Nine

After Krishna's wedding Sudha went away, but Nirmala stayed on at her mother's home. The lawyer wrote again and again, but she would not go. She had no heart to go there. There was nothing there to draw her back. Here, in serving her mother and looking after her younger brothers, her time passed in great contentment. Had the lawyer come himself, perhaps she would have agreed to go; but at this wedding the girls of the neighbourhood had so harried him that the poor man would not so much as speak of coming. Sudha too wrote several letters, but Nirmala put her off with excuses and evasions. At last one day Sudha took a servant with her and came down upon her in person.

When the two had embraced, Sudha said, "It is as though you are afraid to go there."

Nirmala said, "Yes, sister, I am indeed afraid. I came away three years after my marriage; this time my whole life will end there — and then who will call me, and who will come?"

Sudha said, "What is there to coming? Come away whenever you wish. The lawyer there is in great unrest."

Nirmala said, "Great unrest — perhaps he cannot sleep at night."

Sudha said, "Sister, your heart is of stone. One feels pity to see his state. He said there is no one in the house to ask after him, no son, no child — with whom is he to console his mind? Ever since he moved into the other house, he has been very unhappy."

Nirmala said, "As for sons, God has given two of them."

Sudha said, "He complained bitterly of those two. Jiyaram no longer listens to a word — he gives sharp answer for answer. And the younger one too is under his sway. The poor man weeps remembering his eldest son."

Nirmala said, "But Jiyaram was no wild boy — since when has he learned this insolence? He never used to cross a single word of mine; he worked at a sign."

Sudha said, "Who knows, sister; I hear he says, 'You yourself poisoned and killed Brother; you are a murderer.' Several times he has taunted him over his marriage to you. He says such things that the lawyer breaks into tears. Oh, what more shall I tell — one day he ran at him to strike him with a stone."

Nirmala said, sinking into grave thought, "This boy has turned out a great devil. Who told him that they had given his brother poison?"

Sudha said, "That will be put right by you alone."

A new anxiety was born in Nirmala. If Jiya's colours are these — if he is always ready to fight even his own father — why should he be cowed by me? Far into the night she remained sunk in this worry. Today she remembered Mansaram very much. With him life would have passed in peace. When the boy behaves so even in his father's presence, how will she ever get on with him after the father is gone! The house had already slipped from their hands. Some debt or other must surely still be upon their heads, and the income in such a state. God alone would carry the boat across. Today, for the first time, anxiety for the children was born in Nirmala. What will become of this poor little one? God has set this calamity upon my head. I had no need of it. If I had to be born at all, I should have been born in some fortunate man's house. The baby slept clasped to her breast. The mother clasped her closer still, as though someone were snatching her from her hands.

Right beside Nirmala stood Sudha's cot. Nirmala was diving in an ocean of worry, while Sudha enjoyed the pleasure of sweet sleep. Does no anxiety for her own child trouble her? Death makes no distinction between old and young — then why does no worry trouble Sudha? She had never been seen downcast with anxiety for the future.

Suddenly Sudha's sleep broke. Seeing Nirmala still awake, she said, "Oh, are you not asleep yet?"

Nirmala said, "Sleep simply will not come."

Sudha said, "Close your eyes, sleep will come of itself. As for me, the moment I am on the cot I become as one dead. Even if he is awake, I do not know it. I do not know why I sleep so much. Perhaps it is some illness."

Nirmala said, "Yes, it is a very grave illness. They call it the king's disease — luxury. Tell the doctor to begin the treatment."

Sudha said, "Then what am I to lie awake thinking about? Sometimes the memory of my mother's home comes, and on that day it takes me a little longer to fall asleep."

Nirmala said, "Does the memory of the doctor not come?"

Sudha said, "Never; why should his memory come? I know that he must have come back from playing tennis, eaten his meal, and be lying comfortably."

Nirmala said, "There, Sohan has woken too. When you are awake, why should the poor child go on sleeping?"

Sudha said, "Yes, sister, he has a strange habit. He sleeps with me and wakes with me. He is some ascetic from a former life. Look — what a mark of tilak there is on his forehead. There are such marks on his arms too. Surely he is some ascetic."

Nirmala said, "Ascetics do not wear sandal-paste and tilak. He must be some sly priest of a former birth. Tell me, you — what sort of priest were you? Tell me."

Sudha said, "I shall marry him to your little girl."

Nirmala said, "Come now, sister, you are abusing me. Does a brother get married to a sister?"

Sudha said, "I shall do it, let anyone say what they like. Where else shall I find so beautiful a daughter-in-law? Just feel, sister — is his body a little hot, or does it only seem so to me?"

Nirmala touched Sohan's forehead and said, "No, no, his body is hot. When did this fever come on? He is still taking his milk, isn't he?"

Sudha said, "He was sleeping just now, and then his body was cool. Perhaps he has caught a chill. I shall cover him well and let him sleep. By morning he will be all right."

When morning came, Sohan's condition was worse still. His nose began to run and the fever grew sharper still. His eyes were heavy and his head drooped. He neither moved hand nor foot, nor did he laugh or talk; he simply lay quiet. It seemed as though anyone's speaking displeased him at that moment. A little cough too began. Now Sudha was alarmed. Nirmala too was of the opinion that the doctor should be sent for; but Sudha's old mother said, "There is no work here for any doctor or hakim. I can see it plainly — the child has been struck by the evil eye. What will the doctor do by coming?"

Sudha said, "Mother, why, who would cast the evil eye here? He has not yet been taken outside even once."

The mother said, "No one casts it, daughter; the gaze of some person is evil, and it falls of itself. Sometimes even a mother's or father's eye falls upon a child. Ever since he came, he has not cried even once. Spoiled children come to just this pass. When I saw him bouncing about so, I was afraid that some misfortune was bound to come. Don't you see his eyes — how heavy they are? That is the surest sign of the evil eye."

The old maidservant and the neighbourhood pandit's wife confirmed this saying. So Mangu came, looked at the child's face, and said with a laugh, "Mistress, this is the evil eye and nothing else. Just have some thin reeds sent for. If God wills, the child will be laughing by evening."

Five pieces of reed-grass were brought. Mangu made them equal, tied them together with a thread, and muttering something, stroked Sohan's head five times with his cupped hands. Now, when they looked, the five reeds had become unequal — some shorter, some longer. All the women were struck dumb at this marvel. Now who could doubt the evil eye? Mangu again began to stroke the child with the reeds. This time the reeds came out equal — only a slight difference remained. All this was proof that the effect of the evil eye now remained only a little. Mangu consoled everyone and, promising to come again in the evening, went away. The child's condition worsened during the day. The cough grew stronger. In the evening Mangu came and again performed the show with the reeds. This time all five reeds came out equal. The women were set at ease. But Sohan passed the whole night coughing — so much so that several times his eyes rolled back. Sudha and Nirmala both sat through to dawn. Well, the night passed safely. Now the old mother brought forward a new turn. Mangu had not been able to remove the evil eye, so now it became necessary to have an incantation blown over the child by some maulvi. Even so, Sudha could not bring herself to inform her husband. The maidservant wrapped Sohan in a sheet, took him to a mosque, and had the incantation blown; in the evening too the blowing was done, but Sohan did not raise his head. Night came, and Sudha resolved in her mind that if the night passed safely she would send her husband a telegram at dawn.

But the night was not allowed to pass safely. As the middle of the night went by, the child slipped from their hands. Sudha's living treasure was wrenched from her grasp before her very eyes.

The very child whose marriage had been jested over two days before today set the whole house weeping. He whose innocent face made his mother's breast swell — at the sight of him today his mother's breast was torn apart. The whole household tried to console Sudha, but her tears would not stop, no patience would come. Her greatest sorrow was this — with what face shall I show myself to my husband! I did not even give him the news.

The telegram was sent that very night, and the next day Doctor Sinha arrived by motorcar towards nine o'clock. When Sudha got the news of his coming, she began to weep more bitterly still. The child's last rites by water were performed. The doctor came inside several times, but Sudha did not go to him. How was she to go before him? With what face was she to show herself? By her own foolishness she had snatched the jewel of his life and cast it into the river. Now, at the thought of going to him, her breast was torn to pieces. Seeing the child in her lap, the husband's eyes used to light up. The child would bound off into his father's lap. When the mother called him again, he would cling to his father's breast, and for all her coaxing and caressing he would not leave his father's lap. Then the mother would say, "He is very self-interested." Today, taking whom in her lap will she go to her husband? Seeing her empty lap, she feared he might burst out crying. Rather than go before her husband, dying seemed somehow easier to her. She would not leave Nirmala's side even for a moment, lest she should come face to face with her husband.

Nirmala said, "Sister, what was to be has happened; how long will you go on running from him? He will leave this very night. Mother said so."

Sudha said, gazing at her with brimming eyes, "With what face am I to go before him? I am afraid that the moment I go before him my legs will tremble and I shall fall."

Nirmala said, "Come, I shall go with you. I shall hold you up."

Sudha said, "You will not run off and leave me, will you?"

Nirmala said, "No, no, I shall not run off."

Sudha said, "My heart is already brimming over. Even after so terrible a thunderbolt I am sitting here — that itself astonishes me. He loved Sohan very much, sister. Who knows what state his mind will be in. What comfort shall I give him — I shall only sit weeping myself. Will he leave this very night?"

Nirmala said, "Yes, Mother said he has not taken leave."

The two friends set off towards the men's room, but on reaching the door of the room Sudha sent Nirmala away. She entered the room alone.

The doctor was in agitation, wondering what state Sudha must be in. All kinds of fears were rising in his mind. He sat ready to go, but his heart was not in it. Life seemed void. He fretted within himself — if God had to take this thing back so soon after giving it, why give it at all? He had never prayed to God for a child. He could have remained childless all his life; but to gain a child and then be deprived of it seemed unbearable to him. Is man truly God's plaything? Is this the worth of human life? Is it merely a child's house of sand, with no purpose in its building nor in its breaking? And yet children too feel attachment to their houses of sand, to their paper boats, to their wooden horses. They hide a good toy carefully behind their lives. If God is a child, then He is a strange child.

But reason will not accept this form of God. The Maker of the infinite creation cannot be an unruly child. We adorn Him with all those qualities that lie beyond the reach of our understanding. Surely playfulness is not among those great qualities! Is the taking of the lives of laughing, playing children a game? Does God play such a fiendish game?

Suddenly Sudha entered the room on soft feet. The doctor rose to his feet and, coming near her, said, "Where were you, Sudha? I was watching for you."

The room seemed to swim before Sudha's eyes. Putting her arms about her husband's neck, she laid her head upon his breast and began to weep; but in this flood of tears she felt a boundless patience and consolation. Clasped to her husband's breast, she found a strange vigour and strength coursing through her heart, as though a lamp, flickering in the wind, had come into the shelter of a sheltering border-cloth.

The doctor took the woman's tear-wet cheeks in both his hands and said, "Sudha, why do you make your heart so small? Sohan had done whatever he came into his life to do; then why should he have stayed on? As a tree grows by water and light, but is made strong by the fierce gusts of wind, just so does love too unfold through the blows of sorrow. Many are found to laugh along with us in joy; he who weeps with us in grief, he is our true friend. Those lovers who have not had it given to them to weep together — what do they know of the joys of love? Sohan's death has today wholly wiped away the duality between us. Today only have we seen each other's true selves."

Sudha said, sobbing, "I was deceived about the evil eye. Alas! You could not even see his face. I do not know where, in those last days, he had got so much understanding from. When he saw me weeping, he would forget his own pain and smile. On the very third day my darling's eyes closed. We could not even try any medicine or remedy."

As she said this, Sudha's tears welled up again. Doctor Sinha pressed her to his breast and said in a voice trembling with compassion, "Dear one, to this day no such child or old man has ever died over whom the family's longing to give medicine and remedy was fulfilled."

Sudha said, "Nirmala helped me greatly. I would at least snatch a doze or two, but her eyes did not close. Night after night she sat holding him, or paced about. I shall never forget her kindness. Are you leaving this very day?"

The doctor said, "Yes, there was no chance to take leave. The Civil Surgeon had gone off hunting."

Sudha said, "Do all these men always do nothing but hunt?"

The doctor said, "What other work have kings?"

Sudha said, "Today I shall not let you go."

The doctor said, "My own heart does not wish it either."

Sudha said, "Then do not go; send a telegram. I too shall go with you. I shall take Nirmala along as well."

When Sudha came back from there, the burden of her heart had lightened. Her husband's loving, gentle words had carried away all her grief and torment. In love there is boundless faith, boundless patience, and boundless strength.

When some great calamity falls upon us, it does not bring us sorrow alone; we have also to endure the taunts of others. The public gets that fine opportunity to make its remarks, an opportunity for which it is forever restless. No sooner had Mansaram died than society found, as it were, a pretext for casting its jeers upon them. Who could know the inner truth of things; the visible fact was this — all this is the doing of the stepmother. On every side this was the talk: may God never let children fall into the hands of a stepmother. Whoever wishes to lay waste his own well-built home, to draw a knife across the necks of his dear children, let him marry a second time while his children are living. It has never been seen that, on a co-wife's coming, a home was not ruined; the very father who would have laid down his life for his children becomes, the moment the co-wife arrives, the enemy of those same children — his very mind is changed. No such goddess was ever born who counted a co-wife's children as her own.

The trouble was that people were not content with mere remarks. There were also certain gentlefolk who had now conceived a special affection for Jiyaram and Siyaram. They showed great sympathy with the two boys — so much so that one or two ladies, remembering the gentleness and good nature of their mother, would shed tears. Alas, alas! How could the poor woman have known that the moment she died her darlings would fall to this wretched state! Now where would they get milk and butter!

Jiyaram would say, "Why should we not get it?"

The lady would say, "Get it! Oh son, getting is also of many kinds. Watered milk bought at a penny a seer is set down — drink it or not, who asks? Otherwise the poor woman used to have a servant milk the cow and bring it. Your very face tells the tale. The look of milk does not stay hidden — that very look is no longer there."

Jiya did not remember the taste of the milk of his mother's time, that he might answer this charge, nor did he remember his own appearance of those days, and so he would fall silent. It was natural too that these well-wishings should have their effect. Jiyaram's dislike of his own household kept growing. After the house was sold at auction Munshiji moved into another dwelling, and then there was the worry of rent. Nirmala had stopped the butter. When the income was not there, how could the spending be? Both the bearers were let go. Jiyaram resented this paring and trimming. When Nirmala went off to her mother's home, Munshiji stopped the milk too. The anxiety of the newborn girl had already settled upon his head.

Siyaram said angrily, "By stopping the milk you must be building yourself a palace. Stop the food as well!"

Munshiji said, "If you are fond of drinking milk, why do you not go and have the cow milked yourself? I cannot pay even the price of water."

Jiyaram said, "Am I to go and have the cow milked, and if some schoolboy sees me, then?"

Munshiji said, "Then nothing. Say you are taking the milk for yourself. To carry milk is no theft."

Jiyaram said, "No theft! If anyone were to see you carrying milk, would you not feel ashamed?"

Munshiji said, "Not at all. With these very hands I have drawn water and carried bundles of grain. My father was no millionaire."

Jiyaram said, "My father is not poor — why should I go to have the cow milked? After all, why did you dismiss the bearers?"

Munshiji said, "Have you not even the wit to see that my income is no longer what it was? Surely you are not so foolish?"

Jiyaram said, "After all, why has your income fallen?"

Munshiji said, "When you have no sense at all, what am I to explain? I am weary of life here. Who is to take up lawsuits, and who, even if he takes them, is to prepare them? That heart is no longer left in me. Now I am simply living out the days of my life. All my aspirations went away with Lallu."

Jiyaram said, "By your own hands, was it not?"

Munshiji said, crying out, "Oh fool! It was God's will. Does anyone cut his own throat with his own hands?"

Jiyaram said, "God did not come to get you married."

Now Munshiji could restrain himself no longer; rolling his red, red eyes, he said, "Have you come today girded up for a fight? On the strength of what, after all? You do not earn my bread, do you? When you become fit for it, then preach to me; then I shall listen. As yet you have no right to preach to me. Learn some manners and courtesy for a few days. You are not my counsellor, that I should take your advice in whatever I do. It is wealth of my own earning; I may spend it as I please. You have no right even to open your mouth. If you are insolent to me again, the consequences will be bad. When my life did not depart at the loss of a jewel like Mansaram, I shall not die without you. Do you understand?"

Even after receiving this stern rebuke, Jiyaram did not budge from there. With an unflinching air he said, "So you wish that, however much we may suffer, we should not open our mouths? That I shall not do. I have no hunger for the reward that Brother got for his manners and courtesy. I have not the courage to swallow poison and give up my life. Such manners I salute from a distance."

Munshiji said, "Are you not ashamed to talk like this?"

Jiyaram said, "Children only copy their elders."

Munshiji's anger died down. He became convinced that nothing would have any effect upon Jiyaram. He got up and went off to pace about. Today he had received the warning that the ruin of this house was soon to come.

From that day on, some clash or other between father and son took place every single day. The more Munshiji bore with it, the more emboldened Jiyaram grew. One day Jiyaram even went so far as to say to Rukmini, "It is because he is my father that I let him be; otherwise I have such companions that if I wished I could have him beaten in the open marketplace." Rukmini reported this to Munshiji. Munshiji outwardly showed indifference, but a fear lodged itself in his mind. He gave up his evening walks. This new anxiety took hold of him. It was out of this very fear that he did not bring Nirmala back either — for the wretch would treat her in the same way. Jiyaram had once even said under his breath, "Let me see how she comes into this house this time." Munshiji too understood very well that he could do nothing to him. Had it been some outsider, he would have caught him in the grip of the police and the law. But what is one to do with one's own son? It is truly said — when a man is defeated, it is by his own sons.

One day Doctor Sinha called Jiyaram and began to reason with him. Jiyaram respected him. He sat quiet and went on listening. When the doctor at last asked, "After all, what is it you want?" he said, "Shall I say it plainly? You will not take it ill?"

Sinha said, "No, whatever is in your heart, say it plainly."

Jiyaram said, "Then hear me. Ever since Brother died, the sight of my father's face fills me with anger. It seems to me that it was he who murdered Brother, and that one day, given the chance, he will murder both of us brothers too. If this had not been his wish, why would he have married at all?"

The doctor said, with great difficulty holding back his laughter, "What need had he to marry in order to murder you — that I do not understand. He could have murdered you without marrying too."

Jiyaram said, "Never. At that time his heart was quite another thing; he laid down his life for us. Now he does not wish even to look at our faces. It is his very wish that no one should remain in the house except those two persons. He wishes to clear us out of the way of the children that are to come. That is the heart's intent of both those two persons. They wish to drive us away by giving us all kinds of hardship. That is why he takes no lawsuits these days. Let us two brothers die today, and then see what a fine time there will be."

The doctor said, "If he had wanted you to leave, could he not have turned you out of the house on some charge?"

Jiyaram said, "For that I am ready in advance."

The doctor said, "Let me hear — what preparations have you made?"

Jiyaram said, "When the time comes, you shall see."

Saying this, Jiyaram walked off. Doctor Sinha called after him repeatedly, but he did not even turn to look back.

Several days later the doctor met Jiyaram again. The doctor was a lover of the cinema, and Jiyaram's very soul dwelt in the cinema. The doctor, by discussing the cinema, drew Jiyaram into talk and brought him to his own house. The hour for dinner had come, and the two of them sat down to eat together. Jiyaram found the food there very tasty, and said, "At our house, ever since the cook was let go, all the pleasure of eating has gone. Aunt makes strict vegetarian Vaishnava food. I eat it by force, but I have no heart even to look towards the food."

The doctor said, "At my house, when food is cooked at home, it is somehow tastier. Your aunt would not touch onion and garlic?"

Jiyaram said, "Yes, sir, she just boils things and sets them down. Lalaji does not care whether anyone eats or not. That is why the cook was sent away. If there is no money, where does the jewellery come from?"

The doctor said, "That is not so, Jiyaram. His income has truly fallen very low. You trouble him a great deal."

Jiyaram said, laughing, "I trouble him? Take an oath of me — I scarcely even speak to him. He has taken it upon himself as a vow to defame me. Without cause, without reason, he is forever after me. He is even irritated by my friends. Think for yourself — can anyone stay alive without friends? I am no scoundrel, that I should keep the company of scoundrels; but it is on account of my very friends that he torments me daily. Yesterday I told him plainly — my friends will come to the house, whether anyone likes it or not. Sir, whoever it may be, no one can bear being browbeaten at every turn."

The doctor said, "But, brother, I feel great pity for him. This was a time for him to be at rest. Old age, and on top of that grief for a young son, and his health too is not good. What can such a man do? Whatever little he does is much. If you can do nothing else as yet, you can at least keep him content by your conduct. To make an old man happy is no very hard task. Believe me, your speaking to him with a smile is enough to please him. What does it cost you to ask this much — 'Father, how is your health?' Seeing this unruliness of yours, he frets within his heart. I tell you truly, several times he has wept. Suppose he made a mistake in marrying; he himself admits it too. But why do you turn away from your own duty? He is your father; you ought to serve him. Not one word should escape your lips that would hurt his heart. Why give him the occasion even to think — they are all eaters of my earnings, there is no one to ask after me. My years are far more than yours, Jiyaram, yet to this day I have never answered back a word of my father's. Even today he scolds me, and I bow my head and listen. I know that whatever he says, he says for my own good. Who can be a greater well-wisher to us than our parents? Who can ever be free of the debt we owe them?"

Jiyaram sat there weeping. As yet his good feelings had not been wholly extinguished; his own ill conduct stood plain before his eyes. He had not felt such shame for many days. Weeping, he said to the doctor, "I am deeply ashamed. I was led astray by others' incitement. Now you shall not hear the least complaint of me. Please ask Father to forgive my offences. Truly I am most unfortunate. I have tormented him greatly. Tell him — let him forgive my offences, or else I shall smear my face with soot and go off somewhere, or drown myself."

The doctor swelled with pride at his own skill in counsel. He embraced Jiyaram and saw him off.

When Jiyaram reached home it had struck eleven. Munshiji had just finished his meal and come outside. The moment he saw him he said, "Do you know what time it is? It is midnight."

Jiyaram said with great humility, "I met Doctor Sinha. I went with him to his house. He insisted on my eating, and I had to eat against my will. That is how it grew late."

Munshiji said, "You must have gone to weep your woes to Doctor Sinha — or was there some other business?"

A quarter of Jiyaram's humility flew off. He said, "It is not my habit to weep my woes."

Munshiji said, "Not the least bit; why, you have no tongue in your mouth at all. Those who talk to me about you must be making it all up?"

Jiyaram said, "I do not speak of other days, but today, at Doctor Sinha's house, I said nothing that I could not say before you this very moment."

Munshiji said, "That is a matter of great joy. Boundless joy. Have you taken initiation from a guru today?"

Another quarter of Jiyaram's humility vanished. Raising his head, he said, "A man can be ashamed of his faults even without taking initiation from a guru. To reform oneself, an amulet from a guru is no necessary thing."

Munshiji said, "Now the scoundrels will not be gathering, I suppose?"

Jiyaram said, "Why do you call anyone a scoundrel, when you have no proof for saying so?"

Munshiji said, "Your friends are all scoundrels and good-for-nothings. Not one decent man among them. I have told you several times not to gather them here, but you have not listened. Today I tell you for the last time — if you gather those rascals, I shall have to take the help of the police."

Another quarter of Jiyaram's humility vanished. Quivering, he said, "Very well, take the help of the police. Let us see what it does. More than half my friends are the very sons of police officers. When you yourself are bent upon reforming me, why should I take needless trouble?"

Saying this, Jiyaram went off into his own room, and a moment later the sweet notes of a harmonium came floating out.