by Kapur, Manju
Who would go with Virmati to Lahore? Kasturi rejected all the possibilities that offered themselves to her. Suraj Prakash could not leave the shop, Kailashnath was too young, Somnath too irresponsible. Shakuntala Pehnji had offered, but how could Kasturi expect a young, unmarried niece, already corrupted by Lahore, to recognize any lurking invitation to sin?
No, Kasturi had to go herself. If fate saw fit to rub chillies in her wound, she must resign herself to that. She made one last attempt to make her daughter see reason before they departed.
‘If you cannot consider your duty to us, at least consider yourself. There is a time in the cycle of life for everything. If you wilfully ignore it like this, what will happen to you? A woman without her own home and family is a woman without moorings.’
Virmati had nothing to say. That tone, those reproaches had but to start for her to go deaf.
‘When I was your age,’ continued Kasturi, ‘girls only left their house when they married. And beyond a certain age …’ Her voice quavered and she stopped, looking at her daughter helplessly.
Virmati noticed the tears in her mother’s voice, but she kept her head turned away. She had made a decision, and there were certain things she would not see.
‘God has put you on earth to punish me,’ concluded Kasturi harshly, disappointment pinching lines around her tense mouth.
The train ride was a silent one. The Inter class in which they sat was almost empty. No strangers’ voices dropped into their midst, no questions were asked as to where they were going and why. From time to time Virmati glanced furtively at her mother, and the wall she encountered forbade her from making the attentive gestures that might have made the journey bearable for both.
An hour later, Lahore.
*
Kasturi leaned out of the window, anxiously scanning the platform for Shakuntala. Virmati hugged the bag in her lap and thought, I’ve come, I’m going to be on my own, this is a new beginning. She was filled with a lightness that made her useless in collecting the luggage, irritating her mother further.
By now, Shakuntala Pehnji had spotted them. Embraces, exclamations followed, with the usual remarks of how thin the younger one was looking, tossed from Kasturi to Shakuntala to Virmati. A coolie piled their luggage on his head, and the trio made their way to a precious tonga waiting.
‘Why precious, Pehnji?’ enquired Virmati.
The luggage was stored under the wooden bench, and the women squeezed onto the back seat, as Shakuntala gave details of the tonga strike, the insistence of the authorities on three passengers instead of four, the new demand that all tonga-wallahs be licensed, the indignation of the tonga-wallahs – were the horses of more importance than the men driving them? – the subsequent agitation, and the difficulty of finding transport. This explanation over, Shakuntala started commenting on the places they passed. From time to time, Kasturi grunted to show that she was listening.
At the sight of the passing scenery, the weight of her mother’s displeasure lifted a little from Virmati. She was seeing the fabled city at last. They passed the Mall, Chief’s College, Nedou’s Hotel, the Botanical Gardens, Lawrence Gardens, the Gymkhana Club, Queen Victoria’s massive statue with its delicate canopy of carved marble, the Assembly, the GPO, the majestic-looking courts which looked like palaces, while Shakuntala murmured and pointed to all of the above.
From time to time Shakuntala looked Virmati over. She thought the girl looked older, the shy, open look she had seen in Dalhousie was gone. She was glad that her family was at last waking up to the fact that women had to take their place in the world, but must it always be when marriage hadn’t worked out? Work was not second best, though she didn’t expect anybody from Amritsar to understand that.
‘Chachi,’ she said, turning towards her aunt. ‘You will not regret sending Viru to Lahore.’
‘Beti,’ said Kasturi, ‘what is there to hide from you? What else is left this wretched girl but study?’
Shakuntala smiled bitterly to herself. ‘She will become a teacher and help others. Chachi, you know how important education is to Bade Baoji. In time, maybe he will even be pleased with her.’ Virmati devoured this sympathetic crumb, and yearned for more.
Kasturi said tartly that where Virmati was concerned no course of action was right, the girl was so stubborn and independent, no matter what they did for her, she wasn’t grateful. When she had been young, eighth-class pass had satisfied her, but her daughter thought she was too special to follow family ways.
Virmati stared fixedly at King Edward Medical College coming up, with a statue, she presumed, of the king in front. Her eyes were hot and burning. She was trying to live within a moral code, but her mother would never understand that. Scenes from last evening stabbed her mind. She had carried all the letters the Professor had ever sent her to the kotha. At the furthest point where the topmost branches of the neem tree could touch her face, she watched them burn undisturbed. When the fire had finished its job, she collected the ashes and flung them towards her aunt’s house, where he had once lived, watching the tiny black specks of her lost love float about. She would leave him to his pregnant wife and get on with the rest of her life. Nevertheless, despite her resolution and her pain, she was still considered the black sheep of the family.
Past Government College, past DAV College, on and on the tonga went. The grand buildings receded, and to Virmati’s dismay they entered a more congested part. Finally they reached a high brick wall, with a small, painted sign proclaiming that these were the premises of the RBSL School and College. To one side was a black gate, with the usual pedestrian opening let into it. The tonga-wallah stopped just inside, and demanded one rupee as fare. Infuriated, Kasturi paid the unreasonable sum to avoid the greater humiliation of her niece paying first.
Mother and daughter looked around speculatively. Kasturi was relieved. A plain no-nonsense place. None of those poems in stone and brick they had been passing. A good Arya Samaj institution.
Virmati thought she should have known that the poems in stone and brick would not be for her. Still, any place was welcome, any place that promised to bring sense and purpose to her life.
*
The compound housed several buildings. A brick-paved walk led to the administrative unit, low, white, and wide-verandaed. On the right was a dusty playing field, with two basketball nets hanging desultorily on either side. Beyond that was a large, double-storeyed, red-brick school. Far to the left was the smaller teacher-training college, and behind both of these was the teachers’ hostel.
They met the principal in white khadi with a greying bun. She spun her charkha daily, was a staunch supporter of the struggle for swarajya, Gandhi, female education, and everything being bettered. She assured Kasturi that all the girls staying there were like her daughters, and consequently she had her eye firmly fixed on each one. This was a respectable institution, with a reputation to maintain.
Kasturi allowed herself to relax. Perhaps her worries had been unfounded. Her daughter would be all right here.
The formalities over, the group walked through the narrow entranceway of the teachers’ hostel. A door was unlocked to a small room containing two string beds, a cupboard, two desks, two chairs, and a small window from where one could see the mud of the playing field. Though the room was dark and gloomy, it was bordered by a pleasant corridor-veranda towards the inside. The angan beyond was spacious, with a badminton court painted on its grey, cemented surface. In a corner was a large mulberry tree.
‘These used to be single rooms, but now the new girls have to share. Your room-mate will come tomorrow.’
Virmati looked around and saw autonomy and freedom. The ache in her heart lessened a bit.
Kasturi looked around, a tightness in her throat. My poor girl, for this she wouldn’t marry. For living in a solitary, poky little room in a strange city, for eating hostel food, for the loneliness of single life.
Shakuntala looked around with satisfaction. The room was dismal, and she
knew enough of her family to be sure it met her aunt’s requirements.
Just to be sure her daughter would be able to pursue her studies undisturbed, Kasturi departed to have a small private talk with the principal. Virmati knew what her mother was going to say, and she was angry. She was to be supervised like a jailbird on parole. Marriage was acceptable to her family, but not independence.
There was silence in the room. Virmati started fiddling with her things, while her cousin looked at her thoughtfully before putting her arms around her. Virmati was startled. Shakuntala had never been demonstrative.
‘I didn’t want to say anything in front of Chachi, but I know that whatever happened could not have been your fault. You are not the kind of girl to give up an engagement casually,’ said Shakuntala lightly.
Virmati did not know what to say. That part of her life was closed. Discussing it might bring back the pain.
‘You will find, Viru, that in Lahore people are not so narrow-minded. It is a pity the man was married, but you have done the right thing. Together we will face the family. After all, I have experience in resisting pressures. Don’t worry, I am on your side.’ Shakuntala squeezed Virmati closer and added, ‘Now tell me all about it. What actually happened?’
Virmati squirmed.
‘Nothing happened‚’ she mumbled.
Shakuntala looked incredulous. Virmati felt hunted.
Shakuntala had been a source of inspiration, she wanted to be like her. Now she noticed the hunger in her eyes, the avidness on her face. She waited uncomfortably for her mother to come, and as a way of putting Shakuntala off, cried instead. It wasn’t difficult once she started.
When the goodbyes took place, Kasturi, moved by the tears in her daughter’s eyes, unbent enough to give her an affectionate farewell.
XVI
The next day Swarna Lata, the room-mate, came. Her name meant golden creeper, and she crept around Virmati without tightening her grip and shone on her as long as they were together, because she was generous and had plenty to give from a life that was full.
‘Do you have anything to eat?’ she now asked as she started unpacking.
‘Why yes‚’ said Virmati, eager and wanting to make friends. ‘Mathri, pickle, mango and lemon, namak-para.’
Later, as they ate the fresh, flaky mathri and lemon pickle made from garden lemons, covered in large red chilli flakes, Virmati asked delicately, ‘Your mother? Didn’t she send anything with you?’
Swarna sighed.’ She’s annoyed with me.’
Virmati pricked up her ears.
‘You look too nice for anybody to be cross with,’ she probed.
‘I wish my mother thought so.’ Swarna licked her fingers. ‘It’s only because of my father that I am here. My mother wanted me to marry. She said I had done my BA and that was enough. Where was all this study going to end?’
Virmati positively glowed. ‘And then?’ she asked, hands suspended in mid-air, a drop of oil dangling from the dull-gold lemon piece.
‘Then what? I love Lahore. All my friends are here, all my activities. I had to stay here, and so I decided to do an MA. I wrote and told my parents. There was not a moment to lose. They’d already begun to send me photographs of prospective husbands! Each looking uglier than the last.’
‘Didn’t they try and stop you?’ asked Virmati wistfully.
‘They had no choice.’ Swarna arched her brows, totally in control of her life. ‘I was very clear that I wanted to do something besides getting married. I told my parents that if they would support me for two more years I would be grateful. Otherwise I would be forced to offer satyagraha along with other Congress workers against the British. And go on offering it until taken to prison. Free food and lodging at the hands of the imperialists.’
Virmati stared at her in amazement. ‘They weren’t very angry?’
‘They probably were. I don’t know. But they agreed because they knew I meant what I said. Which was just as well, because I am too insignificant for our rulers to arrest. They would have let me off with a fine at the most, and money I didn’t have.’
Swarna Lata got up from Virmati’s bed, where they had been eating, and brushed the crumbs from her khadi kurta.
‘Thank God all that is over,’ said Swarna Lata. ‘It was quite unpleasant while it lasted. I prefer not to quarrel with my parents, but sometimes there is no alternative.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Virmati dejectedly, ‘sometimes there isn’t.’
*
A few days later, Shakuntala cycled down to the RBSL College during visiting hours, to check on her cousin.
Virmati greeted her cautiously.
‘Settled in nicely?’ enquired Shakuntala solicitously.
‘Everything is very homely,’ stated Virmati firmly. ‘And the food is really not bad.’
Shakuntala at once looked interested. ‘What do they give you?’ she demanded.
‘Mornings, toast and milk. Lunch, dal, rice, chappatti, vegetable, dahi, sometimes a sweet dish, for tea, pakora or mathri, for dinner, dal, sabzi, sometimes with paneer, rice, chappatti.’
‘Sounds good. Chachi will be pleased. And your room-mate? What is she like?’
At this Virmati gushed, ‘Oh Pehnji, she is very nice. I am so lucky she is staying in this hostel, even though she doesn’t study here. Her parents also wanted her to get married, but she is doing an MA because she wants to do something with her life first.’
‘Hoon,’ grunted Shakuntala.
‘Come and meet her‚’ said Virmati, grabbing her cousin by the arm and pulling her towards the hostel. ‘Luckily she is in.’
But the meeting was not a success. ‘I must say she is rather plain,’ remarked Shakuntala as they left the room.
Virmati looked at her a little coldly. Fancy Pehnji going so much by looks. Anybody would be impressed by Swarna’s eyes behind her glasses, eyes that refused to smile just because they were looked at. And what about the intelligence in her round face, and the friendliness that was frank and open?
‘But Swarna is not who I want to talk about,’ went on Shakuntala. ‘What about him? Has he tried to get in touch with you yet?’
‘Of course not, Pehnji,’ said Virmati resentfully. ‘Besides how would he when …’ She stopped.
‘Doesn’t he know you are here?’
Virmati wished her cousin would talk of something else. ‘I’m so lucky to be here,’ she said quickly. ‘Thank you, Pehnji, for helping me.’
‘Arre, where is the need for thanks in the family?’ responded Shakuntala, flicking Virmati’s cheek with her finger. ‘And thank God there is no quota system in SL. In Government colleges, the quota is so high that good Hindu students have to wait until the Muslim quota is full, though of course their quota is hardly ever filled because those people don’t like to study …’
‘How do you know, Pehnji?’ Virmati enquired timidly. ‘Maybe they have other difficulties?’
Shakuntala looked surprised. ‘Everybody knows that,’ she said firmly.
I wonder if Swarna does, thought Virmati as Shakuntala swept on. ‘And only then are the Hindu girls, really good students some of them, allowed seats. Miss Dutta – we eat with her – says the quota system is part of politics, and we mustn’t get upset about something we can do nothing about.’
The girls parted at the gates, Virmati wondering a little sadly whether she would ever feel the way she used to about Shakuntala Pehnji.
*
In Amritsar, the Professor’s thoughts kept circling around Virmati. Had she forgotten him? It was obvious she was trying to. Away from him, away from all associations of their relationship, who knew how quickly the unthinkable might be accomplished?
An open invitation from his friend, Syed Husain, to use his house as his own, went a long way in helping the Professor achieve his objective. Syed Husain was married, had regrets, and was involved with a specific alternative. A situation enough like the Professor’s own to make each one eager to help the other.
&nb
sp; ‘Stay here and meet her‚’ said Syed Husain, the friend. The Professor was sitting in his drawing-room, in his house on the campus of Government College.
‘It is so difficult,’ said the Professor gloomily. ‘I write to her but she doesn’t reply.’
‘Oh?’ Syed looked surprised. ‘Don’t they open letters?’
‘I was lucky. The BT girls have their letters opened only on random occasions. Even though I had taken the precaution of signing myself as a female, she was extremely annoyed. She wrote back only once and asked me – me, imagine! – if I was trying to get her expelled before she had even started her course of study.’
There was a brief silence as the bearer came in with the tea service. The Professor looked at the tray and bearer appreciatively. Both were completely uniformed – down to the white gloves on the hands of the man, the small, gleaming slop bowl, and lace-embroidered milk-jug holder on the tea tray. Syed knew how to live well, thought the Professor wistfully. The set must have cost at least a hundred rupees.
‘Lay siege to her,’ declared Syed as he poured the tea.
‘How?’ asked Harish. ‘I’ll never be allowed in there. Her mother couldn’t have rushed to put me on the list of acceptable male visitors,’ he added drily.
‘Faint heart never won fair lady,’ laughed Syed. ‘Remember the women we went out with in Oxford? You had no problem with them!’
‘Virmati is different,’ complained the Professor. ‘She is so serious. Just because I’m still living with my wife, she chooses to doubt me. And then, she’s staying in a fortress, so that it is impossible to meet her and explain things.’
‘These women don’t understand our predicament,’ said Syed understandingly.
‘I could convince her, I’m sure of that,’ said Harish. ‘It’s her family that has poisoned her. And then the difficulty of managing contact with her is proving insuperable. It is certainly not easier here than it was in Amritsar.’