A Girl & a River

by K R Usha

  ‘Get a fire going!’ Bhagiratamma continued shouting instructions as she stripped both Kaveri and Setu down. ‘Now Kaveri,’ she slapped her shoulder roughly, for Kaveri was in high spirits and was trying to peek at Setu, ‘No flighty behaviour from you, now.’

  By the time they had settled round the fire, their good humour had been restored. Shivaswamy made no more cracks about the water in the river not being enough to wet all their toes at once. Kaveri, snug in a blanket, hot cocoa in hand was being hailed as a heroine, and Setu, somewhat less lustily, as a hero. Only their aunt sat shivering by the fire, her lips red and chapped in her white face, her hair spread on her shoulders, her sari still wet. There was no blanket for her, and they were all sure she would dry off in no time in front of the fire. On the way back, she was packed off with her children into the first tonga, where Shivaswamy would keep an eye on her and Bhagiratamma and Rukmini came with Setu and Kaveri in the second one.

  ‘You were very brave, Kaveri,’ Rukmini, in an unusual demonstration of affection, cradled her daughter in her arms. ‘And you too Setu.’

  ‘Not Setu. He just stayed on the shore.’

  ‘But I helped to get her out.’

  ‘Both of you were brave.’

  ‘Amma,’ Kaveri nestled against her mother. ‘Promise you will not put Setu into a hostel.’ She whispered so that he would not hear. ‘I heard you talking to Shivaswamy mama.’

  ‘No,’ her mother smiled. ‘I won’t.’

  All said and done, the prospect of a house without Setu was too dire to imagine, for in truth, he was her first friend, her companion by instinct. For a moment, Kaveri had been so shaken by the thought of Setu being sent off that she had confessed to him about his mutilated Kannada composition and in return, her brother had generously said that he would not tell anybody he had seen her bum.

  Six

  Gandhi

  When Mylaraiah came home for lunch, he found the courtyard full of women. Of course, the office bearers of the Samaja were meeting here today, as their premises were getting all spruced up for Gandhi’s visit. Rukmini had managed a coup of sorts. She had wrested a half-hour slot from the Mahatma’s tightly packed and jealously guarded itinerary to address the women separately. Narayana Rao had finally agreed to it. For he seemed to be taking a keen interest in the Samaja these days, which had got the women all hot and bothered. They had become ambitious about Gandhi. Rukmini, he knew, had driven herself to a fever pitch and had begun to feel that she carried every poor farmer on her shoulders and it was her duty to enlighten him about the benefits of spinning.

  The Samaja was planning to present him with a report on their various activities and an independent purse for his Harijan Upliftment Fund. Umadevi and Rukmini had been collecting the money and people had been generous. Safe in the almirah, was a purse, fairly bulging and in a soft cloth bag were the pieces of the silver and gold jewellery that the two women had collected. Gandhi says they are just traps to collect dirt, your earrings and necklaces, Rukmini would tell the women she met. Sita wore no gold jewellery when she was in exile along with Rama. She wore only flowers.

  Peering from the hallway, Mylaraiah recognized the khadi regulars. Mangalabai and Sunandamma were there. Sumitrabai was the only one sitting on a chair on account of her bad back, and he wondered what Dr King, so loyal to her English tweeds, was doing here, till he realized she had been the initiator of the Samaja’s programme on diet and hygiene. How she reconciled her admonitions on health to others with her own smoking, he did not know.

  As he thumbed through the booklet on khadi that Rukmini had designed for the Khadi Bhandar, he was struck afresh at how good it was. She had put the booklet together after a lengthy correspondence and a visit to the state’s khadi centre in Badanwal, near Nanjangud. ‘Having spun the thread and given it a shining colour, weave it without knots and so guard the pathways, which the enlightened have chalked out’—Rukmini had begun with a quotation from the Rig Veda, a good way, he thought, of legitimizing the act of spinning. After the impressive beginning, she had gone on to trace how khadi had always featured in the lives of people. Apparently, according to tradition, the bridegroom’s garment was always spun by the bride. Poetry had immortalized the hum of the spinning wheel and the beauty of the ‘loaded distaff’, Wordsworth had spoken of the wheel as a pious, virtuous thing, a friend of the poor. Doctors had commended the soothing effects of its rhythmic movements on the mentally ill. There were facts too, statistics and analysis. The place of khadi in the economy as a supplementary occupation for farmers was also discussed. She had quoted Gandhi at length on how khadi was a symbol of national identity and human dignity, of self-reliance and resistance to the British. ‘Let the spinning wheel be your daily prayer,’ the Mahatma had urged. There were neatly laid out tables in this section computing the production and sale of khadi in the state centres, the earnings of spinners, weavers, tailors, dyers, printers and washermen, even the amount of butter extracted from the cotton seed! The mysterious and often tiresome and frustrating processes of hand spinning and weaving were explained, right from the ginning of cotton, the staples of cotton meant for hand spinning, the spinning and carding of yarn, and how the threads were stretched lengthwise on the loom to form the warp and the weft came breadthwise to complete the process of weaving the yarn into cloth. The part that he liked best in the booklet was the ‘handy tips’ section illustrated by Rukmini herself, and as he flipped through the pages, he paused as always at the illustration of a woman sitting in a weaver bird’s nest of thread—that was the tip on how to spin without getting the thread knotted. There were other tips and illustrations too—how to oil a charkha and stop it from rattling, how to make your own sliver and select a good carding bow, how to straighten a warped spindle, how to protect your thumb while spinning, and with each tip, the same woman, who bore a close resemblance to Rukmini herself, puzzled over an oil can, a broken thread, a recalcitrant charkha or sucked on her thumb, sore from plying the wheel.

  When Setu and Kaveri sat down to ‘practise sums’ with Rukmini, it was to calculate how much time it would take three spinners to spin enough yarn for ten yards of cloth if they worked for four hours each day. Sometimes, complications such as a warped spindle or knotted yarn that had to be discarded, were thrown in. Setu was quick and would have the answer in no time while his sister struggled with the sum. But he would often ask, ‘Why spin khadi yarn Amma, if it is so much trouble’. ‘Because we can make our own cloth and we need not depend on cloth made in mills in England—stupid!’ Kaveri would say. ‘It gives us a sense of independence, of pride, of achievement, it gives us something to do with our hands,’ Rukmini would explain. ‘Do you know, your Kalyani and Ramu’s father pays his party membership fees out of the sale of the thread he spins every day.’ ‘But Amma, my friend Pinjar Budda whose father is a weaver says khadi is more trouble than of use,’ Setu would reply unconvinced.

  Mylaraiah had to admit that he did not care much for khadi—it was too rough and even the smoothest weaves could not avoid the knots in the yarn, and the finer varieties wilted before the end of the day—and wore it only occasionally, more to please Rukmini. The booklet though was very cleverly and competently written, he had to concede. Rukmini had turned spinning into a romance, stressing on its irresistible combination of the spiritual and the practical. It could turn any sceptic into a spinner. He had heard that Narayana Rao could not stop singing praises of it and had recommended that it become part of the Mysore Government’s manual on khadi.

  It was from her mother that Rukmini got much of her doggedness, he felt. Bhagiratamma was there too, among the women, a fierce campaigner against cow slaughter. Right then she was in the throes of an earnest correspondence with William Smith, Head of the Imperial Dairy Farm in Mysore about the efficacy of nux vomica in the treatment of stomach ailments in cows. Our Amrit Mahal bullocks, like our men, have fought in Mesopotamia, she’d say proudly, and they were no less brave than the Mysore Lancers. Mylaraiah would o
ften remark on her neglect of buffaloes—after all, the buffalo was the vahana of Lord Yama himself and all of them one day would be led upwards, holding the end of a buffalo’s tail—and she would take it seriously, giving him reasons why buffaloes did not merit the same consideration as cows.

  To Mylaraiah, his wife and mother-in-law’s pursuits were more antics than activities. In a way, he saw in them a reflection of himself, of his tolerance and large heartedness. When he saw his wife sitting at her desk, in her typical ‘thoughtful’ pose and then heard the neat, brisk scratching of pen on paper, he allowed himself a moment’s indulgence. This was the child he had nurtured, taught from the random books in his library, and groomed into womanhood with his conversation. She was now a credit to him. Of course, she would never be called upon to take any real decisions; she would always be insulated from the stuff of life. Sometimes, he thought, it was convenient not to be answerable to anyone or anything but your own conscience.

  He stood in the hallway, listening for a few minutes and then turned to go into his office. He would have to wait long for his lunch that afternoon.

  Any vestige of doubt in Rukmini’s mind about her involvement with the ‘cause’ had vanished when she heard Narayana Rao speak. In the last few weeks, Narayana Rao had spent a lot of time at the Samaja, addressing their meetings. Gandhi was coming. They had to put their best foot forward. The Mahatma liked to see that the women were as involved as the men. So they had to work out a common agenda.

  When he stood in front of them, tall, rangy, a little bent, deep shadows under his eyes, his hair overlong, more out of neglect than anything else—she was sure he never as much as looked into a mirror—his voice swelling, plangent and dramatic, and at times a husky intimate murmur, she had felt that he was speaking to her alone. A man like this, so transparent, as clear as running water, could undoubtedly sway crowds, not through the trickery of a demagogue, but by merely being who he was. For he seemed unafraid to speak his mind, to lay bare his vulnerability; if he contradicted himself in the course of his outpourings, if he pounded passionately at trivialities, if he stood revealed as impulsive and irrational, it made him more human, more endearing, for everyone knew that his dedication and commitment were total and unshakeable.

  He had begun by thanking them for having had the courage to come out of their narrow, domestic confines, even if it was for a few hours a day, and work for their unfortunate sisters. He was sure that the natural qualities of women, their nobility, their application and dedication, their immense capacity for love, which were restricted to their families alone, if directed outward, could do wonders and transform society.

  ‘You are Draupadis all, robust and independent,’ he said bowing before them deeply, ‘rather than delicate flowers like Sita. And it is not I who say it but Gandhi himself.’

  He told them about the first time he had met Gandhi. His daughter had high fever and he had been given a case for the first time in his apprenticeship to handle all by himself. And then he had heard that Gandhi was coming to Belgaum. Overnight, he had made up his mind and taken the last bus out. He had arrived too late to hear Gandhi speak at the mammoth Congress meeting but he and a few others had caught up with him in the next village, where Gandhi had stopped briefly. How could he do justice to the small brown man dressed only in a dhoti and a towel on his head to keep off the sun? All he knew was that when Gandhi addressed the small gathering under the village banyan, he had felt as if he had been set on fire, even though Gandhi had said nothing incendiary; in fact, he had read it all before in Gandhi’s writings and several times over. You have come because you are idealistic young men, you want to reach out and serve the poor, you want to cleanse what you see around you, but remember, the cleansing process must begin from within, Gandhi had said. You must be pure in body and spirit, as clean in habits as you are pure in mind before you reach out. You must live your ideals before you serve your community and finally join the larger struggle, the ultimate goal of Swaraj.

  Narayana Rao had prostrated himself at Gandhi’s feet and offered to serve him and go with him where he went, completely forgetting his wife and child back home. Gandhi had laughed and patted him on the back. ‘Go, repeat the mantra of khadi as Prahalada did Vishnu’s name. Spinning is a yajna that each of us must do for the poor. Go, induce your neighbour to spin for daridra narayana. To join the national cause begin by boycotting liquor and foreign cloth, and by spinning khadi.’

  This applies as much to women as it does to men, Narayana Rao had told the Samaja. They may think that these were safe, easy commitments, but that was not so. Gandhiji himself had warned that women might find themselves in prison, may be insulted and suffer bodily injury. To suffer such insult and injury would be their pride.

  ‘Tell us,’ one of the women had asked, ‘how it was the first time you went to jail.’

  Narayana Rao had smiled. It was something he did not usually talk about, he said, but since he had been asked specifically, he would. He had been arrested for leading a group of satyagrahis to chop down the toddy-producing echali trees. He had gone, as Gandhi had said, without offering resistance, in perfect non-violence. He had carried with him his copy of the Gita in one hand and his takli in the other. My wife did not recognize me when I came back, he said, for we nearly starved for all of our three-month stay. The rice was nothing but stones, the sambar had small live animals floating in it and the vegetable was invariably rotting.

  After listening to Narayana Rao, Rukmini had not dissolved into tears like many of the other women, but had carried home an enormous ache in her heart. To go to jail not knowing when he was coming back, indeed even if he would see his family again. She yearned, for such idealism, or foolhardiness as her husband called it. Fierce, if vague, notions of glory overwhelmed her—of plunging into the fray with a partner, buoyed by her dreams, seeking only the warmth of the spirit that fired her and knowing that it would tide over all difficulties. One afternoon, after he had addressed a general meeting of the Samaja, Narayana Rao stopped next to her and said, ‘Will you do me a favour? Among your many talents I believe is a flair for writing. Could you compile a report on the activities of the Khadi Bhandar to present to the Mahatma when he comes? Of course you can have a whole section on the khadi wing of the Samaja.’

  That night, as Rukmini lay by her husband’s side, her mind travelled back fifteen years, to the horoscopes that had gone astray. She knew it was stupid and fruitless and she had pushed such thoughts out of her mind several times in these last few weeks, but again and again it came back to her that she and Narayana Rao were crossed by destiny. Thankfully, daylight and the physical presence of her husband brought sanity back.

  In the days that followed, the wheel of Rukmini’s charkha rotated faster and she spent most mornings on the khadi booklet, neglecting everything else. For this would be her personal offering to him and she had to produce a document that could not be bettered, and was worthy of him, a living testament to the ideals he lived by. She had to prove to him that in her own way, she was capable of the same dedication, an equal fervour, for in a way they were partners, weren’t they? In the same heady burst, she had asked Narayana Rao to give the Samaja half an hour with Gandhi, exclusively, so that he could see the work they were doing for himself.

  But right then in the courtyard, Rukmini was finding it difficult to translate the energy of the Samaja into collective action. The effects of Narayana Rao’s talks to the Samaja seemed to have worn off far too soon. From a single body electrified with good intentions they seemed to have defused into a querulous, indistinguishably grey group in which women like herself and Umadevi flickered occasionally like fireflies.

  Getting ready to greet the Mahatma was taking a lot of hard work and organizing. She ticked the items off her list as and when the committee decided on it. Mangalabai had taken charge of getting the dais erected and since her Hindi was the best, she would translate the report that Umadevi would read out. More then three hundred women were expected.
Sumitrabai’s volunteers would keep them in order—strictly no walking up to the dais to touch his feet. To avoid a rush, they had decided to make the collection beforehand and hand their purse over to him after presenting the report. It was decided that the Samaja would volunteer only one of their members to Gandhiji’s welcome committee, since he was particular that a crowd of organizers should not travel with him or take him round. Here Rukmini had not stepped aside in favour of Umadevi as usual. This was not the time to hide her light under a bushel, for she would be sitting on the dais with none other than Gandhi and even her husband could not be impervious to that. After that even he could make no objections if she chose to enter the public life. Why, she might even be able to get him that post he was so keen on.

  Dealing with people had been the most difficult part and Rukmini was amazed at the lack of common sense and the pettiness that she encountered. A simple thing like garlands, for instance. She had thought it self-evident that all garlands and buntings would be made of yarn and not jasmine, but she had had to fight to press the point home. Despite all the rehearsals and admonition, she knew that all the women would rush forward and flock round him like flies round a honey pot on that day.

  ‘We have decided that Rukminiamma’s daughter Kaveri will garland the Mahatma,’ Umadevi said and if her voice was a little dry, Rukmini did not notice it.

  That too had been hard won. Umadevi had wanted Narayana Rao’s daughter Kalyani to garland him. Kaveri herself had been very difficult to persuade. I don’t want to garland anybody. Besides, Anna does not like Gandhi, she had said. Rukmini had kept her patience and tried to explain to Kaveri that it was an honour which would not come her way again, and that her father had great respect for Gandhi, though he did not necessarily agree with his methods or his goals.

  Another thing that bothered Rukmini was that Savitramma, Narayana Rao’s wife had refused to be part of the programme. ‘I just don’t have the time,’ she had said when Rukmini had visited her to try and persuade her to join. And looking at her shapeless form wrapped in a coarse khadi sari, much inferior to Rukmini’s own elegant one of a finer count, her face flushed from working over a wood-fire stove, Rukmini had felt a little guilty.