As gold and silver trimmed saris, gold bracelets and jewelled necklaces glimmered in the beams of the car headlights, the watchers admired unrestrainedly. They sniffed appreciatively, as waves of flower perfume passed over them from the multitude of garlands carried in the procession. The men admired the horses and the shining cars. Except for that of the beggar, there was no animosity at the display of wealth; they enjoyed the spectacle and never thought of it in relation to their own pressing needs. The Desais, however, were not very trusting. The walking ladies were confined within heavy ropes carried on either side of the procession by their servants and younger male members of the family. Nobody was given the chance to snatch at so much as an earring.
In the centre of it, Mahadev, his pain soothed by aspirin, his spirits high, enjoyed the pomp of his wedding day. Unhaunted by thoughts of his first wife, for whom he had gone through the same performance, it was as if he went to his first marriage. This time, he told himself, he was marrying for love, and he knew a great content from the thought of it.
The compound had seemed quite full before the advent of the Desai party. Now it was jammed. Space was somehow made, however, for the bridegroom to make his way to the bungalow, where a crushed Anasuyabehn sat dully behind a curtain.
As required, she spat betel juice at him, while her maternal aunt, in lieu of her dead mother, marked him with auspicious marks and threw little balls of rice and ashes over him. The aunt then waved a vessel of water over his head, managing not to splash his magnificent, flower-bedecked, silk turban.
From behind the thin curtain and her shrouding red sari, Anasuyabehn watched him out of the corner of her eye. He looked very fine in his bridegroom’s clothes, and there was nothing about him to which she could truthfully object, except that he was not Tilak.
Escorted by their relations, the couple were now taken through the stifling March heat, to the marriage tent. There, a committee of leading Jains awaited them in festive mood. Mahadev’s friends brought forward his gifts to the bride and laid them before these gentlemen, who rapidly totted up their value, were greatly impressed by it and announced that the gifts were most generous. The gifts were then handed over to the bride’s friends.
Mahadev and Anasuyabehn were seated side by side and shook hands with each other. Under the stare of so many witnesses, Mahadev did not dare give Anasuyabehn’s hand a hearty squeeze; he had to content himself with a light shake. The end of her sari was then tied to his scarf.
One of his friends brought him a box, which he handed to Anasuyabehn. When she opened it, her aunts leaned forward eagerly to view its contents. Rings and bracelets of solid gold made them gasp enviously.
With his face aglow, Dean Mehta brought his offering for his beloved daughter. Iridescent saris, blouse lengths and petticoat lengths to match, a finely-wrought gold necklace, more gold bracelets. Anasuyabehn had never owned so much in all her life. Father has spent too much, she fretted, and wondered if he would have enough money to retire on; then she remembered that he would need no money. As a monk he would need nothing, not even her. She would have no one to turn to – except her husband. She sighed a little sobbing sigh. Hearing her, Mahadev turned quickly towards her but could see nothing but the vague glimmer of her face behind the silk.
In the half-light of the oil lamps, old Desai seemed to float towards his son. Aided by an ancient cousin, he washed one of his son’s hands; Anasuyabehn’s maternal aunt did the same for her. She then placed Anasuyabehn’s hand in that of the groom. Mahadev cheerfully held on firmly and, despite her depression, Anasuyabehn was forced to take cognisance of the fact that the man sitting by her was real, with needs to which she must give attention. She began to tremble and Mahadev, feeling it, massaged her palm gently with his fingers. He tugged her to her feet and they solemnly circumvented the flickering fire before which they had been sitting. Four times, left to right, they paced together, while lucky women pressed forward to receive sopari nuts from Mahadev; thus must husband and wife walk together equally, like oxen, pulling the wagon of life.
Sweets cooked by a Brahmin were offered to the couple and were formally refused.
They walked together into the house, where worship was offered to Anasuyabehn’s gotrija, her kinsmen of lineal and collateral descent from a common ancestor.
The couple were, next, to go in procession to the rented house for a similar ceremony in honour of the bridegroom’s ancestry. The day had been a long one and, before setting out, Anasuyabehn whispered rather frantically to her maternal aunt, and was given permission to go to the bathroom, escorted by her favourite young cousin.
The sweeper’s door into the bathroom had been left open for ventilation and, when she went to close it, she saw to her astonishment Savitri standing hesitantly on the field path.
‘Hey, Bahin,’ cried Savitri, stumbling towards her along the rough path.
‘Hurry up,’ whispered her cousin, from the other side of the door which led into the house.
‘Anasuyabehn,’ panted Savitri, keeping her voice low. ‘I’ve been trying for two days to get you alone – and now I don’t know what to do – it’s the letter.’
‘What letter?’ Anasuyabehn pushed her veil back from her eyes, so as to see her friend’s troubled face more clearly.
‘From you know whom – John Bennett gave it to me – he couldn’t deliver it himself – though he said he called on you.’
Anasuyabehn remembered John bringing the box of china himself. By all the gods who ever reigned, he had had a letter to deliver! The trembling which had begun in the compound became a helpless shake.
‘Give it me.’
‘Come on,’ urged her cousin and opened the other door.
Savitri ignored the young girl and took the letter from under her sari. It smelled faintly of her perfume and Dr Bennett’s tobacco, and the envelope was quite dirty.
Ignoring her watching cousin, Anasuyabehn tore open the envelope, her fingers clumsy. The cousin pressed forward, but a glare from behind Savitri’s heavy spectacles made her shrink back.
And so the screw was turned once more.
The gentle, courteous words and promises, so quickly penned, seemed to hit her under the heart. The pain was so intense that she cried out, before she fell fainting into Savitri’s skinny arms.
The shocked little cousin rushed forward and together they half dragged, half lifted, Anasuyabehn into the passage. The younger girl opened her mouth to call her mother, but Savitri was made of sterner stuff, and whispered, ‘Shut up. Wet your hankie under the lavatory tap – quick.’
The cousin obeyed.
The touch of the water on Anasuyabehn’s face failed to bring her round. Her aunts could be heard calling to her to hurry. There was a shuffle of footsteps on the veranda. Savitri rose, and ran towards the footsteps, while the frightened cousin pillowed Anasuyabehn’s head in her lap.
A bevy of ladies hurried into the passage, calling, ‘Hurry up!’ In the background, Mahadev inquired if anything was wrong.
Savitri composed herself and said quietly to the first lady, ‘Anasuyabehn has fainted. It must have been the heat and the excitement.’
The little cousin discreetly slipped the note from under Anasuyabehn’s trailing veil and stuffed it down her blouse. She had no idea what the letter was about, except that it must be most important to Anasuyabehn. With thumping heart, she gave way to Aunt and wrapped her sari loosely round herself, to hide the telltale bulge.
Between them, the ladies got Anasuyabehn on to her bed and crowded round her, chattering anxiously, while word spread in the compound that the bride had been taken ill. A bad omen,’ muttered one old lady to another.
Dean Mehta, old Desai and Mahadev pushed their way into the crowded room. To give the patient air, the Dean ordered that the room be cleared, except for the three gentlemen, Aunt and Mahadev’s aunt. This was done, though the little cousin continued to stand, unremarked, by the head of the bed. Savitri had considered it prudent to sidle quietly out of
the house through the sweeper’s door.
A lota of water was brought by the boy servant and Aunt sponged her face. After a few minutes, the eyelids fluttered under their smudged paint – and closed again, as she realized her predicament. She was now legally married to Mahadev – and, far away in Bombay, Tilak was trying to start negotiations to marry her; he had not deserted her, he had not run away. He loved her and she loved him. Waves of grief broke over her, as if someone had died, and she sobbed helplessly before her astonished relatives.
How many times do we die in our lives, she wondered, our spirits crushed and broken? And yet the body lives on.
The marriage garland round his neck withering in the heat, Mahadev could bear the sobs no longer. Regardless of convention, he pushed Aunt away. Kneeling by her bedside, he took her hand and himself massaged it gently to get the circulation going. At first Anasuyabehn neither knew nor cared whose hand held hers, whose fingers carefully rubbed her wrists. It was, nevertheless, comforting, as if someone, at least, realized her suffering. Eventually, the weeping ceased. She lay with eyes closed, while Aunt leaned over and gently wiped the wet cheeks.
Her eyelids felt heavy, too heavy to open, but Mahadev waited patiently, and, finally, she did open them, to come face to face with the anxiety and fear clearly mirrored in his usually cold, intelligent eyes. Dimly she knew that, of all the people gathered round her, Mahadev cared the most – and Mahadev was innocent – he had not done anything that contributed to her predicament; she had received nothing but kindnesses from him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and closed her eyes again.
Old Desai and Dr Mehta were relieved to see her come round, and began in hurried whispers to debate what they should do. Aunt interposed to say that the wedding must go on, as soon as Anasuyabehn was a little recovered; it would be too unlucky otherwise.
Anasuyabehn felt so tired that all she wanted was to be left alone. But Mahadev was there, still rubbing her hands. With a great effort, she swallowed her tears, opened her eyes again, and said that, if she could have a very hot, strong cup of tea, she thought she could go on – the time taken to prepare it, she argued, would give her a few minutes of rest.
Mahadev laughed out loud with relief. He whispered that she could have the whole of Gujerat if she wanted it. She made her lips smile.
The tea was made, the guests reassured, and, by the light of the moon, they set out in procession for the house rented by Dean Mehta. Laden with sweets, dates, money and the kernels of four coconuts, the Mehtas returned home exhausted, to go to bed for the remainder of the night.
The following evening, shaken but composed, Anasuyabehn sat quietly amongst her cousins, while the committee of eminent Jains inspected further gifts from her family. Then alms were distributed to an eager crowd of beggars and saddhus waiting at the compound gate.
Normally, the guests would have been feasted for several more days, but Mahadev had to go to Paris, so, to the sound of steady drum beats, Anasuyabehn dipped her hand in red powder and marked the house walls with the imprint of her palm. In the marriage tent, she impressed an auspicious mark on Mahadev’s brother’s forehead, making the gesture very respectful and leaving him beaming contentedly. Someone handed her yet another sari, and she wondered vaguely how many dozen she now owned. A coconut was put into her hand and, with Mahadev smiling down at her, she stepped into his carriage. Another coconut was put under the wheels of the carriage and the vehicle jolted over it to break it. The pieces were then offered to her, with four sweetmeats and two brass vessels.
The driver whipped up the horse. Cars and carriages slid out before and behind them. In procession, they made their way into the old part of the town to the Desai Society.
‘This is it,’ she thought numbly. ‘In that old house they will have prepared a bed covered with rose petals and I will sit on it and Mahadev Desai and I will be alone for the first time.’ She knew what to expect and she felt dull and lifeless. She could feel the warmth of her husband’s thigh against hers, and she turned towards him instinctively. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he told her gently. ‘Everything will be all right.’
At home, the Dean looked at the imprint of his daughter’s hand and prayed for her. Then he went to say farewell to most of the guests, pressing some to stay a few days more. He did not yet want to be alone.
In the hopelessly untidy kitchen, deserted for the moment, Anasuyabehn’s faithful little cousin surreptitiously read Tilak’s letter. Through the crumpled paper, she saw Anasuyabehn’s face, so colourless, so dead, her lips hardly moving as she forced herself to say, ‘Burn it.’ To the young girl it was as if something in the new bride had burned with a mighty flame and was now cold ashes, and the youngster trembled with fear of love not yet experienced.
She struck a match, lit the letter and held it in her hand until it was reduced to a tiny corner of paper attached to curling, black embers. Then she dropped it into the ash-choked charcoal brazier.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
On the morning after Anasuyabehn’s departure, Aunt stood on the veranda and surveyed the appalling muddle. Pieces of tissue paper, palm leaves, withered flowers and garlands, two pieces of cloth flapping loose from the marriage tent, a pair of chuppells abandoned on the steps; behind her, in the kitchen, a mass of teacups and glasses to be washed, and unsorted laundry to be dealt with, seven house guests still to be fed, and a reception for some thirty people to be arranged for that evening. The last item, thank goodness, would be dealt with by the caterers and her younger brother; she could already hear him talking to two of the cooks; and Dean Mehta, she supposed rather sourly, was probably at his devotions. Lucky for some people that they had so much time for prayer and meditation; she herself had to be content with hastily repeated mantras as she made the morning fire.
The postman, his khaki uniform already black with sweat, picked his way through the debris and handed her the morning’s letters.
Although she could not read, she recognized amongst them the handwriting of a great-uncle who had been invited to the wedding. What a mercy that old windbag was too old to travel, a walking gossip column, who would have smelled out the rumour about Anasuyabehn and would have retailed it on every veranda between Shahpur and Calcutta. She sighed, when she thought about this, and hoped that Anasuyabehn’s first child would not arrive before ten months – in fact, twelve months would be better.
When she knocked at the study door and opened it, the Dean still had his rosary in his hand. She put the letters on his desk and retreated to the kitchen.
After he had put his rosary into its box, the Dean mechanically opened his letters. It was with considerable shock that he read Tilak’s uncle’s preliminary inquiry regarding a match between his nephew and Anasuyabehn.
It seemed to him, at first, that he must have misread, and he perused again the careful description of Tilak’s assets, both physical and monetary. But there was no doubt that it was an offer for his daughter.
Here was proof that the girl had lied to him. His little daughter had lied. He was engulfed in wretchedness. What had she been doing?
As he stared at the letter, his fear and disappointment at his daughter gave way to anger against the hapless Tilak. He tore the letter up and flung it into his wastepaper basket.
If he heard so much as a breath of scandal about Tilak and his daughter, the man should go. If it were the last thing he did as Dean, Tilak should be made to rue the day he ever tampered with Anasuyabehn.
The letter from Bombay crossed with one from John to Tilak, in which he told of entrusting Tilak’s letter to Savitri for delivery. He wrote also of the haste with which the marriage was being solemnized, and that he hoped that Tilak would find someone else and be happy with her.
When the servant brought John’s letter to Tilak, he was sitting by his mother’s couch while she had her morning tea. As he read the missive, a fearful numbness crept over him, and his mind refused to accept the news it contained. He continued to sit, the letter in his hand resting on h
is knee, while the numbness gave way to a ghastly emptiness.
It seemed to him that he had been stripped of his clothing and walked by himself through a vast empty space, a cold wind beating upon his bare flesh. It seemed that he walked for a long time, ignoring the wind, refusing to be afraid, and gradually his senses returned.
When he opened his eyes, he did it carefully and slowly, as if letting in the light would also let in something horrible; but it was only his mother’s troubled eyes which met his.
She had put down her cup in her saucer, and she asked, ‘What’s the matter?’
Tilak was unable to speak. He handed the letter to her and she read it, her English being quite adequate to the task.
‘Your friend in Shahpur – the Englishman?’
‘Yes.’ With that single word, all the emotion which he had tried to control since he left Shahpur suddenly erupted. He fell to his knees by the couch and buried his head in the Kashmir shawl draped over it. He hammered the couch with clenched fists. ‘Why couldn’t Uncle get through on the telephone?’ he almost screamed.
His mother put down her cup and saucer with a clatter, and leaned forward to put her arms round her wilful, dreadfully hurt son. ‘The lines to Shahpur were simply choked by calls, my dear child. Uncle couldn’t help that – it’ll be years before we get a proper service.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Because both Tilak’s uncle and his mother feared a nervous breakdown, they did their best to dissuade Tilak from returning to Shahpur.
‘There’s nothing you can do, my son.’
‘I know that, mother. But I want to see the Vice-Chancellor and find out how things are in the University, and I would like to hear from John Bennett exactly what happened.’
Though he was obviously distraught, he was, they felt, trying to be rational, so they reluctantly agreed to the journey. The following morning, he and his servant arrived at Shahpur station. In the vast Victorian waiting-room there, he took a shower and changed his clothes. He was calm enough to eat a little breakfast in the empty first-class dining-room, while his servant ate in less sumptuous surroundings at a platform stall.
The Moneylenders of Shahpur Page 21