Six

When Munshi Totaram reached home from the courthouse in the evening, Nirmala asked him, "Did you see him? How is he?" Munshiji noticed that there was not the faintest trace of grief or anxiety upon Nirmala's face. Her dress and adornment seemed, if anything, more elaborate than on other days. Ordinarily she did not wear the necklace, but today even that gleamed at her throat. She was very fond of the jhumar, the forehead-ornament, too, and today it shone beneath her fine silk sari, above her dark, dark hair, like a lamp within a glass shade.

Munshiji turned his face away and said, "He is ill — what more shall I tell you?"

"But you had gone to bring him here," said Nirmala.

Munshiji answered irritably, "If he won't come, was I to drag him away by force? I pleaded with him so much — 'Son, come home, you will suffer no discomfort there' — but the very name of home seemed to double his fever. He began saying, 'I shall die here, but I will not go home.' At last, having no choice, I admitted him to the hospital. What else could I have done?"

Rukmini too had come and was standing on the verandah. She said, "He is stubborn from birth. He will not come here by any means — and mark my words, he will not get well there either."

In a piteous voice Munshiji said, "If you would go and stay there for a few days, it would be a great kindness, sister. Your being there would comfort him. My sister, grant me this one request. Alone, he will weep himself to death. He does nothing but cry, 'Oh, Mother! Oh, Mother!' I am going there now — come with me. His condition is not good. Sister, the very face is gone from him. Let us see what God wills."

As he spoke, tears began to flow from Munshiji's eyes, but Rukmini said, unmoved, "I am ready to go. If my staying there could save my dear boy's life, I would run headlong to him. But tie this saying of mine into a knot, brother — he will not recover there. I know him through and through. He has no illness. He has only the grief of being turned out of his own home. That sorrow has shown itself in the form of fever. Make a thousand remedies, show him the Civil Surgeon himself — no medicine will touch him."

"Sister," said Munshiji, "who has turned him out of his home? I sent him there only for the sake of his studies."

"You may have sent him with whatever intention," said Rukmini, "but the thing struck deep into him. As for me, I count for nothing now; I have no right to speak on any matter. You are the master, your wife is the mistress. I am only a luckless widow living on your bread. Who will listen to me, who will care? But one cannot stay silent forever. Mansa will recover only when he comes home — when your heart becomes the same as it was before."

Saying this, Rukmini went away. Her eyes, sightless yet rich with experience, understood well the secret of the events unfolding before them, and all her anger fell upon the innocent Nirmala. Even now she had stopped herself in the midst of saying that, so long as this Lakshmi remained in the house, the fortunes of the house would keep declining. Though she had not said it openly, her meaning was not hidden from Munshiji. After she had gone, Munshiji bowed his head and fell to thinking. So great was the anger he felt against himself at that moment that he could have dashed his head against the wall and ended his life. Why had he married? What need had there been to marry? God had given him not one, but three sons. His own age too had reached nearly fifty. Then why had he married? Was it through this pretext that God had chosen to bring about his ruin? He raised his head and once looked at the smiling yet calm figure of Nirmala, and went off to the hospital. Nirmala's smiling form had set his mind at rest. After many days he had found peace today. Could a heart tormented by love remain so calm and unmoved in such a state? No, never. A wound of the heart cannot be hidden by any artifice of expression. At that moment he felt intense remorse over the weakness of his own mind. Without reason he had given a place to suspicion in his heart and had wrought such mischief. His mind became clear of all doubt concerning Mansaram as well. Yes — but in its place a new misgiving now arose. Had Mansaram, perhaps, guessed the truth? Was it because he had guessed it that he refused to come home? If he had indeed guessed it, a terrible calamity would follow. The mere thought of it made his mind shudder. Every bone in his body grew restless, as if to pour water upon this conflagration. He told the coachman to drive the horse faster. After many days the dense cloud that had hung over the orb of his heart had broken, and waves of light were straining to break out from within. He thrust his head out of the carriage to see — the coachman was not asleep, was he? Never had the horse's pace seemed to him so slow.

Reaching the hospital, he hurried to Mansaram's side. He saw the doctor standing before the boy, sunk in worry. Munshiji's hands and feet went numb. No word would come from his mouth. In a choked voice he managed, with great difficulty, to say, "How is he, doctor?" As he spoke, he broke down weeping; and when the doctor took a moment to answer his question, his very life seemed to fly into his throat. He sat on the bed, lifted the unconscious boy into his lap, and began to sob and weep like a child. Mansaram's body was burning like a hot griddle. Mansaram opened his eyes once. Ah, how terrible — and how pitiful — that gaze was. Munshiji pressed the boy to his breast and asked the doctor, "How is he, sir? Why are you silent?"

The doctor said in a doubtful voice, "His condition you can see for yourself. The fever is at a hundred and six degrees — what more shall I say? The fever's violence keeps rising. Whatever can be done, I am doing. God is the master. Since you went away, I have not stirred from here for even a minute. I have not even been able to eat. His state is so delicate that one cannot say what may happen in a single minute. This is a high fever; he is completely unconscious. Every now and then he has a fit of delirium. Has someone at home said something to him? Again and again only this cry has come from his mouth — 'Mother, where are you?'"

The doctor was still speaking when suddenly Mansaram sat up, shoved Munshiji so that he tumbled under the cot, and cried out in a frenzied voice, "Why do you threaten me! Kill me, kill me — kill me now! There is no sword to be had! Is there a noose of rope, or is there not even that? I will put it round my own neck. Oh, Mother, where are you!" Saying this, he fell back again, unconscious.

For a moment Munshiji gazed with anguished eyes at Mansaram's slackened form; then suddenly he seized the doctor's hand and, with the most abject entreaty, said, "Doctor sahib, save this boy — for God's sake save him, or I shall be utterly ruined. I am not a rich man, but whatever you ask I will produce — save him. Call the greatest doctor there is and take his opinion; I will bear every expense. I cannot bear to see him so. Alas, my promising son!"

The doctor said in a compassionate voice, "Babu sahib, I tell you truly, I am leaving nothing undone for him on my part. Now you ask me to consult other doctors. I will at once send for Dr. Lahiri, Dr. Bhatia, and Dr. Mathur. I will call Vinayak Shastri too. But I do not wish to give you false assurance — his condition is critical."

Weeping, Munshiji said, "No, doctor sahib, do not let that word escape your lips. May his enemies be in a critical state. God will not be so wrathful with me. Wire the doctors of Calcutta and Bombay — I will be your slave my whole life long. He is the lamp of my line. He is the support of my life. My heart is being torn apart. Give some medicine to bring him back to consciousness. Let me hear with my own ears what he says, let me know what suffering he is in. Alas, my child!"

"Calm your heart a little," said the doctor. "You are an elder man. Wailing like this and gathering an army of doctors will produce no result. Sit quietly. I am calling the men of the city — let us see what they say. You yourself are losing all composure."

"Very well, doctor sahib," said Munshiji. "I will not speak now; I will not open my mouth. Do as you will — the boy is now in your hands. You alone can save him. I want only this — that he should come to his senses a little, recognize me, understand my words. Is there no such life-giving herb? I would exchange a few words with him."

Saying this, Munshiji, carried away by emotion, spoke to Mansaram: "Son, open your eyes a little. How do you feel? I am sitting beside you, weeping. I have no complaint against you; my heart is clear toward you."

"Now you have started talking nonsense again," said the doctor. "Why, sir, you are not a child — you are an elder. Have a little patience."

"Very well, doctor sahib, I will not speak now — I was at fault. Do as you will. I have left everything to you. Is there no way by which I might make him understand even this much — that my heart is clear? You tell him yourself, doctor sahib — tell him: your unfortunate father is sitting here, weeping. His heart is wholly clear toward you. He had been under some delusion. That has now been dispelled. Only do that much. I want nothing more. I will sit silently; I will not open my mouth — but do say that much to him."

"For God's sake, Babu sahib, have a little patience," said the doctor, "or else I shall be forced to tell you to go home. I am just going into the office to write letters to the doctors. Sit here quietly."

Heartless doctor! Seeing his grown son in such a state, what father is there who would act with patience? Munshiji was a man of a very grave temperament. He knew, too, that wailing now would yield no result; yet even so, it was impossible for him to sit calmly at this moment. Had this illness come by the workings of fate, he could have been calm — could have consoled others, could himself have summoned doctors — but how could he keep patience while knowing that this whole fire had been kindled by his own hand? Could any father be so iron-hearted? Every pore of his body was rebuking him at that moment. He thought: why had this wicked notion arisen in me at all? Why, without any direct proof, had I conjured up such a dreadful fancy? Indeed — what ought I to have done in his case? Apart from what he had done, what else could he have done — he could not decide. In truth, to fall into the bond of marriage was to strike an axe upon one's own feet. Yes, this was the root of all the trouble.

But I have done nothing extraordinary. All men and women marry. Their lives pass in happiness. It is in the desire for happiness that we marry, after all. In this neighbourhood hundreds of men have taken a second, a third, a fourth — even a seventh wife — and at far greater ages than mine. They lived in comfort as long as they lived. Nor was it the case that they all died before their wives. Even after a second and third marriage, many became widowers again. If everyone's lot had been like mine, who would ever speak the name of marriage? My own father married in his fifty-fifth year, and at the time of my birth his age was no less than sixty. Yes, there is this much truth — that there is some difference between then and now. Earlier, women were not educated. Whatever the husband was like, they regarded him as worthy of worship. It may be that a man, seeing all, behaves with shamelessness — indeed, that is just the thing. When a young man cannot live happily with an old woman, why should a young woman live happily with an old man? But I was not so very old. No one looking at me could put my age above forty. Be that as it may, there is no doubt that to marry a young woman after one's own youth has faded requires a certain shamelessness. A woman is bashful by nature. The case of wanton women is a different matter; but ordinarily a woman is far more restrained than a man. Getting a husband well matched, she may laugh and jest with another man, yet her mind stays pure. In an ill-matched marriage she may not raise her eyes toward anyone, yet her heart remains aggrieved. The former is a solid wall — no battering-ram affects it; the latter is a wall of unbaked clay, and it stands only so long as no battering-ram is brought against it.

Sunk in these very thoughts, Munshiji fell into a doze. The feelings of his mind at once took on the form of a dream. What did he see but his first wife standing before Mansaram, saying: "Husband, what is this that you have done? The boy whom I reared, feeding him with my own blood, you have killed with such cruelty. Upon a boy of such ideal character you have cast so grave a stain? Why do you sit grieving now? You have washed your hands of him. I am wresting him from your cruel hands and taking him away with me. You were never so suspicious. Did you bind suspicion too about your neck the moment you married? So hard a blow upon this tender heart! So dreadful a stain! Only the shameless go on living after enduring so great an insult. My son cannot bear it!" Saying this, she lifted the boy into her lap and went. Weeping, Munshiji stretched out his hands to snatch Mansaram from her lap — and his eyes opened, and he saw Dr. Lahiri, Dr. Bhatia, and half a dozen doctors standing before him.

Three days passed and Munshiji did not come home. Rukmini went to the hospital both morning and evening and came back after seeing Mansaram. The two boys went as well, but how could Nirmala go? Fetters lay upon her feet. She was anxious to learn the news of Mansaram's illness; if she asked Rukmini anything, she received taunts, and if she asked the boys, they prattled on without head or tail. Her mind grew distraught with longing to go and see for herself once. She was afraid that suspicion might somehow have weakened Munshiji's love for his son — that his very stinginess might be standing in the way of Mansaram's recovery. Doctors are no one's kin; they are concerned with their own money — let the corpse go to hell or to heaven. A strong wish arose in her mind to go to the hospital, hand the doctors a purse of a thousand rupees, and say, "Save him — this purse is your gift." But she had neither so much money nor so much courage. Even now, if she could reach there, Mansaram would recover. The nursing and care he ought to receive were not being given. Otherwise, would the fever not have come down in three days? This was no bodily fever — it was a fever of the mind, and only with the calming of the heart could its violence subside. If she could sit there through the night, and Munshiji did not let his mind grow tainted in the least, then perhaps Mansaram would feel sure that his father's heart was clear, and then his recovery would not be long delayed. But would that happen? Seeing her there, would Munshiji be able to keep a cheerful mind? Was his heart even now not clear? At the time of his going from here, it had seemed as if he were repenting his folly. Was it not possible that the very moment she went there, Munshiji's suspicion would flare up again, and that he would not relent until he had taken his son's life?

Caught in this dilemma, three days passed, and the hearth in the house was not lit, nor did anyone eat anything. For the boys, fried puris were bought from the bazaar; Rukmini and Nirmala lay down hungry. They had no desire for food at all.

On the fourth day, when Jiyaram returned from school, he came home by way of the hospital. Nirmala asked, "Brother, did you go to the hospital? How is he today? Has your brother sat up or not?"

Jiyaram answered, on the verge of tears, "Mother, today he was not speaking or talking at all. He lay silently on the cot, thrashing his hands and feet violently."

The colour fled from Nirmala's face. Alarmed, she asked, "Was your father not there?"

"Why would he not be?" said Jiyaram. "Today he wept a great deal."

Nirmala's heart began to pound. She asked, "Were the doctors not there?"

"The doctors were standing there too, consulting among themselves. The Civil Surgeon, the chief of them all, was saying in English that some fresh blood ought to be put into the patient's body. At this Babuji said, 'Take as much blood as you wish from my body.' The Civil Surgeon laughed and said, 'Your blood will not do; the blood of some young person is needed.' At last he put some medicine into Brother's arm with a syringe. The needle could not have been less than four fingers long, but Brother did not even flinch. I was so frightened I shut my eyes."

Great and noble resolves are born only in moments of strong emotion. Where but a moment before Nirmala had been shrivelling with fear, now the glow of a firm resolve flashed upon her face. She resolved to give the fresh blood of her own body. If Mansaram's life could be saved with her blood, she would give it gladly, to its last drop. Now let whoever wished think whatever he wished — she would not care. She said to Jiyaram, "Run quickly and call an ekka. I will go to the hospital."

"There will be many people there at this hour," said Jiyaram. "Let it grow a little dark."

"No," said Nirmala. "Call an ekka now."

"What if Babuji is displeased?"

"Let him be displeased. You go now and fetch the conveyance."

"I will say it was Mother herself who told me to fetch the conveyance."

"Say so."

Jiyaram went off to fetch the tonga; meanwhile Nirmala combed her hair, tied it up in a bun, changed her clothes, put on her ornaments, ate paan, and came to the door to watch for the tonga.

Rukmini, sitting in her room, saw her come thus prepared, and said, "Where are you going, daughter-in-law?"

"I am just going as far as the hospital."

"What will you do when you go there?"

"Nothing — what shall I do? It is God who acts. My heart longs to see him."

"I tell you, do not go."

Nirmala said humbly, "I will come back at once, sister. Jiyaram says his condition is not good at this hour. My heart will not be still. Will you not come too?"

"I have already been to see him," said Rukmini. "Understand only this much — that now there is hope of life only if blood from outside is given. Who will give his own fresh blood, and why should he? In that too there is danger to life."

"That is the very reason I am going," said Nirmala. "Will my blood not serve?"

"Why would it not serve? It is the blood of the young that is needed. But for Mansaram's life to be saved by your blood — better far than that would be to let it flow away into water."

The tonga came. Nirmala and Jiyaram both took their seats. The tonga moved off.

Rukmini stood at the door and wept for a long while. Today, for the first time, pity for Nirmala stirred in her; had it been in her power, she would have tied Nirmala down. She watched, unseen, the surge of compassion and sympathy carrying the girl away. Ah! This is the prompting of misfortune. This is the road to ruin.

When Nirmala reached the hospital, the lamps had been lit. The doctors had given their opinions and departed. Mansaram's fever had abated somewhat; he lay gazing fixedly toward the door. His eyes were fixed upon the open sky, as if he were awaiting some deity. Where he was, in what state he was — of this he had no knowledge.

Suddenly, the moment he saw Nirmala, he started up and sat upright. His trance was broken. His vanished consciousness was kindled into light. He became aware of his situation, of his condition, as though some forgotten thing had been remembered. He stared wide-eyed at Nirmala, and turned his face away.

All at once Munshiji spoke in a sharp voice: "You — what have you come here to do?"

Nirmala was struck dumb. What was she to say she had come to do? Could she give any answer even to so simple a question? What had she come to do? What more knotted question could have been set before anyone? A member of the household was ill; she had come to see him — could that not be known without asking? Then why the question?

She stood as if bereft of her senses, as though all feeling had left her. Hearing from the two boys of Munshiji's grief and torment, she had supposed that his heart was now clear. Now she understood that this had been a delusion. Yes, a vast delusion. But had she known that even the sight of tears had not stilled the fire of suspicion, she would never have come. She would have died fretting and fuming, would not have set foot out of the house.

Munshiji again put the same question: "Why have you come here?"

Nirmala answered without fear: "Why have you come here?"

Munshiji's nostrils began to quiver. He rose from the cot in a fury, seized Nirmala's hand, and said, "There is no need for you to come here. Come when I call you. Do you understand?"

Ah! What calamity was this! Mansaram, who could not even stir on the cot, rose and stood up, and falling at Nirmala's feet, said weeping, "Mother, you have suffered so much for the sake of this unfortunate creature, all in vain. I shall never forget your affection. My one prayer to God is that I may be reborn from your womb, that I may free myself of my debt to you. God knows, I never thought of you as a stepmother. I went on regarding you as my mother. Your age may not be very much greater than mine, but you stood in the place of my mother, and I have always looked upon you with that very eye... Now I can speak no more, Mother — forgive me. This is the last meeting."

Holding back the flow of her tears, Nirmala said, "Why do you talk in such a way? In a few days you will be well."

In a faint voice Mansaram said, "Now there is neither the wish to live, nor even the strength to speak."

Saying this, Mansaram, all strength gone, lay down there upon the ground. Nirmala, looking at her husband with fearless eyes, said, "What advice did the doctors give?"

"Every one of them has taken leave of his wits," said Munshiji. "They say fresh blood is needed."

"If fresh blood is obtained, can his life be saved?"

Munshiji, looking sharply at Nirmala, said, "I am not God, nor do I take the doctor to be God."

"Fresh blood is not such an unattainable thing!"

"Neither are the stars of the sky unattainable! What is a trench before one's face?"

"I am ready to give my own blood. Call the doctor."

Astonished, Munshiji said, "You!"

"Yes. Will my blood not serve?"

"You will give your blood? No, there is no need of your blood. There is danger to life in it."

"On what other day will my life be of use?"

His eyes filling with tears, Munshiji said, "No, Nirmala. Its value has now risen very high in my eyes. Until today you were an object of my enjoyment; from today you are an object of my reverence. I have done you a great injustice — forgive me."