Indulekha
Page 15
Indulekha determined to entertain Madhavan with a full and laughable account of her interview with the Nambudiripad, and locked up in her desk the letter she had half finished. After doing this she went out into the parlour and, holding one of the chairs placed for visitors, stood there feeling as nervous as a schoolgirl before an examination.
Kesavan Nambudiri had lost no time in going downstairs and calling the Nambudiripad, who rose and followed him. Panchu Menon accompanied them only as far as the southern wing of the building, and when he had left them, Kesavan Nambudiri said, "lndulekha tells me that she hasn’t had much practice in the forms of polite and respectful conversation."
"Really now," said the Nambudiripad, "I wonder she doesn’t know that, when she knows English and all that sort of thing. Why even Mr. Mark Loud knows how to talk politely. But never mind. I’ll teach her all that as soon as I have made her mine. For the present it doesn’t matter how she talks’’
"Quite so," said Kesavan Nambudiri. "That’s all that is wanted. How magnanimous you are!"
Engaged in such conversation and clattering his wooden shoes loudly on the stairs at every step, the Nambudiripad reached the parlour. There he saw Indulekha standing leaning against a chair, and at first his eyes were blinded by her beauty as if by a flash of lightning. Blinking and winking, he ventured to look again, reeling to and fro and staggering in stupefaction. For two or three minutes he stood there, struck dumb with astonishment, and then beginning to recover himself, he thought, "My eyes! I have never seen such a pretty girl as this. My luck is really tremendous. Of course she can’t help falling in love with me, and I shan’t have anything to say to any other girl now. I shan’t love anyone but Indulekha; there are no two words about that." He quite made up his mind on these points, finally and irrevocably, before he addressed Indulekha, who, without a trace of emotion, looked him steadily in the face, but no one could say that she stared at him rudely, because Indulekha knew not how to stare.
Kesavan Nambudiri brought up a chair and, seating the Nambudiripad in it, disappeared down the stairs. The Nambudiripad sat on his chair with his eyes goggling at lndulekha’s face, and Indulekha continued to stand surveying him serenely. At last the Nambudiripad said, with a grin which stretched his mouth from ear to ear, "You were downstairs, weren’t you, when I arrived? I thought I saw you."
"I was not downstairs then," replied Indulekha.
The Nambudiripad’s breath was almost taken away at Indulekha’s temerity in using the first personal pronoun when speaking to him, because no nair woman had ever yet ventured on such irreverence. Fortunately for him, however, his resentment was transitory, and, rapt in the contemplation of Indulekha’s beauty, he forgot his morbid egotism.
"What? didn’t you come down?" he asked.
"I did not," answered lndulekha.
"Why?"
"There was nothing to take me down."
"Unluckily I couldn’t start on the day I first fixed for coming," said the Nambudiripad. "But I wrote all about it. Didn’t you see the letter?"
"I did not," replied lndulekha.
"Do you mean that Karuthedam didn’t show it you?"
"He did not." .
"What fool he is!" ejaculated the Nambudiripad.
"Mr. MacShaman, the lessee of a cardamom hill, came the day I was going to start. He got the lease for eighty thousand rupees, and I had such a lot to do that I couldn’t get away. But I was dying to see you Indulekha. I have heard about you from a lot of people. Let me see, I think you are Karuthedam’s eldest daughter by his alliance with your mother."
"Whose daughter, do you say?" flashed Indulekha. "The Karuthedam Nambudiri’s daughter? Certainly not. I am not the Nambudiri’s daughter. My father was Rama Varma Raja."
"Just so, just so," said the Nambudiripad. "That is exactly what I said."
"If you did, you were right, " observed Indulekha.
The Nambudiripad then cudgelled his brain as to what he should say next. There was one subject he longed to broach and he ruminated for some time how he should begin. At last he blurted out :
"I couldn’t stand hearing so much about your beauty."
"I really cannot see what there was about my beauty that you were unable to stand," said Indulekha.
"I was always hearing so much about you that I couldn’t attend to the affairs of my family," said the Nambudiripad.
"What a pity !" remarked Indulekha. "It grieves me much that I should have been at all detrimental to your family affairs, but pardon me if I do not see how this was possible. "
"Ah," said the Nambudiripad, suddenly changing the conversation, "Cherusheri repeated a Sanskrit verse to me yesterday, and I want badly to repeat it to you. They tell me you know English as well as Sanskrit. Now if I repeat a Sanskrit stanza to you, do you think you will understand it ?"
"I think I shall probably find some difficulty."
"Of course you must know a little Sanskrit," said the Nambudiripad.
"Of course."
"Well, I’ll repeat a verse, and we’ll see if you can make it out. If you can’t, I can explain it."
"I am afraid I shall not be able to understand."
"But I tell you, I’ll explain it," repeated the Nambudiripad.
"Very good of you," said Indulekha, and the Nambudiripad began to tax his memory for a verse. He had a vague recollection of only one or two stanzas, and as he had no knowledge of Sanskrit construction, he used to make ridiculous blunders when he tried to repeat them, while words and phrases frequently escaped his memory altogether. At last he used to hammer out a garbled version of the lines, and now, according to his wont, he mutilated half a stanza after serious deliberation, and began:
O lovely maid, thy nectar-smell
From poison us doth shield so well.
"How on earth does it go on? I can’t remember. I wonder if Cherusheri knows. He told me he did. He came here with me, and he is the man to repeat as many verses as I like. It’s a great trouble to me to have to remember verses and that kind of thing. How can I attend to poetry when I have such a lot of other things to do? But all the same, the verse I repeated was very fine, wasn’t it? How the deuce does it end; let me see:
O lovely maid, thy nectar-smell
From poison here doth shield us well.
"Pray don’t trouble yourself," said Indulekha, unable to repress a laugh. "You can repeat the verse later on when you remember it".
"No, no, that’ll never do," said the Nambudiripad. "I must finish the whole of the lines I began reciting to you; they’re lovely. I’ll try again".
‘O lovely maid, thy nectar smell
From poison here doth shield us well-
"Hooay, hooay. I’ve got it":
‘Death-like thy face puts on old age,
So tell us all the sage."
"Dash it all; there’s still a line missing. I can’t remember it at all , and I’ve forgotten the beginning now. I can’t think what it is. Hang it, I’ve forgotten now how it goes on from there. No, no, here it is".
‘O lovely maid, thy nectar-smell
From poison us doth shield so well,
Death-like thy face puts on old age,
So tell us all the sage."
"Finally, after alternate repetitions of this fragment and declarations that he could not remember any of it, the Nambudiripad jumped up and went to staircase to call Karuthedam. He shouted, "Karuthedam, Karuthedam," at the top of his voice, and Kesavan Nambudiri, who was in attendance, standing at the foot of the stairs, ran up.
"Here, Karuthedam.,’ said the Nambudiripad, "go to Cherusheri, and ask him to write the whole of the stanza beginning with ‘O’ and bring it here."
Kesavan Nambudiri ran off as fast as his legs would carry him, and found Cherusheri sitting in the quadrangle.
By that time, however, he had totally forgotten the key word and cried out:
"Oh Cherusheri! The Nambudiri wants you to write out a stanza of poetry. Do make haste about it. Here’s a leaf an
d style. Eh, what is the stanza? Oh dear, dear. I’ve got confused. Let me see now, tut, tut, tut. Oh, I’ve got ,it. The first word in the stanza is ‘Old’. Now please be quick about it." Cherusheri took the leaf and wrote the following couplets:
Old king Dasarath, sprung from the sun,
Had three wives and children none.
And Kesavan Nambudiri hurried back to the Nambudiripad with the lines. Now the Nambudiripad could not read a single word without his spectacles, but feared that if he put them on in Indulekha’s presence, his reputation for sprightly youthfulness would be gone for ever; Hence instead of taking the leaf, he asked Kesavan Nambudiri to read the stanza aloud. Kesavan Nambudiri himself could not see well without glasses, but he did as he was told, and began to read, halting at every word:
Old king Dasarath, sprung from-the sun
Had three wives
When he reached this point, lndulekha burst into uncontrollable fits of laughter, while the Nambudiripad exclaimed, "Dash it! what nonsense is? that is very clear you don’t know any Sanskrit, Karuthedam. That’s not the verse at all. I know the first couplet quite well. Here just write it down, will you?"
So saying he made Kesavan Nambudiri put down on the leaf the words he had repeated before, and sent him once more to Cherusheri.
"You’re always up to some joke or other, Cherusheri," said Kesavan Nambudiri "That thing you wrote isn’t the verse the Nambudiri wanted at all. Just look at what I’ve written on the leaf, and write out the rest of it for me."
"Oh !" said Cherusheri, looking at the leaf, "that’s the verse you wanted, is it? Then why didn’t you say so? What you told me was that it began with ‘Old.’ "
He then proceeded to correct the mistakes in the first hemstitch and write out the second, and Kesavan Nambudiri carried the palm leaf back to the Nambudiripad, who asked him to read out the contents. "Really," said Kesavan Nambudiri, "this is a very big stanza and I couldn’t do justice to it. Here’s Indulekha here, and she has Sanskrit at her finger’s ends. Please read this out for us, Indulekha."
"I am not so good at Sanskrit as all that," replied Indulekha. "I just know a little, but I happen to remember this stanza. I can repeat it without any trouble," and then in order to put an end to the business she repeated the following lines:
‘O lovely maid, the poets tell
That nectar saves from death,
Wards off old age and shields us well
From poison’s baleful breath.
Most sure is this; this too is sure,
The poison-stricken feel,
In searching for that nectar pure,
Its sovereign power to heal.
Else, maiden dear, I were not here
To pour my tale into thine ear.
Two serpents lurk within thine eyes,
Thy glances dart and sting;
But wounded oft, I oft arise
Despite my suffering.
The nectar which thy lips contain
I ne’er have tasted yet,
And yet I live-for in my pain
On thee my hope is set.
’Tis this, ’tis this that makes me live,
My own endeavours success give,
Endeavours to obtain that balm
Which alone can my spirit calm.’
"Ah," said the Nambudiripad, "that’s a lovely verse, isn’t it?"
"Certainly," answered Indulekha.
"Karuthedam, go and sit downstairs," said the Nambudiripad.
"I’ll go and bring some betel," replied Kesavan Nambudiri as he departed.
"Are you mad about play, Indulekha?" inquired the Nambudiripad.
"Mad about what?" asked Indulekha.
"About the play - the Kathakali."
"I have never yet been mad about anything," answered Indulekha.
"Oh, I’m very mad about it, I’m as mad as I can be."
"I can quite believe that; there is no doubt about it," responded Indulekha with a smile.
"How do you know, Indulekha? Did anyone tell you about it before?"
"No; I knew it only now."
"You knew it from what I said, didn’t you ?’’
"Exactly; I felt certain of it from your own words."
"I had a piece acted at our place yesterday," said the Nambudiripad. "That fellow Raman acts beautifully on the stage. Have you ever heard of Raman, Indulekha? Raman, I mean: the Sudras call him Rama Panikkar; he is immensely clever, such a splendid actor and so handsome. Hereafter, Indulekha, you shall see a play every day. I’m quite mad on it. I have a play on most nights of the week, and yesterday I saw a male impersonating a female character. You’ve never seen anything like it. It was Raghavan, a boy they call Raghavan. Do you know Raghavan, Indulekha? If his face were smooth, it would be just like yours, just like it; there wouldn’t be the slightest difference. Do you have theatricals here often?"
"No."
"How many years is it since you saw a play?"
"About four or five years, I think."
"Good gracious," exclaimed the Nambudiripad. "Four or five years! No play for four or five years in such a rich house as this! That beats me altogether. It must be simply because you don’t know what it is. Perhaps Panchu has no taste for it, and then, Indulekha, of course, you can’t do anything. "
"Of course not," said Indulekha. "That is quite true"
"Do you know English well, Indulekha?"
"I have studied it a little."
"Can you talk to Englishmen?"
"I can talk to anyone in the way I have been taught," replied Indulekha.
"I have heard a lot about you for a long time, Indulekha, but seeing you is better than everything. It is all my wonderful luck."
"Where is the luck?" asked Indulekha. "I really do not understand."
"Why, seeing you is the luck, Indulekha."
"I cannot understand what luck there is in seeing me."
"Haven’t I said enough to show my meaning?" asked the Nambudiripad.
"I understand your meaning so far as you have expressed it, but how can I understand what you have not expressed?" answered Indulekha. . "I quite understand that you are lucky, but what I asked was, how you came to be lucky, and you did not answer my question. I cannot understand unless you tell me."
"It’s all my luck, I tell you, it’s all my luck. You are wonderfully clever at talking, Indulekha, and you seem to think that I’m just a pipe to be played on."
"There is no pipe here," remarked Indulekha, "and I should never think of drawing any music out of you, sir."
"Hee, hee, haw," laughed the Nambudiripad. "How witty you are! But don’t let us chaff like this any more. Of course you must have heard about me."
"I regret to say I do not."
"What? Did you never hear of me at all ?"
"No?"
"Did you never hear me talked about?"
"No."
"Then didn’t you hear I was coming?"
"I heard some one or other say a day or two ago that you were coming."
"Then didn’t you ask anyone about me?"
"No. "
"why not?"
"There was no particular reason. I simply didn’t ask, that’s all."
"Then you probably understand why I have come."
"No. I do not understand it at all".
"Do you mean that you don’t even understand that?"
"I do mean it."
"I came expressly to see you, Indulekha," said the Nambudiripad.
"Indeed," observed Indulekha "That is certainly an honour,"
"It is I who manages all the business of the family," said the Nambudiripad, and then, pulling out his gold watch, he opened it and remarked that it was five o’ clock.
"Oh, then it is time for evening prayer," said Indulekha.
"Oh! not yet; not yet. Wouldn’t you like to look at this," said the Nambudiripad, taking the watch and its halter like chain off his neck as he spoke and handing them to Indulekha, who remarked that it was a good watch.
Indulekha burst out laughing when she heard the name ‘Mark-Loud,’ and gave the watch back to the Nambudiripad. That sapient individual judged from her laughter and de meanour that she had fallen in love with him, and little knew that Indulekha was merely thinking at the time that she must not forget to give Madhavan an account of the Mark-Loud episode.
Excited by passion, the headlong fool exclaimed, "Oh, Indulekha, my desire is to live with you for ever."
"Then let me tell you that you will never have your wish," replied Indulekha.
At this point in the conversation Kesavan Nambudiri came upstairs, carrying betel leaf and nut on a silver plate and Indulekha hastened away, saying she must perform her ablutions before going to the temple, and telling Kesavan Nambudiri to take her place. As she passed the Nambudiri, she gave him a look which made him start as if he had been branded with a red hot iron and, holding the tray of betel in his hand, he stood there looking quite foolish. The Nambudiripad himself did not feel altogether comfortable, but sat still for some time chewing betel, and then walked about inspecting the furniture and fittings in Indulekha’s room. He saw a great number of books, and arrived at the conclusion that it was a most mischievous thing to teach women English.
"Indulekha never fails to go to the temple every evening," observed Kesavan Nambudiri. "She’s very particular about the time of going and all that kind of thing, and this is why she ran away just now."
"But she’ll be back here soon, won’t she?" asked the Nambudiripad. "We can wait for her, can’t we?"
"I don’t think we need do that," replied Kesavan Nambudiri. "We can come here at nine o’clock after supper, and hear her sing. I think that would be best."
"Yes, I think that would be best," rejoined the Nambudiripad. And the two worthies thereupon went downstairs.
While the Nambudiripad and Kesavan Nambudiri were examining the furniture in Indulekha’s rooms, Indulekha herself was carrying on a conversation with Cherusheri Nambudiri on the ground floor. She had caught sight of Cherusheri seated in a chair as, after passing through the southern wing, she crossed the central hall, and Cherusheri, perceiving Indulekha at the same moment, rose from his place and went up to her with a kindly smile on his face. Indulekha was delighted at seeing him, but was at first totally at a loss for words with which to greet him. Cherusheri, with his natural shrewdness, saw her embarrassment and hastened to remove it at once.