, mingled with a deep sigh, these words broke forth: "Amma! Why have you forgotten me — why do you not call me to yourself?"

Suddenly Nirmala came back towards the room. She had supposed Siyaram would have gone. Seeing him still sitting there, she said angrily, "You are still sitting here? When, after all, is the food to be cooked?"

Siyaram wiped his eyes. "I shall be late for school," he said.

"If you are late one day, what harm is there?" said Nirmala. "Is this not also work for the house?"

"Every day it is the same business," said Siyaram. "I never reach school on time. At home too I get no time to study. No purchase is accepted without being sent back two or four times. The scolding falls on me, the shame is mine to bear — what does it matter to you?"

"Yes, what does it matter to me!" said Nirmala. "I am your enemy, after all! Had you been my own, then I should grieve. I pray to God that you should never learn to read and write. In me there are nothing but faults; you are without blame. The very name of stepmother is an evil one. Let one's own mother feed one poison, and it is nectar; let me give nectar to drink, and it turns to poison. Because of you all I have been ground into the dust; my life is being spent in weeping. I never even understood for what purpose God gave me birth — and in your eyes I am living in pleasure. It gives me great delight to torment you. Not even God asks whether all this misery might come to an end."

As she spoke, Nirmala's eyes filled with tears. She went inside. Seeing her weep, Siyaram was struck with dread. It was not exactly remorse; but he feared what punishment might fall upon him. Quietly he picked up the pot and set off to return the ghee — moving the way a dog enters a strange village. Looking at him, even a man of ordinary wits could have guessed that he was an orphan.

The further Siyaram advanced, the faster his heart beat with dread of the coming battle. He resolved that if the merchant did not take the ghee back, he would leave the ghee there and walk away. Bested, the merchant would come and call him back of his own accord. He even thought out the words with which to scold the merchant. He would say, "Why, master, do you throw dust in people's eyes? You show fine goods and hand over rubbish?" But even after settling all this, his feet rose very slowly. He did not want the merchant to see him coming; he wanted to appear before him all at once, by surprise. So he took a roundabout way and reached the merchant's shop through another lane.

The moment the merchant saw him, he said, "I had told you we do not take goods back. Speak — did I say so or not?"

Flaring up, Siyaram said, "Where is that ghee you gave, the ghee you showed me? You showed one thing and gave another. How can you not take it back? Is this not highway robbery?"

"If finer ghee than this turns up in the market," said the merchant, "I will pay a forfeit. Take up your pot and look round two or four shops."

"I have no leisure for so much," said Siyaram. "Take your ghee back."

"The ghee will not be taken back," said the merchant.

A matted-haired sadhu sitting at the merchant's shop was watching this scene. He rose, came over to Siyaram, smelled the ghee in the pot, and said, "My child, the ghee seems very good indeed."

Emboldened, the merchant said, "Babaji, we ourselves never give him inferior goods. Why should bad goods be given to known, familiar customers?"

"Take the ghee away, child," said the sadhu. "It is very good."

Siyaram broke into tears. What proof had he now to prove the ghee bad? "But she keeps saying the ghee is not good — take it back," he said. "I myself said the ghee was good."

"Who says so?" asked the sadhu.

"It must be his mother who says so," said the merchant. "No purchase ever pleases her."

"The poor boy is made to run back and forth, again and again. She is a stepmother, you see! Were she his own mother, she would show some consideration."

The sadhu looked upon Siyaram with kindly eyes, as though his heart was wrung with longing to deliver him. Then in a tender voice he said, "How many days is it, child, since your mother passed to heaven?"

"This is the sixth year," said Siyaram.

"Then you must have been very small at that time," said the sadhu. "O God, how strange is Thy play! Thou hast deprived this milk-mouthed child of a mother's love. A great wrong Thou doest, O Lord! A boy of six years, and fallen into the clutches of a demon stepmother! Blessed art Thou, O Ocean of Mercy! Master merchant, have pity on the boy, take the ghee back, or his mother will not let him stay in the house. By God's will your ghee will quickly be sold. My blessing shall be with you."

The merchant did not return the money. In the end the boy would have to come again to buy ghee. There was no telling how many times a day he would have to make the rounds, or what swindler he would fall in with. He gave the boy the best ghee in his shop. Siyaram was thinking in his heart, how merciful Babaji is! Had he not put in a word, why would the merchant have given good ghee?

When Siyaram set off with the ghee, Babaji went along with him. On the way he began to speak sweet, gentle words.

"My child, my mother too departed to the next world, leaving me a boy of three. From that time on, whenever I see motherless children my heart begins to break."

Siyaram asked, "Did your father too marry a second time?"

"Yes, child," said the sadhu, "or why else should I be a sadhu today? At first my father would not marry. He loved me very much. Then, for some reason I cannot tell, his mind changed and he married. I am a sadhu; bitter words should not pass my lips, but my stepmother was as hard as she was beautiful. She would give me nothing to eat all day long; if I wept she would beat me. My father's eyes too turned away from me. He came to loathe the very sight of my face. Hearing me cry, he would set about beating me. At last, one day, I walked out of the house and was gone."

The thought of fleeing from home had risen in Siyaram's mind many times before. At this moment too the same thought was rising in him. He asked very eagerly, "Where did you go after leaving home?"

Babaji said with a smile, "On the very day I was freed from the bonds of home and fear left my heart, all my sufferings came to an end — that day, as it were, was my deliverance. All day I sat beneath a bridge. In the evening a holy man met me. His name was Swami Paramanand. He was a lifelong celibate. He took pity on me and kept me with him. With him I began to wander through country after country. He was a very fine yogi. He taught me the science of yoga as well. By now I have gained such mastery that whenever I wish, I behold my mother and speak with her."

With wide-staring eyes Siyaram asked, "But had not your mother passed away?"

"What of that, child?" said the sadhu. "There is such power in the science of yoga that whatever departed soul one wishes, one can summon."

"If I learn the science of yoga," said Siyaram, "shall I too behold my mother?"

"Surely. By practice all things become possible. Yes, one needs a worthy guru. By yoga the greatest powers may be attained. As much wealth as you wish, you can summon in an instant. Whatever the malady, you can prescribe its remedy."

"Where is your dwelling-place?" asked Siyaram.

"Child, I have no dwelling-place anywhere," said the sadhu. "I roam wandering from country to country. Well, child, go now; I must go to bathe and meditate a while."

"Let me come with you," said Siyaram. "I have not had my fill of your company."

"No, child," said the sadhu, "you are getting late for school."

"When shall I see you again?"

"I shall come some time, child. Where is your house?"

Siyaram said joyfully, "Will you come to my house? It is very near. It will be a great kindness of yours."

Siyaram quickened his pace and began to walk on ahead. He was as delighted as though he were carrying off a bundle of gold. Reaching the front of the house, he said, "Come, sit a while."

"No, child, I shall not sit," said the sadhu. "I will come again some time tomorrow or the day after. Is this your house, then?"

"At what time will you come tomorrow?" asked Siyaram.

"I cannot say for certain. I shall come some time."

When the sadhu moved on, at only a little distance he met another sadhu. His name was Hariharanand.

He asked Paramanand, "Where all have you wandered? Has any prey been snared?"

"I have been all round about here," said Hariharanand. "No prey has come my way. One or two did, but they only began to mock me."

"I think I have one coming," said Paramanand. "If he is caught, I shall know."

"You always say so," said Hariharanand. "Whoever comes runs off again after a day or two."

"This one will not run off this time — you shall see," said Paramanand. "His mother is dead. The father has married a second time. The mother torments him. He is sick of his home."

"Excellent — very good indeed," said Hariharanand. "This is the best trick of all. First one ought to find out which houses in the neighbourhood have stepmothers. The snare should be set in just those houses."

Nirmala said angrily, "Why have you taken so long?"

Siyaram said insolently, "I had fallen asleep somewhere on the way."

"I am not asking that," said Nirmala, "but do you know what o'clock it is? It has long struck ten. And the market is not far off either."

"Not far at all," said Siyaram. "It is right at our door."

"Why do you not speak straight?" said Nirmala. "You are flaring up as though you had gone to do some work of mine."

"Then why do you talk such useless nonsense?" said Siyaram. "Is it an easy matter to return a purchase once it has been taken? I had to wrangle with the merchant for hours. And even so, it was only because a Babaji argued and persuaded him that he took it back — otherwise he would never have done so. On the way I did not stop even a minute anywhere; I have come straight back."

"You went for ghee and have returned at eleven," said Nirmala. "If you go for firewood, you will make it dusk before you are back. Your father has gone off without eating. If you were going to take so long, why did you not say so at the start? Go straight off for firewood."

Siyaram could now control himself no longer. He burst out, "Send for the firewood by someone else. I am getting late for school."

"Will you not eat?" said Nirmala.

"I will not eat," said Siyaram.

"I am ready to cook the food," said Nirmala. "But I cannot go to fetch firewood."

"Why do you not send Bhungi?" said Siyaram.

"Have you never seen the sort of purchases Bhungi brings?" said Nirmala.

"Then I will not go just now," said Siyaram.

"Do not blame me," said Nirmala.

Siyaram had not been to school for several days. With the marketing on his hands he found no time even to look at his books. What was there to be had at school but scoldings, beyond standing on the bench or being given the dunce's cap? He would set out from home with his books, but going beyond the city he would sit in the shade of some tree, or watch the regiments drilling. At three o'clock he would come home. Today too he set out from home, but his heart would not settle to sitting, and on top of that his innards were burning with hunger. Alas! Now even bread had become hard for him to come by. Could the food not have been cooked at ten o'clock? Granted that Babuji had gone. Were there not even two or four paise in the house for me? Had Amma been here, would she have let me come away without eating or drinking? Now there is no one of mine left.

Siyaram's mind grew restless to behold Babaji. He thought — where shall I find him at this hour? Where shall I go to look? Babaji's enchanting voice, his heartening words of comfort, began to draw his mind. He said to himself in his eagerness — why did I not go away with him? What was there at home kept for me?

When he set out from there today, instead of going home he went straight to the ghee merchant's shop. Perhaps he might meet Babaji there; but Babaji was not there. After standing about for a long while, he came away.

He had only just come home and sat down when Nirmala came and said, "Why have you been so late today? The food was not cooked this morning — is there to be a fast this time too? Go and fetch some vegetable from the market."

Siyaram said in a temper, "I come back hungry the whole day; I have not even been given a drink of water, and on top of that comes the order to go to the market. I will not go to the market — I am no one's servant. After all, you only feed me bread, or something more? Such bread I shall get wherever I labour. If I must work as a hired hand, I will not do it for you. Go — do not cook food for me."

Nirmala was struck dumb. What had come over the boy today? On other days he would go quietly and do the work; why was he scowling so today? Even now it did not occur to her to give Siyaram two or four paise for something to eat. Her nature had grown so miserly. She said, "Doing the work of the house is not called labouring for hire. In the same way I might say I do not cook the food; your father might say he does not go to the court — then tell me, what would become of us? If you do not wish to go, do not go; I shall send Bhungi. How was I to know you found going to market hateful, or, by all means, a thing worth half a cowrie should have cost a paisa, but I would not have sent you. There — from today I hold my ears."

Siyaram was somewhat ashamed in his heart, but still he did not go to the market. His thoughts were fixed on Babaji. The end of all his sorrows and all the hopes of his life now seemed to him to lie in Babaji's blessing. By taking refuge with him this aimless life of his would be made worthwhile. As the sun set he grew impatient. He scoured the whole market, but nowhere could he find any trace of Babaji. Hungry and thirsty the whole day, that innocent boy, pressing his aching heart with his hands, made the very image of hope and fear, went searching through shops and lanes and temples for that refuge, without which his life had become unbearable to him. Once, in front of a temple, he saw a sadhu standing. He thought it was the same one. He blossomed with joy and delight. He ran and came to stand beside the sadhu. But this was some other holy man. Disappointed, he moved on.

Slowly silence fell upon the streets; the doors of the houses began to close. On the pavements and in the lanes, spreading out bamboo cots or sacking, the people of India began to sink into the sleep of comfort, but Siyaram did not return home. His heart had been wrenched away from that house where no one loved him, where he lay like some dependent stranger, only because he had nowhere else to take shelter. Even at this hour, who would be troubled by his not coming home? Babuji must have eaten and lain down; Amma too must be going to her rest. No one would so much as glance towards my room. Yes — Buaji must be anxious; she must still be watching the road for me. Until I come, she will not eat.

The moment he remembered Rukmini, Siyaram set off towards home. If she could do nothing else, did she not at least clasp him to her bosom and weep? When he came in from outside, did she not at least set out water for him to wash his hands and face? Not all the children in the world rinse their mouths with milk, not all of them eat golden morsels. Many do not even get a bellyful of food; but those who turn away from home are those who have been deprived of a mother's love.

Siyaram had only just set off towards home when, all at once, Baba Paramanand was seen coming out of a lane.

Siyaram went up and seized his hand. Startled, Paramanand asked, "Child, what are you doing here?"

Inventing a tale, Siyaram said, "I had come to see a friend. How far from here is your dwelling-place?"

"We are leaving here today, child," said Paramanand. "We are on pilgrimage to Hardwar."

Siyaram said, disheartened, "Will you go away this very day?"

"Yes, child. When I come back, I shall give you my darshan."

In a sorrowful voice Siyaram said, "I too will go with you."

"With me!" said Paramanand. "Will the people of your house let you go?"

"What care have the people of my house for me?" Beyond this Siyaram could say nothing. His tear-filled eyes told the tale of his sorrow at far greater length than his voice could have done.

Paramanand pressed the boy to his breast and said, "Very well, child, if it is your wish, come. Enjoy the bliss of the company of saints and holy men. If God wills, your wish shall be fulfilled."

The bird that had hovered over the grain at last dropped down upon it. Whether its life will end in the cage or beneath the fowler's knife — who can tell?