‘How will you write?’ Aunt was literate enough to read familiar sacred texts, but was not familiar with writing except putting her signature on the monthly receipt from the savings bank.
She said, ‘There are persons who write for the guests there and post the letters; I will write to you, and you must then send me one hundred rupees, which will be kept as a deposit by the sabha, and when death comes, as it must sooner or later, they will perform the obsequies, write to you, and render an account.’
I am hearing too much of death somehow, Raman thought, feeling very disturbed again.
Now she spoke with the cold efficiency of Daisy. ‘Well, I don’t think I want to live forever. I will be quite happy to leave this world any time. I have done my duty. It was mainly seeing that you didn’t miss anything in life ...’
Raman quickly diverted her talk; he did not want her to launch on a description again of how she had survived with him the train accident which claimed the lives of Raman’s parents long ago, while they were out on some journey, a flood having washed off the bridge at ... He had heard this many times, so often that he had no feeling for the reminiscence, he felt cold and indifferent about it, as if it were a summary of a story on a cinema handbill rather than an accident that involved his childhood and life. And so he said rather hurriedly, ‘Surely, you will come back whenever you feel like it.’
She did not give a direct answer to this remark, but asked, ‘Will you continue to live here?’
‘Yes, of course, where else should I go? I love this place, that’s why I want you also to live here.’
Aunt froze at the thought and merely asked, ‘Will she like this place? This is an old-fashioned house.’
Raman was pleased at her concern and the chance to speak of Daisy: ‘She is a very simple girl, cares only for simple things. How I wish you could see her and get to know her...’ He became plaintive and incoherent.
‘When are you marrying?’
‘Soon,’ he said and added, ‘won’t you want to see us married?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Not necessary, my boy,’ she added involuntarily. ’And to think that they came with a dowry of five thousand only six months ago ...’ He didn’t like to question her further, and did not like to suppress her or start an argument, when she was planning so thoroughly her exit from home, town, and even life. ‘What kind of marriage?’ she asked; somehow she had a morbid self-tormenting curiosity to pursue the subject.
‘A very simple ceremony.’ He did not wish to explain to her that they had resolved to do without any formality. He had explained to Daisy the five kinds of marriage he had read about and they had come to the conclusion that the system called Gandharva was the most suitable one for them; that was the type of marriage one read about in classical literature. When two souls met in harmony the marriage was consummated perfectly, and no further rite or ceremony was called for. Daisy said that although she had no faith in any ancient customs, she would accept it, since it seemed to her a sensible thing. The details of how Gandharva marriage was to be practically realized were left for a future decision. ‘We will begin to live under the same roof on any day we decide,’ Daisy said.
‘And you can call yourself Mrs So-And-So?’
‘No,’ she had said. ‘I won’t change my name.’ Rather a jolt for Raman, but he did not debate it, and accepted her decision silently. He told himself, In all matters, she will probably be the final deciding authority. Daisy had laid down two conditions before accepting his proposal. One, that they should have no children, and two, if by mischance one was born she would give the child away and keep herself free to pursue her social work. Raman was not to object or modify this in any manner. She explained, ‘Long ago I broke away from the routine of a woman’s life. There are millions of women who go through it happily. I am not one of them. I have planned for myself a different kind of life. I have a well-defined purpose from which I will not swerve. gave my word to the Reverend that’ would not change my ideas If you want to marry me, you must leave me to my own plans even when I am a wife. On any day you question why or how, will leave you. It will be an unhappy thing for me, but I will leave you ...’ There was a mad glint in her eyes when she spoke thus, but in the intoxication of her personality, Raman said, ‘Whatever you say, I will never interfere. I won’t question you. I will be like the ancient king Santhanu ...’
‘You always find some ancient model,’ she said with a slight sneer. ‘Anyway, who was this Santhanu?’ Raman narrated the story from the Mahabharata.
Raman got busy making arrangements for his aunt’s pilgrimage. He had to meet her friend in the third house to get the precise details. She was a middle-aged wife of an accountant in a local bank who could never come to the point, and she wandered off even more than his aunt while answering questions. The accountant himself was a thin, wafer-like person who sallied out to the bank at ten o’clock and returned at six or seven - staying at his desk, over his ledgers, long after others had left. The lady was the positive part of the household. When Raman arrived, the accountant was starting for his office (a replica of the Common Man created by the cartoonist Laxman, which appeared every morning in a newspaper) with a check coat, an umbrella under his arm, and a slippery pair of spectacles. ‘Oh, Raman, how goes the world with you?’
‘Thank you. I have come to know about the pilgrimage to Badrinath. My aunt is planning to join your group. You are going?’
‘Oh, no, ask my wife about it, I don’t know anything about it. How can I go? I have only four days of casual leave left, and the other day our manager said -’ Raman switched off his mind. This was an office-ridden negative man who could think and talk of nothing but office matters. No wonder the lady wanted to run away to the Himalayas.
On hearing voices in the street the lady appeared at the threshold and unceremoniously cried, ‘Ah, Rama, come, come,’ ignoring her husband completely, and the man slipped away without a word. The lady was hefty, with a bun of half-greying hair tied up high over her nape, large cheeks, heavy jowl, and a turmeric-splashed face. At the sight of her Raman felt reassured. Thank God, she is the type who will push her way through and lead my aunt up the Himalayas and take care of her. She spoke so loudly that their conversation could be heard in the opposite row of houses. Raman made his inquiries, and the lady said, ‘I will take care of her, don’t worry. She is vexed with you even if she is not showing it outside.’
‘I don’t want her to leave now.’
‘Why not?’ asked the lady aggressively. ‘Why do you prevent her from realizing her ambition of a lifetime? Till now she had the responsibility of cooking and looking after the house. Now you are going to engage another cook, and so why should she stay?’
Raman regretted that he had made this visit. The talk was taking an unpleasant turn. He wanted to announce that Daisy was not going to cook for him. She was a special kind, worth a hundred of the mugs around who called themselves wives and mothers. He wondered how it was going to be possible for Daisy to live in the midst of this company. Speculated why he should not move to Daisy’s flat, a neutral area. But he dismissed the idea. He was deeply rooted in these surroundings, and he was obliged to no one in being there. Let others keep out of the way if they didn’t like Daisy - who, however, could be counted upon to manage and survive all conditions of existence.
Through a great deal of loud and irrelevant talk he got all the data regarding the pilgrimage, but it was a trying experience; often he was on the point of turning and sneaking away, like the husband. It was the extreme garrulity of this person that must be sending the accountant bouncing off to the bank so early each day, and he wondered how his aunt was going to stand this companion for months to come, until they parted at Benares. They were leaving on Wednesday next, five of them, and two sons of another family were to be their escort; a payment of six hundred and seventy-five rupees immediately would settle everything. The money could be paid into the hands of this garrulous lady and she would attend to the rest herself. Ram
an promised to see her again, went to his bank, and collected sufficient cash from his own account to pay for his aunt’s entire trip. He did not wish to have her use any of her own money, although she had said she wanted only a small sum to supplement her own savings.
He came back to the garrulous lady an hour later and gave her the cash. Again she met him at the threshold and launched on the state of the nation and other such topics and all the good things his aunt had done for him - how they would both be missing the evening discourses at the temple, and how unwise Raman was not to have married when a good dowry was coming, and what was this rumour she was hearing about his marrying someone out of caste, who was she? He said there was no truth in such rumours - a white lie was the easiest way out of this garrulous encounter, giving no room for further arguments. This lady was known to him since his schooldays and to him the most acceptable part of her was her devotion to Aunt. She had much influence on Aunt and for decades, as he could remember, helped her with her shopping, outings, advice, and philosophy, and was her inevitable companion at the temple every evening. Raman suspected that she was also the channel for all the gossip about him that reached his aunt. He wanted to use her influence now and requested the lady, ‘I hope you will be bringing back my aunt when you return.’
‘How can she come back to your house? After all, her desire is to spend her last days in Kasi. Let her; don’t interfere with her plans. She will be happier doing what she likes to do. You think you can do what you like and command her to stay and look on. No, my boy, you are mistaken if you think that we will be slaves of the family all our lifetime. No, no, there is a limit to forbearance. One can’t — ’
He diverted her talk by giving her the cash to count, explaining, ‘I am happy to be giving her my money,’ putting emphasis on my.
‘Why not?’ the lady cried, ‘after all that she has done for you?’
He added weakly, ‘She wanted only three hundred rupees from me, but I am giving her the full amount, not touching her cash.’
‘You are a good boy,’ she said and added, ‘You will go to heaven for this, I am sure. You are a gem, don’t I know, but evil company warps - that is why it is important that one should marry at the proper time and age. Nothing can then go wrong. That is what I told your aunt. I told her, “You have brought this misery on your own head, you fool. Why did you let him roam about like a well-fed colt? Naturally — ” ‘
Raman said, ‘Is there anything else that I should do?’
‘No, no, young colt, this is all. I will take care of the rest, we will buy the rail tickets and do everything. Considering my family affairs, I wish I could also stay away at Benares.’
‘Probably Mama is hoping you will,’ he remarked and ran down the steps, without affording her the privilege of the last word.
Aunt’s preparations to leave were elaborate. Although her possessions could be packed into a small jute handbag, her instructions were never-ending. Raman became very considerate and spent as much time as he could with her. He felt he owed her at least his company. He curtailed his visits to The Boardless and visited Daisy in the evening for only a couple of hours, unless she asked him to see her earlier at the office. She was still his best customer, and got him to do various small sign-boards for hanging out in select spots. Aunt was really pleased to find him at home in the evenings. The weight on her mind seemed to be lessening, and the unnatural silence that she had exhibited a few days ago was gone. She had become loquacious and reminiscent as before, repeating the story of her grandfather’s Poona days several times. She visited the temple in the evenings as usual - she did not wish to miss certain important episodes in Krishna’s life. And by the time she came back Raman would also be back from his visit to Daisy; while serving dinner, Aunt spoke to him of the story she had heard in the evening. ‘Do you know when Krishna revealed himself to the maidens, every one of them, thousands of them, felt convinced that Krishna was there dancing with them. How it was achieved the pundit explained, also its inner significance ...’ From this she would switch to instructions about household matters. ‘Remember the rice in the bag is cleaned, and all the pebbles and unwanted things have been picked out ...’ All afternoon the rice was one of her major occupations. She would put on her glasses and, with a heap of rice from the basket spread out little by little, by the light of the afternoon sun pick up chaff and stone and all unwanted things, sitting on the back veranda. ‘You won’t have to buy gingelly oil for at least six months; the Chettiar just got freshly harvested sesamum crushed at the oil mill and gave me the best stock, but you must see that the lid of the jar is taken off for a few minutes at least once a week, and then it won’t become rancid. You must be careful to watch it while the lid is open. You must be careful to see that insects don’t get into it, and you must tell whoever is going to look after these things.’ This was her manner of referring to Daisy, always indirectly and wanting to forget her if possible. ‘And then take care to air the pickles and preserves at least once in ten days; and remember there is enough stock of dried vegetables to last you for two years; don’t waste any of them.’ Raman was getting an inkling of the enormous industry at home that had gone on unseen in minute detail, to keep him properly nourished day after day for thirty years. Aunt had no other occupation but gathering fodder for him night and day and keeping them in proper condition. He was aghast at the amount of work involved.
She packed into her jute bag her possessions: a couple of white saris, a little brass casket containing sacred ash for smearing on her forehead, a coral rosary for prayers, a book of sacred verse, and two tiny silver images of Krishna and Ganesha. ‘These were given to me by my father,’ she explained.
The jute bag had room for more, and Raman suggested, ‘Still a lot of space - why don’t you buy a few things that you may need on the way?’
‘I don’t need anything; there is just space enough for my shawl, and a small bundle of parched rice, enough to last for two weeks.’ She mentioned, ‘They say that we can get parched rice anywhere in this country, and also buttermilk and bananas. What more could I want?’ She had lived on one meal a day for years, as he knew. He marvelled at the simplicity of her life and her minimal wants. He had had no occasion to observe her so closely, and her way of life was a revelation to him. He brooded over her life and mission: She seems to have existed only for my sake. Except the evening visit to the temple, her world was purely and totally dedicated to his well-being. She had stayed at home, waiting to feed him, watching his moods to know if he was happy and contented. When he went out she waited to open the door for him; when he spent all the evening with Daisy without coming home, she must have been in an agony.
She said, ‘The milkman comes with the cow at four-thirty in the morning. Someone must watch him otherwise he will add water.’ Raman now realized that if the curd and milk had been pure and creamy, it was only because she stood up beside the cow at dawn, peering into the milking pail. He had taken so much for granted all these years! He was like a plant, tended with care, unaware of the continuous labour involved for the gardener. While he had been happily painting sign-boards or gossiping at The Boardless or gallivanting with Daisy, so much had been done backstage to keep him alive. It’d been a lifetime of dedication for another being, actually. How would Daisy fit into this scheme? Would she stand beside a cow at dawn, or keep the oil jar aired regularly? Unthinkable. She had made it very plain that she couldn’t be expected to do any of those things. He wondered how Aunt could keep away from all this activity and from her own world of grains and what not, in which she had been involved for a lifetime. He pleaded in a sudden access of tenderness, ‘Come back from Benares; stay there as long as you like, but come back, to your own home. This is where you should be. What’ll you do in Benares?’
‘I’ve told you what I will do. Nothing else matters. I have drifted in the ocean of samsara for countless years, don’t you think?’ She seemed to be carried away by the simile, doubtless picked up during the evening discourses
, and drifted on with it. Then she returned to mundane matters: ‘Don’t give up the Chettiar shop. He’s a good man; and ask him whatever is required, and he will get it, even if it be milk from a tigress’s teat. The vegetable-seller comes mostly on Tuesdays; we owe her -’ She went out to the veranda and counted the horizontal lines marked with the juice of a green leaf on the white wall, and came back to declare: ‘- We owe her three rupees and fifteen paisa. Don’t pay her more; that will settle her account up to date. Beyond that it’ll be up to you. She generally appears around ten o’clock in the morning. Will you be there? Will anyone be at home?’ She meant Daisy, perhaps, implying that she was not the kind to stay at home awaiting vegetable-sellers. Raman was irritated by Aunt’s insinuation but in the mood of farewell forgave her. The old lady went on, ‘You see, on Fridays, I usually drop a ten-paisa coin into the money-chest kept at the temple. Never failed even once these thirty years since I came to this house to look after you. That god protects us, remember. You may put the coin in whenever you pass that way; otherwise, you may tell our neighbour to do it for you.’
Raman’s aunt had left three days ago. For Raman, the house seemed to have become vast and full of echoes. He diverted himself by peering into every part of it and planning alterations for Daisy’s coming. This home on the river was to be managed by Daisy hereafter- no, she disliked the term housekeeping; she wasn’t going to do that. During their evening discussions, she had quite often remarked, ‘You will be as much a housekeeper as I’ll be. What does that term mean anyway? It makes no sense to me. I don’t like all this obsession with a house and the keeping of it.’ Home was a secondary matter, the primary one was work.
The Painter of Signs Page 15