The Outcaste

by F. E. Penny

  CHAPTER VI

  The house in which Bopaul's father lived was situated in the same road,about a hundred yards distant, and on the opposite side. It was nearerthe town, and though a substantial building, was not as large as thesilk merchant's; nor was the compound as extensive. A similarpreparation had been made by the family, but not on so large orexpensive a scale; nor had the mistress thought it necessary to go on apilgrimage. New clothes had been bought, and store-rooms werereplenished. The house had been repainted and decorated.

  There was no young wife with her little son to await the coming ofBopaul; but his bride was already chosen, and the marriage ceremonywould be performed as soon as the restoration of caste wasaccomplished. She would not be present at his home-coming. The girlwas a stranger to him, and he had yet to make her acquaintance. As inPantulu's family, there were many relatives and dependents whoperformed the duties of servants; but claimed a right to share in therejoicings as relations.

  One forlorn little figure in that busy happy company was not aparticipator in the joy of Bopaul's return. This was his own sisterMayita, married in her infancy to Coomara. By Coomara's death she hadbecome a widow, although she had been only a wife in name. Herdegradation was aggravated by the fact that her husband had diedabroad, with the funeral ceremonies, in which she should have taken acertain part, unperformed.

  In dying out of his country the dead man was laid, as we have seen,under the ban of broken caste. It was irrevocably broken, no ritualhaving ever been devised by which it could be restored.

  Dressed once more as a bride--this time in bitter mockery--the jewelshad been stripped from her neck and arms; her head was shaven; theglass bangles of her childhood were broken upon her wrists. Neverwould she forget, young as she was, the crash of glass as the delicatecircles were splintered under a sharp, irritable blow that in itselfindicated how deeply her fate was resented by the family. The softbrown-and-gold saree that harmonised with her complexion was ruthlesslyunwound with unnecessary force as she stood weeping and unresisting inthe hands of the wailing women. It was thrown aside as though defiledby contact with her half-developed form. In place of it she wasobliged to wear a coarse cotton cloth, with rough edges, that chafedher tender skin and brought her unfortunate condition constantly tomind.

  No pity was felt for the shrinking, miserable girl as she flitted likea ghost about the house, avoiding with painful care young and oldalike, lest her shadow should fall upon them and bring bad luck. Inthe preparations for her brother's return she had no part. When hiseye should first fall upon her, he ought by all precedent to curse her,and command her to get out of his sight. It was this thought that hurther most, and caused a sharper grief than she had felt for the loss ofher husband. She was but thirteen years old. A vivid memory remainedof the brother who in old days had been invariably kind. The longingto see him again was great; and many a secret tear was shed at thethought that she might no more bask in the sunshine of his fraternallove.

  In the caste family that is poor the widow becomes the drudge of thehouse. It is often a blessing in disguise, if the work is not made tooheavy, as it gives occupation for the mind. In Bopaul's family it wasnot necessary for Mayita to occupy that position. There were plenty ofpeople to do the work, and she was not called upon to take any part inthe household duties. She would have been happier for a littleemployment; but she was denied both work and play. The other childrenrefused to allow her to join their games; and when she approached thewomen who ground the curry-stuffs, pounded and cleaned the rice, tendedthe kitchen fires or polished the numerous brass pots, they one and allmotioned her away. If she begged to be given occupation of some sort,they set her a task that had perforce to be executed in solitude.

  She sought her mother, but here again she was repulsed; not by roughwords, but by her parent's sighs and tears. Bopaul's mother was astout, lethargic person, who loved above all things her own comfort.Until her daughter was widowed she was rarely seen without a placidsmile of content. She still wore it at times when the misfortune wasforgotten. As soon as Mayita appeared the smile faded; the large,slumbrous eyes filled with tears, and she began her lamentations.

  "What sin can my daughter have committed in a former birth that suchheavy punishment should be meted out?"

  Then she would send her with a message to another part of the house,and the child knew that she was not expected to return. If Mayitaremained, the wailing was continued.

  "The sight of your widowhood is a shame to the whole house. Such amisfortune can only come to those who have in some way grievouslyoffended the gods."

  The accusation of sin in a former birth was repeated so often that atlast the girl became possessed with a vague sense of wrong-doing. Itsresponsibility added to the weight already resting upon the youngshoulders, and increased her misery.

  Shortly after the receipt of the second telegram, one of the womenbelonging to Pantulu's family slipped away to carry the news to herneighbours. She was received eagerly with a chorus of questions.

  "What news? When do they come? We have heard nothing."

  "It is not known when they arrive."

  "Why do you look so gloomy? Is the news otherwise than good?"

  "Yemmah! how can I tell? Aiyoh! to think of such a thing!"

  After this enigmatic speech she began to weep with the ready ease ofthe oriental. The sensation created was gratifying to her vanity.There was a perfect clamour for an explanation.

  "What is it? Speak! we are all on fire to learn!"

  "The master has sent an order by the wire that there are to be norejoicings. Aiyoh! to think that the young excellency should return tohis father's house without rejoicings, without feastings andgarlandings, and without fireworks and feeding of the poor!"

  "What says the mistress?"

  "That there has been an accident or an illness, and that their honours,the master and his son are not coming. If there is bad luck it will bethe waning moon that will have caused it. Next week all would havegone well. What news has been received in this house? Has the tickingdevil sent any message?"

  "Only one. It was written on a thin slip of paper, and it came in abrown envelope."

  "What did it say?"

  "That the young master had landed in safety, and that they would leaveBombay by the night mail to-morrow."

  "And the rejoicings?"

  "There is no order to forbid them."

  "Is the swami here?"

  "He and his disciple arrived last night."

  "Happy house! Happy mistress of an honourable family. She is to beenvied."

  "Our excellent lady has only one trouble; it is the presence ofCoomara's widow."

  "What will she do about it? It will bring misfortune on the youngmaster if he meets his sister immediately on arrival."

  "She will be locked in the room that opens into the cowyard; and shewill be kept there till the middle of the next day. In the afternoon,when there is less fear of the frown of the gods, she may perhaps bepermitted to see him; but only if he asks for her."

  Other members of Pantulu's household slipped away to carry the news tothe neighbours. The story was told and retold with variations till thewhole town was agog with curiosity. Many were the surmises, but not asingle one came near the true solution of the mystery.

  On the morning of the day when Bopaul and his father were expected alarge crowd gathered at the railway station to learn what had happened.No one knew whether Pantulu would be in the same train. It was Bopaulto whom they looked for news. Friends and fellow-caste men werepermitted on the platform, which was crowded. A larger number, movedonly by curiosity, assembled outside the station.

  Chirapore was a terminus. The train arrived and poured forth its loadof travellers. Some astonishment was caused by the sight of the largeassembly gathered in and round the building; but the attention ofBopaul and his father was diverted to the recovery of personal baggagefrom the vans, and their curiosity as to the reason of so big a cr
owdwas lost in anxiety to assure themselves of the safety of theirproperty.

  Through the crowd Pantulu and his son pushed their way hastily. Sohemmed in were they that they escaped observation except by a few. Inthe hurry and bustle no attempt was made to detain them for a greetingwhich could be made with more dignity later. Pantulu led the way,passing straight through the station and out into the public road,where stood a row of carriages for hire. Ananda followed close uponhis heels with his suit-case. His two portmanteaux were carried by acouple of coolies and placed without delay upon the roof of a hiredgharry.

  Father and son stepped into the carriage and were driven off. Not aword passed between them. Ananda was conducted back to the home of hischildhood in an ominous silence that chilled him and destroyed all hishappiness. He wondered vaguely what his father intended to do withhim. He was aware that he could not join the family circle, eat withthem, take part in the daily religious worship conducted by his fatheras head of the house before the chief meal of the day. His exclusionwould have been insisted upon even if he had not taken the momentousstep. Until the restoration of caste it was imperative that he shouldlead a life apart from the rest of the family. It would mean theoccupation of an isolated room well away from the kitchen, the takingof his food in solitude, the reservation of earthen drinking vesselsexclusively for his own use, to be destroyed afterwards. But with allthis there would be nothing to prevent him from meeting the malemembers of the family in that general place of assembly in all Indianhouses, the pial or verandah. There they could talk and he couldrelate his experiences, and the others might listen without fear ofcontamination. This condition of affairs might last without personaldiscomfort to any one for a week or ten days, or even longer, accordingto the decree of those who conducted the ceremonies for the restorationof caste.

  Under the altered circumstances Ananda concluded that the arrangementsfor his accommodation would be of a permanent nature, and morecomfortable than if they were temporary. He would be able to furnishhis room to his liking, introducing a few western luxuries, such as anarmchair or two, a writing-table, bookcase, a table at which he couldsit to take his meals. He could join the family in the pial, butotherwise lead his own life as he had learned to lead it in England.No difficulty presented itself to his mind in the arrangement; intruth, there was none. Provided he did not force himself upon hisfamily in a manner that would endanger their caste rules, no objectioncould be made to his staying for a time under his father's roof. Laterhe would propose the separate house--it might be small andunassuming--where he could live as he pleased with his wife and child.

  In the midst of his speculations the noisy ramshackle vehicle drew upbefore the house. The plantain palms and festoons of green leavesremained where joyful fingers had placed them. The Venetian masts thatwere to have supported ropes of Chinese lanterns had also been leftstanding, some of them bare of decoration, others gaudy with red andwhite twists of calico. Not a living creature was visible. The bigiron-studded door was closely shut. A few small windows lookingtowards the road were screened with Venetian shutters; the pial wasempty. There was not even the joyous bark of a dog to welcome home thewanderer.

  Pantulu stepped out of the carriage and directed the driver to placethe two leather portmanteaux on the steps. He kept his back to his sonwhenever he was able, and studiously averted his gaze. The sight ofthe wound on his son's face hurt him more than a little. Anandafollowed his father, and the coachman was paid and ordered to leavewithout delay. They waited till he had retreated in a cloud of dust;and then Ananda, who was impatient of delay, put his foot on the firststep of the flight that led up to the pial.

  "Stop!" said his father, sternly. "Follow me!"

  He gave no explanation, and confined himself to as few words aspossible. Leading the way round to the side of the house, he enteredthe compound and conducted his son to a little outer yard into whichopened the door of a room that had no communication with the rest ofthe building. The room was empty, except for a thick layer of dust anddried leaves blown in by the wind through the open door. A tiny,unglazed, unshuttered window high up under the eaves of the roof,admitted a little light; but at best the room was but a den, and notfit for the accommodation of a human being, let alone a son of thehouse.

  "Go in and wait there," said his father, shortly, as though thenecessity of addressing his son was repugnant.

  "I should like a chair--and a mat; and surely the room might be sweptout with advantage," said Ananda, looking round with undisguiseddisgust.

  Pantulu avoided meeting his eyes, and walked away without replying.Meanwhile the advent of the gharry had not been unnoticed by thewondering household. The mistress herself, overcome by her curiosity,pressed her forehead against the Venetians to peer through a chink andtake a look at the arrivals. She could tell by the expression on herhusband's face that something had happened to disturb him greatly.Nothing less than some serious misfortune could bring those deep linesupon his brow and cause the corners of his mouth to droop so ominously.Of one thing she assured herself with some satisfaction. Her son wassound in limb and well in health; and she caught her breath in a littlesigh of relief.

  Dorama, hugging her child close to her breast, stood behind hermother-in-law, listening eagerly for news.

  "Has the excellent father arrived?" she ventured to ask at last, unableto repress her curiosity.

  A bare affirmative was all she could elicit.

  "Is he alone?" she asked presently.

  Pantulu's wife shook her head without speaking, and presently movedaway from the window. There was a little struggle among the women tosecure her place. They were disappointed. The road and the shortcarriage-drive up to the house were empty except for a distantbullock-cart plodding its way to the market with a sleepy driver, whohad eyes for nothing but his cattle.

  Gunga went to the back of the house. She had not long to wait.Pantulu, dejected and gloomy, strode in by a door in the wall, passedquickly through the garden, mounted the verandah steps and, without aword, went straight to the front room, into which the big iron-studdeddoor opened. He greeted no one. The men and women who had beenwaiting in the courtyard and inner rooms salaamed, but he took nonotice of their salutations. His wife followed him, and he askedgruffly for his brother. A man some ten years younger than himselfcame forward and salaamed.

  "All is well with my honoured elder brother! May the gods continue tosmile on him and all his family!"

  Pantulu suddenly flung his arms up and cried passionately--

  "I am cursed! The gods have cursed me--me and my family!'

  "In what manner, most excellent master of the house?"

  "My son has become a Christian!--my only son! My only child!"

  The words rang out sharply and reached the ears of the group that hadcircled round the master of the house. They were repeated from mouthto mouth with gathering consternation as the catastrophe was graduallyrealised. Gunga heard them, and at first seemed stunned, so still andsilent did she remain. A groan escaped her lips, and the strong,shapely hands gripped the edge of her saree.

  "A Christian! What do you say? My ears have played me false. I havenot heard aright. My son a Christian? You jest, my husband!"

  "It is true!" he replied, in a dull, despairing voice that in itselfshould have been convincing if she could have brought herself tobelieve in such a thing; but she fought against it, and refused toentertain the idea.

  "Who dares to say that our son has become a Christian?" she askedfiercely.

  "His own tongue. He calls himself by the accursed name, and he showsno shame."

  "A Christian! a Christian!" echoed voices round him. "A Christian! aChristian!" was caught up by the women and repeated with increasingexcitement.

  "Oh! Aiyoh! Aiyoh! Aiyoh!"

  The cry came from Gunga herself. It dominated the chorus oflamentation and silenced every other tongue. Suddenly the sound of athud upon the floor startled the company. A childish screa
m followed.

  "Water! bring water!" said one of the women. "The lady Dorama hasfainted and let the child fall!"