Three

Nirmala was married. She came to her husband's home. The lawyer's name was Munshi Totaram. He was a dark-complexioned, stout, robust man. His age was not yet more than forty, but the hard toil of legal practice had turned the hair of his head grey. He never found leisure to take exercise. So much so that he never even went out for a stroll anywhere, and therefore a paunch had developed. Despite the bulk of his body, there was always some complaint or other. With weak digestion and piles he had a permanent connection. So he walked with great caution. He had three sons. The eldest, Mansaram, was sixteen years old; the middle one, Jiyaram, twelve; and Siyaram, seven. All three studied English. In the house, apart from the lawyer's widowed sister, there was no other woman. She was the mistress of the house. Her name was Rukmini, and she was over fifty in age. There was no one for her in her husband's home. She lived here permanently.

Totaram was skilled in the science of married life. The natural deficiency in him for keeping Nirmala pleased he sought to make up with gifts. Although he was a very thrifty man, he would bring some present or other for Nirmala every day. When the occasion demanded, he would not care for money. For the children a little milk would come, but for Nirmala there was no want of anything—dried fruits, preserves, sweets. In his own life he had never gone to see sights and shows, but now, in the holidays, he would take Nirmala to the cinema, the circus, the theatre. A small portion of his precious time he would spend sitting with her, playing the gramophone.

But Nirmala, for some reason she did not know, felt shy of sitting near Totaram, or laughing and talking with him. The cause of this was perhaps that, until now, just such a man had been her father, before whom she would pass with bowed head, shrinking her body away; now a man of his age was her husband. She thought of him not as an object of love but as an object of respect. She kept fleeing from him; the moment she saw him, all her cheerfulness took flight.

The science of married life had not taught the lawyer that one should speak much of love before a young wife—that one should take out one's heart and lay it before her, that this is the chief charm for winning her. So the lawyer left nothing wanting in his display of love; but Nirmala felt only disgust at these things. The very words which, heard from the mouth of some young man, would have made her heart drunk with love, coming from the lawyer's mouth struck her heart like arrows. There was no savour in them, no rapture, no intoxication, no heart—only artifice, only deception, and dry, sapless verbiage. She did not dislike the perfume and the oil, she did not dislike the sights and shows, she did not even dislike adorning and dressing herself; what she disliked was only sitting near Totaram. She did not wish to display her beauty and youth to him, because there were no eyes there to see them. She did not consider him fit to relish these flavours. The bud opens only at the touch of the morning breeze. The two have a like savour. For Nirmala, where was that morning breeze?

The first month had hardly passed when Totaram made Nirmala his treasurer. Coming home from court, he would give her the whole day's earnings. His idea was that Nirmala, on seeing this money, would not be able to contain herself for joy. Nirmala carried out the duties of this office with great relish. She kept an account of every paisa; if ever the money came short, she would ask why it was less today. About the affairs of the household she would talk a great deal with him. It was for just such talk that she considered him fit. The moment any words of jest left his mouth, her face would fall.

When Nirmala, decked out in fine clothes and ornaments, would stand before the mirror and see in it the lovely radiance of her own beauty, her heart would writhe with a thirsting desire. At that moment a kind of flame would rise in her heart. She felt like setting fire to this house. She felt anger at her own mother; but the most anger of all she felt at poor, innocent Totaram. She burned forever in this fever. When will a dashing rider care to ride upon a broken-down nag, however much he may have to go on foot? Nirmala's condition was that of just such a dashing rider. She wished to mount and fly, to enjoy the rapture of that joyous, lightning motion—but from the whinnying of a nag and the pricking up of its ears, what hope could there be? It was possible that, laughing and playing with the children, she might forget her condition for a little while, that her heart might be a little refreshed; but Rukmini Devi would not let the boys go anywhere near her, as though she were some she-demon who would swallow them up. Rukmini Devi's nature was unlike that of the whole world; it was hard to find out by what thing she was pleased and by what thing displeased. The very thing that pleased her once would, the next time, set her aflame. If Nirmala stayed sitting in her room, she would say, "Who knows from what ill-omened place she has come!" If she went up onto the upper floor, or talked with the maidservants, Rukmini would begin to beat her breast—"Neither modesty nor shame; the wretch has roasted and eaten up her bashfulness! Will she now in a few days dance in the bazaar!" From the day the lawyer began to give money into Nirmala's hands, Rukmini set herself to criticizing her. It seemed to her that there was now very little left before the world's destruction. The boys would need money again and again. While she herself had been mistress, she used to put them off with coaxing. Now she would send them straight to Nirmala. Nirmala did not like the boys' fondness for tidbits. Sometimes she would refuse to give money. Rukmini would get a chance to loose her verbal arrows—"Now she has become the mistress; how should the boys live? Who cares for a child without a mother? They used to eat rupees' worth of sweets, and now they pine for a farthing." If Nirmala, vexed, on some day gave money without asking any question, the lady would have another sort of criticism—"What is it to her—whether the boys live or die, what does she care; with the mother gone, who is there to explain, 'Son, don't eat too many sweets'? If anything goes wrong, it will fall upon my head—what is it to her?" Had it gone only this far, Nirmala might perhaps have endured it; but the lady kept on the trail of Nirmala like a constable of the secret police. If she stood on the upper floor, she must surely be casting glances at someone; if she talked with a maid, she must surely be slandering them; if she sent for something from the bazaar, it must surely be some article of luxury. She would constantly try to read her letters. She would listen to her conversations by stealth. Nirmala kept trembling at this double-edged sword of hers. So much so that one day she said to her husband, "Just explain to Jiji a little—why does she keep on at me?"

Totaram said sharply, "Has she said anything to you?"

"She says something every day. It is hard to put it into words. If she is jealous that I have become the mistress, then give the money to her—I do not want it; let her remain the mistress. I only want this much, that no one should keep taunting and reproaching me."

As she spoke these words, tears began to flow from Nirmala's eyes. Totaram got a very fine opportunity to display his love. He said, "I will take her to task this very day. I will tell her plainly—if you are to stay, then stay with your mouth shut; otherwise go your own way. The mistress of this house is not she, it is you. She is here only to help you. If, instead of helping, she troubles you, then there is no need for her to stay here. I had thought—she is a widow, she is helpless, she will eat a quarter-seer of flour and lie about. When other servants and attendants are eating, she is, after all, my own sister. There was need too of a woman to look after the boys, so I kept her; but this does not mean that she should lord it over you."

Nirmala said again, "She teaches the boys to go and ask their mother for money—now this, now that. The boys come and eat me alive. It becomes hard to lie down even for a moment. When I scold them, she comes running with her eyes red and yellow. She thinks that I burn with envy at the sight of the boys. God must know how much I love the children. After all, they are my own children. Why should I be jealous of them?"

Totaram trembled with rage. He said, "Whichever boy troubles you, give him a beating. I too see that the rascals have grown unruly. Mansaram I will send off to a boarding house. The other two I will set straight this very day."

At that moment Totaram was going off to court; it was not the time for scolding and rebuking; but the moment he returned from court, he said to Rukmini in the house, "Now, sister, are you to live in this house or not? If you are to live here, live in peace. What is this—to make it hard for others to live?"

Rukmini understood that the daughter-in-law had struck her blow; but she was not a woman to be cowed. For one thing, she was older in age; on top of that, she had spent her whole life in the service of this very house. Who had the daring to dispossess her? She was astonished at her brother's pettiness. She said, "So you will keep me as a maidservant? If I am to live as a maidservant, I will not be the maidservant of this house. If it is your wish that someone should set fire to the house and I should stand by and watch, that I should see someone walking a crooked path and hold my tongue, that anyone may do whatever comes into his mind, while I remain a goddess of clay—that I will not do. What has happened, that you are so beside yourself? All your good sense has gone; yesterday's chit of a girl has caught you by your topknot and set you dancing? Not a word asked, not a thing inquired—she has only pulled the string, and you have stood up like a wooden soldier with your sword drawn."

Tota said, "I hear that you are forever finding fault, giving taunts over every little thing. If one has any teaching to give, one should give it with love, in sweet words. With taunts, instead of teaching being received, the heart only burns the more."

Rukmini said, "So it is your wish that I should not speak in any matter—very well; but then do not say afterwards, 'You were sitting in the house, why did you not give advice?' When my words taste like poison, has a dog bitten me, that I should speak? There is a saying—'Tillage to the dwarfish, the house to the daughter-in-law.' I too shall see how the daughter-in-law runs things!"

Just then Siyaram and Jiyaram came home from school. The moment they arrived, both went to their aunt and began asking for something to eat.

Rukmini said, "Why don't you go and ask your new Amma? I have no permission to speak."

Tota said, "If you boys set foot in that room, I will break your legs. You have girded yourselves for mischief."

Jiyaram was rather pert. He said, "To her you say nothing; it is only us you threaten. She never gives us any money."

Siyaram seconded this statement—"She says, 'If you trouble me I'll cut off your ears.' Doesn't she say so, Jiya?"

Nirmala spoke from her room, "When did I say I would cut off your ears? You've started lying so soon?"

The moment Totaram heard this, he seized both of Siyaram's ears and lifted him up. The boy let out a loud shriek and began to cry.

Rukmini ran and freed the child from Munshiji's hands and said, "Enough, let it be—will you kill the child? Hai-hai! His ear has gone red. It is truly said—getting a new wife, a man goes blind. If things are like this already, then God alone is the master of this house."

Nirmala had been inwardly rejoicing at her victory; but when Munshiji caught the child by the ear and lifted him up, she could bear it no longer. She ran to free him, but Rukmini had got there first. Rukmini said, "First you set the fire, and now you come running to put it out. When you have children of your own, then your eyes will open. What do you know of another's pain?"

Nirmala said, "He's standing right there—ask him, did I set any fire? I had said only this much, that the boys trouble me again and again for money; if anything beyond this has come out of my mouth, then let my eyes burst."

Tota said, "I see for myself the mischief of these rascals—I am not blind. All three have grown stubborn and unruly. The eldest I will send off to the hostel this very day."

Rukmini said, "Until now no mischief of theirs had occurred to you—why have your eyes grown so sharp today?"

Totaram said, "It is you who have made them so pert."

Rukmini said, "So I alone am the knot of poison. It is on my account that your house is being ruined. There—I am going. They are your children, beat them or cut them up, I will not speak."

Saying this, she went away from there. Nirmala, seeing the child weeping, was overcome. She pressed him to her breast and, carrying him in her lap, brought him into her room and began to fondle him; but the boy only sobbed and wept the more. His unknowing heart did not find in this caressing that mother-love of which destiny had deprived him. This was not maternal tenderness, it was only pity. It was a thing over which he had no right, which was being given to him only in the form of alms. His father had beaten him once or twice before, too, when his mother had been alive; but then his mother had not pressed him to her breast and wept. She would, in displeasure, stop speaking to him, until he himself, after a little while, forgetting it all, would go running back to his mother. To get punished for mischief, that he could understand; but to be caressed after a beating, that he could not understand. In mother-love there was harshness, but harshness mingled with tenderness. In this love there was compassion, but not that harshness which is the secret message of belonging. Who cares about a healthy limb? But that same limb, when it begins to throb with some pain, then care is taken to save it from blows and jolts. Nirmala's grieving weeping was telling the child of his being orphaned. He sat a long while weeping in Nirmala's lap, and weeping and weeping fell asleep. When Nirmala tried to lay him down on the cot, the boy, in his deep sleep, put both his soft arms around her neck and clung so close, as though there were a pit below. With anxiety and fear his face had become distorted. Nirmala lifted the child into her lap once more; she could not lay him down on the cot. Holding the child in her lap at this moment, she felt a contentment that until now she had never felt; today, for the first time, she felt that pain of self which until felt one's eyes do not open, one does not understand one's path of duty. That path now began to be visible to her.

After that day, when he had given the strongest proof of his ardent love, Munshi Totaram had hoped that his coin would gain currency in the inmost place of Nirmala's heart; but this hope of his was not fulfilled in the smallest degree—indeed, whereas earlier she had at least sometimes laughed and talked with him, now she became absorbed only in the nurture and care of the children. When he came home, he would find the children sitting near her. Sometimes he would see her bathing them, sometimes dressing them, sometimes playing some game with them, and sometimes telling them a story. Nirmala's thirsting heart, despairing of love, came to regard this support as a thing to be thankful for; in laughing and talking with the children her maternal longing found satisfaction. The diffidence, the distaste, the unwillingness which she felt in laughing and talking with her husband—so much so that she would wish to get up and flee—was replaced by a gladness of heart that came from the true, simple affection of the children. At first Mansaram had hesitated to come near her, but in mental development he was five years younger. Hockey and football were his world, the open field of his imaginings, the green and flowering garden of his desires. He was a slim boy of single, slight build—handsome, cheerful, bashful—who had with the house only the tie of meals; the whole rest of the day, who knew where he wandered. Hearing from his lips talk of games, Nirmala would for a little while forget her cares, and would wish that once again those days would come back when she had played with dolls and arranged their weddings, and which—ah, but a very, very few days—had so lately passed.

Munshi Totaram, like other solitary-natured men, was a sensual creature. For some days he kept taking Nirmala to see sights and shows; but when he saw that this bore no fruit, he again took to dwelling in solitude. After the day's hard mental toil, his heart would yearn for amusement and pleasure; but when he entered his pleasure-garden and saw its flowers withered, its plants dried up, and dust blowing from its beds, his heart would say—why not lay this garden waste? Why Nirmala remained so estranged from him, this riddle his mind could not solve. He had tested all the spells of the science of married life, but his heart's desire was not fulfilled. What he ought now to do, he could not understand.

One day he was sitting absorbed in just this anxiety, when his schoolfellow and friend Nayansukhram came and sat down, and after the exchange of greetings said with a smile, "Nowadays things must be going on splendidly. Embracing the new wife, you must be tasting the joys of youth all over again. You lucky fellow! Indeed, there is no better way to win back fled youth than to marry afresh. Here my life has become a torment. The good lady clings so wretchedly that she will not let go of one at all. I am thinking of a second marriage. If there is a likely match anywhere, arrange it for me. As commission I will, one day, have her serve you paan made by her own hand."

Totaram said gravely, "Don't go and commit such a folly anywhere, or you will repent it. Young wives are pleased only with young men. You and I are no longer fit for that work. I tell you truly—I am repenting of having married; an evil affliction has fallen round my neck! I had thought, let me enjoy life for another two or four years; but instead my guts have got twisted round my throat."

Nayansukh said, "What are you talking of? Is it any hard thing to bring young women into one's grip? Just show them a few sights and shows, praise their looks and complexion, and there—the colour is set fast."

Tota said, "I have done and tried all this, and lost."

Nayan said, "Well—have you given her a taste of some perfumes and oils, flowers and leaves, savouries and the rest?"

Tota said, "My dear fellow, all this I have already done. I have examined all the spells of the science of married life—they are all sheer humbug."

Nayan said, "Well, then, accept one piece of advice from me—just have your appearance done up. Nowadays an electric doctor has come here who wipes away all the marks of old age. There's no chance of a single wrinkle on the face or a grey hair of the head being left. Who knows what magic he works—a man's very husk is changed."

Tota said, "What fee does he take?"

Nayan said, "The fee, I have heard, is perhaps five hundred rupees!"

Tota said, "My dear fellow, he must be some humbug, fleecing fools. He must rub on some salve to make the face a little smooth for two or four days. In advertising doctors I have no faith at all. Had it been a matter of ten or five, I would have said, well, let's have a bit of fun. Five hundred rupees is a big sum."

Nayan said, "For you, what big thing is five hundred rupees? It is one month's income. If I, brother, had five hundred rupees, the very first thing I would do is just this. One hour of youth is worth far more than five hundred rupees."

Tota said, "My dear fellow, tell me some cheap remedy, some fakir's herb that will dye the colour fast without any myrobalan and alum. Leave electricity and radium for the great men. Let it be a joy to them alone."

Nayan said, "Then put on the masquerade of dandyism. Throw away this loose, baggy coat; let there be a tight tanzeb achkan, a pleated pyjama, a gold chain about the neck, a Jaipuri turban bound on the head, kohl in the eyes, and henna-oil in the hair. The shrinking of the paunch is also necessary. Bind a double cummerbund. There will be a little discomfort, but the achkan will hang well. The hair-dye I will bring. Learn a hundred or fifty ghazals by heart, and recite a couplet here and there as occasion serves. Let your conversation be full of charm. Let it seem that you have no care for faith or for the world—all that there is, is only the beloved. Keep looking for chances to perform feats of manliness and daring. At night raise a false alarm—'Thief! Thief!'—and, taking a sword, fall on alone. Yes—just keep a watch on the occasion; let it not be that a real thief actually turns up and you have to run after him, or else the whole game will be exposed and you will be made a fool for nothing. At that moment the manliness lies in standing stock-still, holding your breath, so that he thinks you have noticed nothing; but the moment the thief takes to his heels, you too leap out, and run, sword in hand, crying, 'Where? Where?' For not more than a month, just test my words. If she does not begin to dote on you, then I will pay whatever penalty you name."

Totaram, at that moment, laughed these things off in jest, as a man of worldly tact ought to have done; but some of these things lodged themselves in his mind. There was no doubt of their having an effect. Slowly he began to change his colours, in a manner that would not strike people as odd. He began first with the hair, then it was the turn of the kohl, so much so that within a month or two his whole husk was altered. The proposal of learning ghazals by heart was, indeed, laughable; but in bragging of valour there was no harm.

From that day, every day he would be sure to start some tale or other of his manliness. Nirmala began to suspect that he might be developing the disease of madness. When a man who is dependent on Sulaimani salt even after eating moong dal and two thick chapatis of coarse flour—when at his dandyism a suspicion of madness arises, what wonder is there? What other colour could this lunacy take on with Nirmala? Yes—she began to feel pity for him. The feelings of anger and disgust departed. Anger and disgust are felt towards one who is in his senses; a mad man is only an object of pity. She would at every turn take little digs at him, make fun of him, as people do with the mad. Yes—she took care that he should not catch on. She thought, the poor man is doing penance for his sin. This whole masquerade is only so that I may forget my sorrow. After all, fate cannot now be changed; why torment this poor creature?

One day, at nine o'clock at night, Totaram, decked out as a dandy, returned from his stroll and said to Nirmala, "Today I came face to face with three robbers. I had gone a little towards Shivpur. It was dark, of course. The moment I reached near the railway road, three men with swords sprang out from somewhere—who knows where. Believe me, all three were black demons. I was entirely alone, with only this stick at hand. And there were the three of them, swords girded—I lost my senses. I understood that my company with life was only up to this point; but I thought too, since I must die, why not die a hero's death? Just then one man cried out in challenge, 'Lay down whatever you have and go quietly on your way.'

"I steadied my stick and stood my ground and said, 'I have only this stick, and its price is a man's head.'

"Hardly had these words left my mouth when all three drew their swords and pounced upon me, and I began to parry their blows with my stick. All three struck wildly, the clashing rang out, and I, springing like lightning, cut their thrusts aside. For some ten minutes all three displayed the finest swordsmanship, but not a scratch came upon me. The only difficulty was that I had no sword in my hand. If only I had had a sword, I would not have left one of them alive. Well—how far shall I describe it? At that moment the deftness of my hands was worth seeing. I was myself astonished—from where had this nimbleness come into me? When all three saw that nothing was going to come of it here, they put their swords back in their scabbards and, clapping me on the back, said, 'Young man, never to this day have we seen a hero like you. We three are too much for three hundred—we loot whole villages, beating our drums; but today you have brought us low. We acknowledge your mettle.' Saying this, all three again vanished from sight."

Nirmala said, smiling gravely, "Then there must be many sword-marks made on this stick?"

Munshiji was not prepared for this objection, but some answer was necessary. He said, "I kept parrying the blows clean away. Two or four blows did fall on the stick, but glancing ones, that could leave no mark."

The full words had not yet left his mouth when suddenly Rukmini Devi came running, distraught, and said, panting, "Is Tota there or not? A snake has come out into my room. It is sitting under my cot. I jumped up and ran. The wretched thing must be a good two yards long. It has its hood spread and is hissing—just come, will you. Bring a stick when you come."

The colour drained from Totaram's face, his face began to give off little jets of pallor; but, hiding the feelings of his mind, he said, "A snake—how, here? You must have been deceived. It must be some rope."

Rukmini said, "Why, I have seen it with my own eyes. Just come and see it, won't you. There it is, there. Being a man, and you're afraid?"

Munshiji set out from the house, but in the veranda he again came to a halt. His feet simply would not lift, his heart was thumping. A snake is a very irascible creature. If it bites somewhere, one must wash one's hands of life for nothing. He said, "I am not afraid. It is only a snake, after all—not a tiger; but a stick has no effect on a snake. Let me go and send someone—let someone bring a spear from his house."

So saying, Munshiji hurried off outside. Mansaram was sitting eating his meal. The moment Munshiji went outside, Mansaram, leaving his food, took his hockey stick in hand, charged into the room, and at once pulled the cot aside. The snake was lazy with content; instead of fleeing, it raised its hood and stood. Mansaram quickly snatched up the bed-sheet from the cot, flung it over the snake, and dealt three or four hard, swift blows. The snake writhed and lay still inside the sheet. Then, lifting it up on the stick, he set off outside. Munshiji was coming along with several men. When he saw Mansaram coming with the snake dangling, a shriek suddenly escaped his lips; but then he recovered himself and said, "Why, I was coming along—why did you make such haste? Give it here, let someone go and throw it away."

Saying this, he went boldly and stood at the doorway of Rukmini's room, looked the room over well, twirled his moustaches, and going to Nirmala said, "By the time I could come and go, Mansaram had killed it. The senseless boy ran in with a stick. A snake should always be killed with a spear. This is just the fault with boys. How many such snakes have I killed! I kill a snake after playing with it, after teasing it along. Many of them I have crushed, gripping them in my fist."

Rukmini said, "Oh, get along—we've seen your manliness."

Munshiji said sheepishly, "All right, go—let me be a coward, then; I am not asking any reward of you. Go and tell the cook to serve the food."

So Munshiji went off to eat, and Nirmala, standing on the doorsill, was thinking—God! Is some dreadful disease really overtaking him? Do you wish to make my condition still more dire? I can serve him, I can honour him, I can lay my life at his feet; but I cannot do that which it is not in me to do. To wipe out the difference of age is not in my power. After all, what does he want of me—I understand. Ah, why did I not understand this thing before, otherwise why should he have to do such penance, why should he have to put on so many masquerades.