The Complete Short Stories
Page 26
She intended to leave at night. The tonga driver had been instructed to come on time. Suddenly, Anandi went into labour in the evening and, by eleven o’clock at night, a tiny, young and helpless being came into existence. The moment the newborn’s cry reached his ears, Gopinath hurried down and fled home in panic. The poor Anandi hid the secret in her bosom till her last breath and did not let anyone know of the searing pain in her heart. The servants had already guessed and did not express much surprise. Anandi was lying unconscious.
6
By ten o’clock the next morning, the news was all over the city. People exchanged opinions in low tones, while one expressed disbelief, the other, hatred, while yet another would scoff and jeer. Gopinath had his fair share of enemies. With Tribhuvan Nath in the lead, the defamation campaign against Gopinath was soon afoot. One could see small groups of people discussing this event threadbare in secretive tones almost everywhere. Someone would say that the woman was corrupt right from the very start, ‘Why else would she have come here all the way from Mumbai?’ Someone else would respond that she was not to blame. ‘It’s all the doing of that phoney bespectacled philosopher of a man. He could jolly well have married her if he was up to all this. He was bent upon committing the folly of remaining celibate and he has ended up with promiscuity. He should blacken his face and go drown himself in a pond.’ People would drop in pretending to inquire about his welfare and then would actually demean him. Everyone seemed to really enjoy slighting him. On the other hand, they were all sympathetic towards Anandi. However, Gopinath, too, had a large number of followers who refused to attribute this happening to Gopinath and regarded it as the doing of some notorious character. How could someone who even avoided the mention of women do such a thing? He could very well have got married if this is the kind of thing he was interested in!
As far as he was concerned, Gopinath acquired a shroud of mystery around him. He would listen to everybody but remain silent himself.
The question now was—of what should be done next. It wasn’t proper to penalize Anandi; after all she was the weaker sex. The debate was about how Gopinath should be treated. The general opinion was that he should get his just deserts and keep Anandi at home with him according to propriety. But the influential among them preferred an impartial attitude and said that it was none of their business. It was between Anandi and him. However, he should certainly be removed from the managerial responsibilities of the school.
Tribhuvan Nath and his friends didn’t want to let Gopinath off so easily. They had an age-old envy in their hearts against him. How could yesterday’s chit of a lad become a leader and strut around the city after reading a few books and tinkering with some philosophy? Why shouldn’t one blow the whistle on such people, who, spectacles and silk scarves in place, wear a patronizing look on their faces and pretend to be paragons of virtue and forbearance? Why shouldn’t the community be warned to steer clear of such double-faced and dishonest social workers?
They set about quizzing the teachers, gatekeepers and ayahs of the girls’ school about Gopinath. How often did he visit? For how long would he usually stay? What did he do there? Were you allowed in his presence or not? The meagre-salaried workers of the school were quite fed up of Gopinath’s strict ways. But they were reluctant to act as informants in this affair of personal honour. Despite there being no evidence, public opinion had declared Gopinath guilty. And there was no scope of any appeal against this judgement.
Meanwhile, Gopinath had discontinued visiting Anandi right from that very day. The poor woman had barely spent two weeks in the girls’ school since the birth when, on the fifteenth day, the management committee dispatched a letter informing her of her expulsion from the school’s faculty. They didn’t even think it necessary to give her a month’s due notice. Suffering silently, the unfortunate woman shifted into a small house with a tiny, helpless baby in her arms. There was no one to support her. The baby weak and she herself ill, she had no one to tend to her or share her worries. Except for one maid to help her with the dishes she had no one and she spent the night sitting all by herself with the baby in her arms. It was an awful time for her. One could marvel at her patience, tolerance and forbearance—she had no complaint against Gopinath on her lips, or even in her heart. She thought, It is natural for him to avoid me in the present circumstances. There is no other possible solution. The town would have suffered such a setback if he were exposed. Not that a large number of people aren’t suspicious of him even now. But no one can charge him publicly with anything. As for me, what is my importance in the scheme of things and how does my infamy harm the world?
Three months passed. It was past midnight, Anandi was sitting at her table translating from a book by Swami Abhedananda. She would normally do her translation work after putting the baby to sleep. This was her only means of livelihood. Suddenly, there was a furtive knock on her door. Startled, she tiptoed to the door and listened. It seemed like Gopinath’s voice. She opened the door immediately. Gopinath entered, and glancing lovingly at the baby, said, ‘Anandi, I’m not fit to show my face. I didn’t know I’d turn out to be such a moral weakling, so cowardly and so shameless. But my lack of moral strength and shamelessness could not protect me from disrepute. Whatever disrepute I could earn and whatever losses the movements I was spearheading could bear have already taken place. It’s impossible for me to show my face to the public now and the community can never trust me ever again. Despite all this, I don’t have the courage to take responsibility for my actions. Earlier, I was least bothered about the narrow-minded concerns of society but now I shudder at every step from fear of it. I curse myself for remaining aloof while you go through trials and face destitution and defamation alone. You go through such trying times and I stay away, as if it’s no concern of mine. Only I know what I go through. Countless times I resolved to come here and then I lost courage. It is now apparent to me that all my philosophy is just an eyewash. I don’t have the strength to practise it and I’m a mere bundle of words. I am a lifeless clod of oppressive thoughts, absolutely insensitive, but, without you, my life is a curse. I can’t live without you.
‘Innumerable times, I have craved for just one glimpse of my beloved child. But how could I dare to hope that you don’t hate me even after being witness to my flawed character in such a heartbreakingly stark manner?’
Anandi spoke with damp eyes, ‘You are being grossly unfair to me by thinking like this, Swami. I’m not so immature that I would taint your reputation for the sake of my own satisfaction and comfort. I regard you as my God. It is my dearest wish that you grant me your presence here every day at this time.’
Gopinath felt ashamed at this childlike innocence and was overcome by a desire to defy the meaningless restrictions of marriage and custom and sink this hollow institution into the river of oblivion. He would build a home and Anandi would be its Goddess. The baby would play happily within its confines. With the sunshine of the child’s face, he would light up his dark life. But this surge of personal honour disappeared in a moment and the fear of loss of face engulfed him again. Philosophy bowed its head once again before meanness of action.
Fifteen years have passed since that day but you can still find Lala Gopinath sitting privately in Anandi’s room every night. He’s willing to die for false appearances, and Anandi can give her life for love. They both suffer disrepute. However, people view Anandi with sympathy, while Gopinath has lost all favour in their eyes. Agreed, some of his close friends still respect him and are willing to excuse him for this human failing, but the general public is not half as tolerant.
Translated from the Urdu by Baran Farooqi
The Bridal Sari
1
It’s wrong to say that for marital happiness the temperaments of a man and a woman ought to match. Mrs Gaura and Mr Kunwar Ratansingh had absolutely nothing in common. Gaura was generous, Ratansingh held fast to every last penny. She was cheerful, he a worrier. She would have laid down her life for family honour
, Ratansingh thought this mere ostentation. There were grave differences in their social conduct and outlook, too. Here it was Ratansingh’s turn to be liberal. Gaura objected to communal eating, was disgusted at the idea of widow remarriage, and opposed the cause of the untouchables. Ratansingh supported all these systems.
In matters of politics the differences between them were even more complicated. Gaura regarded the present circumstances as fixed, eternal and inevitable, which is why she was indifferent to the moderates, Congress, Swaraj, and Home Rule. ‘What can they do, this handful of educated men?’ she’d say. ‘Can faith move mountains?’ Ratansingh was a true optimist, the occupier of the front row at political rallies, the first to step into the field of action, a passionate patriot and a complete votary of boycott. Despite all these differences, their married life was happy. They quarrelled occasionally, of course, but these were breezes that gently ruffle still water, not squalls that make the sea revolt. A little goodwill would dispel all the discord and differences.
2
Bonfires were being made of foreign clothes. Bands of volunteers stood like beggars at people’s doors, asking for the alms of Western clothes, and there was hardly a door from which they were turned away. The days of homespun cloth had returned. Nainsukh no longer pleased the eyes, muslin felt dirty, and tanzeb pricked the skin.
Ratansingh came to Gaura and said, ‘Get me all the foreign clothes from your trunk.’
Gaura said, ‘Arré, is this very minute auspicious? Give them away some other time.’
‘Wah, there are people in an uproar by the door and you say give them away some other time?’
‘Here are the keys, take them out and hand them over. But these are all boys’ games. Swaraj has never been attained by burning down the house and it never will be.’
Ratan said, ‘Just yesterday we spent hours debating this subject and you agreed with me. Now you’re raising the same doubts?’
‘I went quiet from the fear of displeasing you.’
‘Okay, you can bring up your questions another time. Right now just do what has to be done.’
‘But you won’t take my clothes, will you?’
‘You’ll have to give me everything; leaving even a thread of British cloth in the house will destroy my vow.’
Just then Ramtehel, the syce, called from outside, ‘Master, people are getting impatient; they say there are several localities left to cover. And if you have a piece of coarse cloth might I get it, I’ve handed over all my clothes too.’
Kesar, the maid, was seen carrying out a bundle of clothes.
Ratansingh asked, ‘Are you also giving away your clothes?’
Kesar said shyly, ‘Yes, when the country is no longer wearing them, how can I wear them?’
Ratansingh looked at Gaura meaningfully. She couldn’t put it off any more. Her head bent with shame, she opened a trunk and started taking the clothes out. When one trunk emptied, she opened a second. Right on top was a lovely suit of silk which Ratansingh had had stitched in some English workshop.
Gaura asked, ‘Should I take out the suit too?’
‘Yes, of course. What will you save it for?’
‘If I’d known that the wind would change direction so quickly I’d have never let you get this suit made. It was money squandered.’
Ratansingh made no reply. Then Gaura opened her own trunk and in a frenzied rage began flinging out all the clothes, Indian and foreign. She had many expensive, fancy jackets and saris, which had once given her so much pride to wear. For certain saris, she’d had to make repeated demands of Ratansingh. But right now, each one of them annoyed her. Ratansingh understood her feelings. Her taking out the locally manufactured clothes irritated him, but he felt that at this point keeping quiet would be best. Despite this, they reached the point of argument a couple of times. He fought over a Benarasi sari, wanting to snatch it from Gaura’s hands, but she was adamant, bent on throwing it out. Suddenly there emerged a saffron sari of tanzeb from the box with a border of expensive fabric sewn to it. Gaura quickly hid it in her lap.
Ratansingh asked, ‘Which sari is it?’
‘Nothing, it’s a tanzeb sari, but the border is expensive.’
‘If it’s tanzeb it must be foreign. Why have you put it aside? Is it better than the Benarasi saris?’
‘It isn’t better but I’m not giving this one.’
‘Hey, I won’t let you keep a foreign thing. Give it here.’
‘No, for my sake let this be.’
‘You didn’t let one thing stay for my sake, why should I do anything for your sake?’
‘I beg you, please don’t make a fuss.’
‘You can keep what you like from the locally made saris, but I won’t let you keep this foreign thing. We’re slaves because of this cloth; I can’t let this stigma of slavery remain. Give it here.’
‘I won’t give it to you. I say it not once but a thousand times that I will not give it.’
‘I won’t give up till I’ve taken it away, this fetter of slavery, this bond of servitude, there is just no way I’ll keep it.’
‘You’ve no right to make a fuss.’
‘Why, after all, do you love it so much?’
‘You always start splitting hairs. It’s not about a whole lot of clothes. So what if I keep one sari?’
‘You still haven’t understood the significance of these bonfires.’
‘I understand very well. It’s all a farce. All the fervour will cool in a few days.’
‘If you just told me why this sari is so dear to you, I might relent.’
‘It’s my bridal sari.’
Ratansingh thought for a while, then said, ‘In that case, I could never keep it. I can’t allow foreign clothes this hallowed status, I can’t let this sullied memento of a holy rite remain in the house. It’s the first thing I’ll gift to the fire. How thoughtless had people become to unhesitatingly use foreign clothes even for such sacred acts? I must feed this to the flame.’
‘Such inauspicious things you say!’
‘To have this kind of bridal sari in the house is what’s inauspicious and undesirable.’
‘If you want you can force it away from me but I won’t give it willingly.’
‘In that case, I’ll have to use force. I’m helpless.’
Saying this he lunged at Gaura to snatch the sari from her. She held fast to it and, looking at Ratansingh in distress, said, ‘Swear on my head.’
Kesar, the maid, said, ‘If the mistress wants it so, let it be.’
Ratan withdrew his hands, dejected. Saddened he said, ‘I’ll have to break my promise and sign falsely on the pledge letter. Anyway, so be it.’
3
It was evening. The volunteers were making a racket at the door. ‘Kunwar Sahib, come quickly and also tell the missus to accept our entreaties. It’s getting very late.’
Inside, Ratansingh was in a dilemma over signing the pledge letter. How can I honour the nationalist vow with foreign clothes in the house? I’ve taken a step forward; I can’t move back now. But it’s not necessary to follow the pledge to the exact letter, one should focus on its larger purpose. From that point of view, I have every right to sign. No one can stand up to female obstinacy. If I wanted I could get the job done with one taunt, but she’ll be hurt, she’s so sentimental. I have to respect her feelings.
Gaura was worried, too. The bridal sari is an emblem of marriage. To burn it would be so inauspicious. He’s sometimes as stubborn as a child; when he starts singing his own tune he won’t listen to anyone else. Once crossed, it’s as if he’ll never straighten up again. But poor thing, he’s helpless because of his principles. He detests lies. He’ll have to write a false acceptance on the pledge letter. It’ll torment him, he must be in a serious quandary. How can he, who’s leading the whole city’s nationalist volunteers, make excuses about signing on the pledge letter? He won’t have anywhere left to show his face. People will take him for a fake. But how can I give away this auspicious t
hing?
Just then she saw Ramtehel, the syce, go out with a bundle of clothes on his head. Kesar had a bundle on her head too. Ratansingh followed them, holding the pledge letter. There was a hint of remorse on his face as if a truthful man were on his way to bear false witness. Seeing Gaura he averted his eyes and wanted to slip away without looking at her. Gaura guessed from this that his eyes were wet.
She stopped him and said, ‘Please listen to me.’
Ratansingh said, ‘Let me go, don’t pester me. There are people waiting outside.’
He wanted to hide the letter but Gaura snatched it from him; she read it closely and after a moment’s reflection she said, ‘Take that sari, too.’
Ratansingh said, ‘Let it be, I’ve written lies already.’
‘How did I know that you were taking such a serious vow?’
‘I’d told you about it.’
‘It’s my mistake. Forgive me and take this with you.’
‘Since you think it’s inauspicious to give it away, let it be. I don’t have a problem telling a few lies for you.’