by Ruth Vanita
We had an answer ready. We had, after all, read two or three books. Scholarship had not left us untouched. I immediately said, ‘We have to pay Maulvi Sahib’s fees. There was no change at home, so Chachaji gave us a rupee.’
This allayed her suspicions. We both sat on a culvert and ate lots of guavas. But what would we do now with fifteen and a half annas in coins? It was not difficult to hide a rupee but where could we hide this heap of coins? There was no way to conceal it in our waistbands or our pockets. To keep these coins was to proclaim our theft aloud. After much thought, we decided to give twelve annas to Maulvi Sahib, and eat sweets with the remaining three and a half annas. Having made this decision, we proceeded to school. It was our first appearance there in several days. Maulvi Sahib said angrily, ‘Where have you been all these days?’
I said, ‘Maulvi Sahib, there was a death in the family.’
Saying this, I placed twelve annas before him. Why would he make further enquiries? He was delighted to see the money. There were several days to go before the end of the month. Normally, after the new month began, he would have to demand his fees several times before he got it. Thus, it was quite natural for him to be very pleased to get the money so soon. We looked at the other boys with a sense of superiority, as if to say, ‘You don’t pay even when asked, but we pay in advance.’
We were still reading the lesson when we discovered that there was a fair at the lake, so we would be let off early in the afternoon. Maulvi Sahib would take his nightingales to the fair, to participate in competitions. We were thrilled to hear this. We had already deposited twelve annas in the bank, so we now decided to spend three and a half annas at the fair. We would have a great time. We’d eat sweets, gorge on golgappas, ride the swings, and go home in the evening.
But Maulvi Sahib had strictly ordained that all the boys must recite the lesson before school ended. Whoever could not recite it would not be allowed to go. The result was that I was let off but Haldhar had to stay back. Several other boys who had recited the lesson set out for the fair. I joined them. The money was with me so I didn’t wait for Haldhar. We decided that he would come to the fair as soon as he was released, and we would enjoy it together. I had promised him that I would not spend a paisa until he came, but little did we know that ill luck was preparing another scenario for us!
I spent over an hour at the fair, but there was no sign of Haldhar. Had Maulvi Sahib not let him off yet, or had he lost his way? I kept gazing at the road. It was no fun being at the fair alone. I also wondered whether the theft had been discovered and Chachaji had got hold of Haldhar and taken him back home. Finally, when evening fell, I ate a few sweets, put Haldhar’s share of the money in my pocket, and slowly set off for home.
On the way, I thought I might as well go via the school. Haldhar might still be there. But the school was deserted. I did, however, meet a boy who was playing there. When he saw me he burst out laughing and said, ‘Go home, dear, and see what a good hiding awaits you. Your uncle came. He took Haldhar away, beating him all the way. He gave him such a blow with his fist that Mister Haldhar fell flat on his face. Then he dragged him off. You had paid Maulvi Sahib’s fees—he took that back too. Think up an excuse, otherwise you’ve had it.’
I grew cold with terror and felt as if the blood had dried up in my body. What I feared had happened. My feet felt heavy as lead. I could barely lift them as I trudged homeward. I promised offerings of sweets to every God and Goddess whose name I remembered—laddoos to one, peras to another, batashas to a third. As I approached the village, I paid homage to the village spirit, because the spirit’s wishes reign supreme in its own territory.
I did all this, yet as I drew nearer home, my heart beat louder and louder. Above, heavy clouds gathered and rolled. It felt as if the skies were about to burst open and fall. I saw people quit work and run towards their homes; the cattle too were homeward-bound, jumping around, their tails raised high. The birds were flying to their nests.
But I walked on at the same slow pace as if my legs had lost their strength. I wished I could get high fever or get injured somehow, but the washerman does not mount his donkey when told to do so. Death does not come when called for so why should sickness? Nothing happened, and although I walked as slowly as I could, I finally reached home. What could I do now? There was a large tamarind tree at our door. I hid behind it, hoping that when it grew somewhat darker, I could slip in and hide under my mother’s bed. When everyone went to sleep, I would cry and tell my mother the whole story. Mother never beat me. If I shed a few fake tears before her, she would melt. Once I got through the night, I would be safe. By morning, everyone would have cooled down. But providence had something else in store.
A boy saw me and ran straight to my house, calling out my name over and over. Now there was no hope for me. I entered the house helplessly, and a shriek escaped my lips, like the yelp of a beaten dog who sees someone approaching it. Father was sitting in the outer room. In those days, he was not keeping well. He had taken leave and come home. I don’t know what his ailment was, but he ate moong dal, and in the evening, he poured something from a bottle into a glass tumbler and kept drinking it. It was probably a medicine recommended by an experienced doctor. Medicines always taste bitter and unpleasant. This medicine was no exception, but for some reason father enjoyed drinking it. When I took medicine, I would shut my eyes and swallow it in one gulp, but perhaps this medicine took effect only when drunk slowly. Two or three other invalids from the village, and sometimes even three or four, gathered to sit with father, and they all drank medicine together for hours. It was difficult to get them to stop even for dinner. When I arrived, these patients had gathered and were drinking medicine.
When father saw me, his eyes glowed and he said, ‘Where were you all this time?’
I said in a low voice, ‘Nowhere.’
‘Now you have taken to stealing! Did you steal the rupee or not?’
I couldn’t speak. A naked sword was dancing before me. I was too afraid to utter a word.
Father asked again, fiercely, ‘Why don’t you speak? Did you steal the rupee or not?’
Holding my life in my hands, as it were, I said, ‘When did I …’
Before I could finish, father leapt up ferociously, gritted his teeth, and came towards me with upraised hand. I screamed aloud and started crying. I shouted so loud that my father was taken aback. His upraised hand froze midair. Perhaps he thought that since I was already in such a wretched condition I would die if I was slapped. Realizing that my strategy was paying off, I yelled and wailed even louder. A couple of father’s friends caught hold of him and gestured to me to run away. Children often make the mistake of continuing their tantrums in such a situation, and get beaten for nothing. I was too wise for that.
But the scene inside was even more terrifying. My blood ran cold. Haldhar was tied to a pillar, his whole body was covered in dust, and he was still sobbing. He seemed to have rolled all over the courtyard. The courtyard had apparently got drenched with his tears. Chachi was scolding Haldhar, and Amma was grinding spices. Chachi was the first to see me. She said, ‘Oh, here he is too. Speak up, did you steal the rupee or did he?’
I said, with aplomb, ‘Haldhar did.’
Mother said, ‘If he stole it, why didn’t you come home and tell someone?’
Now it was hard to avoid telling a lie. I think that when a man’s life is in danger, to lie is pardonable. Haldhar was used to being beaten. A few more blows would make no difference to him. I had never been hit. A couple of blows would finish me off. And Haldhar had surely tried to save himself by implicating me, else why had Chachi asked whether I had stolen the rupee? Although my lying at this moment could in no way be called praiseworthy, it was certainly pardonable. I immediately said, ‘Haldhar threatened to beat me if I told anyone.’
Amma: ‘See, it’s just as I said. I said the child has no such habits, he never touches money, but everyone thought I was a fool.’
Haldhar: ‘W
hen did I say I would beat you?’
I: ‘There, by the pond.’
Haldhar: ‘Amma, it’s a lie.’
Chachi: ‘It’s not a lie, it’s the truth. You are a liar and the rest of the world is truthful. You were the one caught, after all. If your father had a job, earned money and brought it home, and was respected in society, you too would be considered truthful. But as it is, you are a liar. The one in whose fate sweets were written has eaten sweets. Your fate has nothing but kicks in store for you.’
So saying, Chachi untied Haldhar, took his hand, and led him inside. By affectionately defending me, Amma had unwittingly turned the tables. Otherwise, the poor fellow might have been beaten much more. I sat down by Amma and held forth on my innocence. My simple-hearted mother thought me the embodiment of truth. She was fully convinced that Haldhar was entirely to blame.
Some time later, I came out of her room, with gur and parched grain. Haldhar too emerged at the same moment, eating parched rice. We went outside together and began to recount our experiences. My story was happy and Haldhar’s sad, but both concluded the same way—with gur and parched grain.
Newly-weds
OUR BODIES ARE OLD, BUT NEW BLOOD KEEPS SURGING THROUGH them. Our life is based on this flow of fresh blood. This new blood resounds, like the musical notes latent in a stringed instrument, through every atom and every mote of this eternal universe, so that the earth, although a hundred-year-old woman, is still a young bride.
Ever since Lala Dangamal remarried, he felt rejuvenated. When his first wife was alive, he was rarely found at home. From dawn to ten or eleven in the morning, he was immersed in prayer and the recitation of scriptures. Then he would have his meal and go to the shop. He would return at one in the night, exhausted, and go straight to bed. If Leela ever suggested that he return home earlier, he would get annoyed and say, ‘Should I close the shop and stop earning because of you? The days are gone when one could please Lakshmi just by offering a pitcher of water. Now one has to rub one’s forehead on her threshold, and even then she will barely look at one.’ Poor Leela would keep quiet.
Six months ago, Leela went down with fever. As Lalaji set out for the shop, she said timidly, ‘Look, I’m not feeling well. Try to come back early.’
Dangamal took off his turban, hung it on a hook, and said, ‘If my sitting here helps you recover, I won’t go to the shop.’
Leela said dejectedly, ‘I’m not telling you not to go. I’m just asking you to come back a little early.’
‘Do you think I have fun sitting at the shop?’
What could Leela say to this? Her husband’s unloving attitude was not new. Several years ago, she had realized the harsh truth that she was not valued in this house. She often pondered the problem, but could find no fault with herself. She served her husband more assiduously than before, she always tried to lighten his workload, she was always cheerful, and she never went against his will. Was it her fault that her youth had faded? Does anyone remain young forever? Was it her fault that she was not as robust as before? Why was she being punished for no fault of hers?
One would have expected twenty-five years of togetherness to lead to a deep mental and spiritual union, which turns defects into virtues, and, like a ripe fruit, grows juicier, sweeter, more beautiful. But Lalaji’s merchant-heart weighed everything on the scales of profit and loss. An old cow which yields neither milk nor calves should be sent to the animal shelter. As far as he was concerned, Leela should have been content to be mistress of the house, and to eat and sleep when she wished. She had the right to buy as much jewellery as she liked, and to occupy herself with ritual bathing and worship, but she ought to leave him alone.
The complexity of human nature was, however, evident in Dangamal’s constantly striving for the same pleasure of which he wanted to deprive Leela or which he thought she had no need of. Leela was considered an old woman at forty, but he, at forty-five, was still young, full of the excitement and intoxication of youth. He had developed a kind of distaste for Leela, and when the poor woman, realizing her flaws, sought the aid of cosmetics to overcome the cruel blows of nature, Lalaji felt even more repulsed by her elderly fancies. He would think, ‘Look at the ways of desire! She’s a mother of seven, her hair is streaked with grey, her face is wrinkled like much-washed flannel, yet she still longs for paint on her feet, vermilion in her hair parting, henna in her hair, and potions on her face. How strange women’s nature is! Why are they so eager to deck themselves up? One might ask, what more do you want? Why don’t you reconcile yourself to the fact that youth has bid you farewell and cannot be brought back by these devices?’ Yet he himself dreamt of youth. His thirst for the elixir of youth was far from quenched. In the winter, he made it a habit to drink juices and special concoctions. He dyed his hair twice a week and regularly corresponded with a doctor about monkey glands.
Seeing him perplexed, Leela said timidly, ‘Do you have any idea when you’ll come home?’
Lalaji asked calmly, ‘How do you feel today?’
What could Leela say? If she said she was very unwell, he might stay home and berate her all day. If she said she felt well, he would feel relieved and perhaps not return till two in the morning. In a dilemma, she hesitatingly said, ‘I was beginning to feel better, but now I’m feeling sick again. You go—people at the shop must be waiting for you. But for God’s sake, don’t return as late as one or two. The boys go to sleep, and I feel very uncomfortable and restless.’
Sethji said in a tone of syrupy affection, ‘I’ll definitely be back by midnight!’
Leela’s face fell. She asked, ‘Can’t you come by ten?’
‘Not before eleven-thirty.’
‘No, ten-thirty.’
‘All right—eleven.’
Lalaji promised, but at ten at night, a friend invited him to a mujra. How could he refuse? When a friend respectfully invites you, it is rude to turn him down.
Lalaji went to the dance performance, and returned at two. He came in quietly, awoke the servant, and lay down in his own room. Leela had gone to sleep, waiting for him, overcome with sorrow.
In the end, this sickness claimed the unfortunate Leela’s life. Lalaji was very sad when she died. His friends sent telegrams of condolence. A daily newspaper expressed grief at her death and published a hyperbolic account of her intellectual and spiritual virtues. Lalaji thanked all his friends from his heart, and presented five scholarships to the girls’ school in Leela’s name. The grandeur of her funerary feast will long be remembered in the annals of the city.
But within a month, Lalaji’s friends began to lay snares for him, as a result of which, after suffering widowhood for six months, he remarried. What could the poor fellow do? He needed a companion in life, especially at his age.
2
After the arrival of his new wife, Lalaji’s life underwent an astonishing transformation. He was no longer as attached to the shop. Now his business did not suffer even when he didn’t go to the shop for weeks at a time. The ability to enjoy life which had been gradually diminishing grew green again when watered; the dried-up tree revived and put out fresh shoots. He had bought a new car, the rooms had been redecorated with new furniture, more servants had been employed, a radio had been purchased, and gifts for the bride poured in every day.
Lalaji’s elderly youth was more intense than the youth of young men, just as electric light is brighter and more suitable for entertainment than moonlight. When Lalaji’s friends congratulated him on this metamorphosis, he would say with pride, ‘I have always been young and will always be young. If old age comes my way, I’ll blacken its face, put it on a donkey, face backwards, and chase it out of town. I don’t know why people connect youth and age to years. Youth has as much connection with one’s years as religion with conduct, money with honesty, and beauty with make-up. Can the youth of today be called young? I wouldn’t exchange one hour of my life for a hundred of their youths. They seem to have no enthusiasms, no pleasures. Life is nothing but a
burden to them.’
He endeavoured to inscribe these sentiments on Asha’s heart as well, persuading her to accompany him to the theatre, the cinema, and on boat trips. But for some reason Asha took not the slightest pleasure in these outings. She would go, but after much delay and coaxing. One day, Lalaji said, ‘Come on, let’s go on a barge down the river.’
It was the rainy season, the river had risen, strings of clouds, dressed in multicoloured uniforms like so many international armies, were parading through the sky. People were singing songs about the rainy season. Swings had been put up in the gardens.
Asha said, without interest, ‘I don’t feel like it.’
Lalaji said, in a tone of sweet persuasion, ‘How come you don’t enjoy such entertainment? You’ll love a trip on the river. It’ll be very pleasant on the barge.’
‘You go. I have lots of things to do.’
‘There are servants to do all that. Why should you work?’
‘The cook doesn’t make the vegetables well. You won’t feel like eating them.’