It may well be supposed that Madhavan’s doubts were entirely removed by this last statement, and as soon as the speaker had finished, he rose from his place.
"Look, look," cried the peace- making Nambudiri, "he’s getting up. Now prepare for a shindy, I say. Look, he’s coming on, there, look."
"Be quiet. I am not going to fight," said Madhavan, decending into the courtyard as he spoke, and pacing there to and fro. While thus engaged, he saw Sankara Sastri with his companions entering the adjacent lodge on the south, and, thinking he recognized the former, called out to him. The Sastri on seeing Madhavan was astonished. "As I’m a living sinner!" he ejaculated. "Fancy my meeting him at such a time as this! How can I face the poor lad? What can I say to him? Great heaven help me." He then responded to Madhavan’s call, and the latter came up to him, saying, "Tell me, is the news I heard about Madhavi when I arrived here true."
"Yes," answered the Sastri, and the word was like a thunderbolt to Madhavan. His whole frame seemed scared to the core and his face was distorted like that of the fabled king Nala when bitten by the serpent. Without uttering another syllable he gazed fixedly towards the east, where a large pond with its embankment was in sight. Then suddenly he started in that direction, and the Sastri followed him, though he knew it not. Reaching the brink of the pond, he stood for some time leaning against an altar raised round a sacred peepul tree, motionless and stupefied. By degrees his paroxysm of anguish subsided, and, turning round, he saw the Sastri beside him. At the sight of his friend, his mood melted and he burst into a passionate flood of tears, while the Sastri wept from very sympathy. For the space of some minutes neither checked his grief, and the Sastri, even more overcome than Madhavan, was unable to speak. At length Madhavan, ashamed of displaying such weakness, dried his eyes, and assuming an air of courage, addressed the Sastri:
"Why do you grieve, my dear Sastri?" he asked. "Don’t grieve any more. It’s the way of the world. you know."
But the Sastri had not even yet recovered his power of speech, and his lips trembled violently while his eyes continued to stream with tears. A Brahmin of learning and refinement, he realised only when standing face to face with Madhavan the full extent of lndulekha’s baseness. Then Madhavan, who entertained a sincere friendship for him and had seen lndulekha evince the same feeling, continued, "Why, my dear Sastri, should you grieve for nothing! You see I don’t care a bit. Madhavi-l mean lndulekha- will have a very happy time of it, and if neither she nor I, who are both such friends of yours, see any cause for sorrow, why should you feel any on my account?"
"Indulekha is no friend of mine from this time forth," said the Sastri, with an effort, "I cast her off altogether."
Madhavan’s eyes again filled with tears when he heard these words, and he remained silent for some time. Then he said, "Why do you find so much fault with her, Sastri? Her grandfather must have insisted on it."
"That had nothing whatever to do with it," replied the Sastri. "Indulekha made her own free choice in the matter. Everything pointed to the fact that she took a fancy to the Nambudiripad and preferred him. And as for the Nambudiripad it is known all world over what a contemptible fool he is, and he has a face like a horse."
"There, there that’ll do," said Madhavan, "I don’t want to hear anything of that kind. I shall go back to Madras by the evening train."
"I think that would be the best thing you could do, but at any rate you must make haste and get something to eat now."
"I don’t feel inclined to eat."
"That’ll never do. If you don’t care to go inside the hotel and sit there and see people, I’ll bring you some food here. You will be quite alone on this mound under the tree, and it’s nice and cool here."
"Well, I shall be much obliged if you will bring me some food after you have finished yours," said Madhavan, and the Sastri went away to get his breakfast. It would avail nothing to follow Madhavan into the train of reflections in which he indulged when left to himself under the peepul tree. Suffice to say, that, as will appear from the sequel, he resolutely formed certain definite plans of action.
After he had had some food, he got into the train, refusing to allow the Sastri to accompany him, and on the following day, as soon as he reached Madras, went to see Mr. Gilham. That gentleman had not gone to office, but was working at home, and felt considerably surprised when Madhavan’s card was brought to him. Wondering what could have brought Madhavan back to Madras so soon when, only two days ago, he had obtained a week’s leave in order to go to Malabar for his marriage, he ordered him to be ushered in. Mr. Gilham, who felt a great partiality for Madhavan, and had determined to select him for the Civil Service, was greatly shocked at his appearance. Distress of mind, added to the physical fatigue of a three days’ railway journey, had made Madhavan’s face worn and haggard; and if he had not sent in his card beforehand, Mr. Gilham might have found some difficulty in recognizing him. As it was, he exclaimed, "What on earth is the matter, Madhavan? No death in your family, I hope? Why have you come back in such a hurry ? You seem terribly out of sorts. Sit down."
"There has been no death in my family or among my friends," replied Madhavan, "but my heart is fairly broken. You have always been so good to me, sir, that I am not ashamed of telling you everything."
Mr. Gilham thereupon guessed with tolerable precision what had occurred. He remembered that Madhavan had said he wanted leave for his wedding, and concluded that some obstacle had intervened. Hence he thought from the tone of Madhavan’s preamble that, notwithstanding his professed willingness to tell everything without reserve, the narration might be painful, and therefore said, "Never mind, you needn’t tell me all about it now. Wait till you have plenty of time on your hands; but I shall be very glad if there is anything I can do for you."
"Then, sir," said Madhavan, "I want you to be so kind as to give me a year’s leave. I want very much to travel abroad. "
Mr. Gilham thought for a few minutes, and then replied, "If you have any grief at heart, there is nothing that would do you so much good as travel. I think you are perfectly right, especially as you have not travelled since you finished your education. You know it is a very usual thing for young men in England to make a tour abroad after leaving the University before they take up a profession. Where do you think of going? If you could manage it, you should go to Europe; at present, however, and for the next three months, it is miserably cold there, but after that the weather is very enjoyable. So what do you intend to do with yourself now?"
"If Europe would not suit me just now, I think of going to Northern India and Burma, and seeing some of the places there," replied Madhavan.
"In that case I should think that four months’ leave will be enough for you at present," said Mr. Gilham. "If you want more write for it, and I will sanction it. But you seem tired out, Madhavan, go away and get some food"
Mr Gilham then rose and, as Madhavan stood up, shook hands with him and said, "Good luck to you. As soon as you have got over all your troubles, I hope you will come and see me."
As he spoke he was visibly affected, and Madhavan’s eyes overflowed with tears. After this Madhavan went straight to his lodgings and, having bathed and gone through the form of eating breakfast, wrote a letter to his father and sent it by Shinnan, his young protege and the two servants to Malabar. Then in the evening he went to the station and, taking a ticket for Bombay, left Madras.
Now my story grows sad, sadder than anything I have yet written, but I must proceed with it.
Shinnan and the two servants alighted from the train early next morning and, having refreshed themselves at one of the Brahmin lodges near the station, proceeded to the Chembazhiyot hospice. Remaining there that day, they resumed their journey on the following morning and reached Chembazhiyot at ten o’clock. Then Shinnan and one of the servants went to the Puvalli family residence, while the other servant went to Govinda Panikkar’s house. When he arrived there, he saw Govinda Panikkar and Govindan Kutti Menon chatting together,
seated on chairs in the verandah. Govinda Panikkar jumped up as soon as he saw him entering the gate and, advancing, asked if Madhavan had come.
"No," answered the servant. "Master Kuttan Menon hasn’t come, but has sent this letter."
Govinda Panikkar at once became apprehensive of evil, and asked if Madhavan was ill. The servant replied in the negative, and Govinda Panikkar then opened the letter and read it. It was as follows:
"Sankara Sastri and others have told me everything. I know, my dear father, that you thought as I did about Indulekha, and so I am not ashamed of my opinion.. But one can never know all the perversity of the human race, or how it will show itself. I feel so miserable that I am going abroad, but when I get back my peace of mind, I will come and see you and mother. Don’t let this grieve you, father dear, and don’t misunderstand me. I am not going to commit suicide or any other crime. I have no intention at present beyond that of travelling, and you may be sure I shall come back but I cannot say for certain how long I shall be away. I know both you and mother love me, and I know that whatever I may say now you will be unhappy, but for mother’s sake, don’t let your grief show itself. If she sees it, she will be terribly distressed. I leave Madras tomorrow, and am just sending a line to tell you this. -Madhavan."
"Oh, my son, my son!" cried Govinda Panikkar, when he had read the letter and beating his breast wildly, he fainted away.
Govindan Kutti Menon, without attending to him, snatched up the letter and mastered its contents. Then fetching some water he dashed it on Govinda Panikkar’s face, and when the latter regained consciousness began scolding him roundly.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," he said. "What do you mean by taking on like this? Like a baby! When I saw you go into these heroics, I thought at least Madhavan was dead. You have taken leave of your senses altogether, it seems to me. I suppose you let your grief get the better of you, because you’re so wrapped up in Madhavan, but just think a little. What harm has happened to him, after all? He simply says that he has left Madras and is going to travel for a time because he is unhappy. What is there to be sorry about in that? There are railways all over India; and even if he goes to Europe, we can easily find him. If we can afford to spend money, we can easily find out where he is. Perhaps, though, we had better go and look for him ourselves."
"Of course we must," replied Govinda Panikkar. "We must start at once, and I’ll eat nothing till I am out of Malabar."
"Well, ther’s nothing to hinder me from coming with you." said Govindan Kutti Menon. "But you ought to be ashamed of yourself, giving way recklessly to sorrow like this. Madhavan’s mother would be frightened to death if she saw it."
Here the conversation was interrupted by the approach of Indulekha.
Govinda Panikkar wiped his eyes, rose and stood up, while Indulekha advanced with rapid steps under the burning rays of the sun, her face heated and flushed, and her hair floating loose in long waves behind her. As she came she cried, "What news have you from Madras?" And she was followed closely by her mother, her grandmother, Parvathi Amma, and five or six maid servants.
"Why can’t you tell me?" she demanded, "what news have you received from Madras?"
"Go into the house, Indulekha," said Govindan Kutti Menon. "Don’t be silly. There’s nothing to distress you."
"Oh, oh, where has my boy gone?" exclaimed Parvathi Amma piteously. "Oh, tell me, tell me, or I shall die."
"Shinnan told me they had brought a letter from Madras," said Indulekha. "Where is it?"
Govinda Panikkar handed her the letter, and when Indulekha had read it, she turned aside to an inner room and, throwing herself on the bed, wept as if her heart would break.
Parvathi Amma continued to mourn and would not be comforted. "Oh my God, my God!" she moaned, "shall I ever see my boy again? There is no one like him in the world for me. Why dost Thou spare my life any longer, Oh God? who will protect my boy? Madhavan, you knew that you were my only child and yet you deserted me. Oh! my child! Oh! my God"
Weeping, she smote her breast and no one dared to speak to her a word. Fortunately, just then Sankara Menon and Chather Menon and others also came hastening from Puvalli. Sankara Menon going up to his sister said, "Don’t cry like this, Parvathi. Madhavan won’t come to any harm." Having spoken, he himself fell to weeping, for he, too, loved Madhavan. At last, drying his eyes, he said, "He will be back in ten days. Wherever he is, we will go and find him, so why should you distress yourself like this?"
"If you go, brother," said Parvathi Amma, "I’ll come too. I can’t live here, I know I can’t, without seeing my son."
"There, Parvathi, there," said Govinda Panikkar, "go back to Puvalli and comfort yourself. Govindan Kutti and I are off now to look for him. We shall bring him back here in ten days, so cheer up."
Somewhat reassured by these words, Parvathi Amma retired to Puvalli. During all this time, no one had ventured to intrude on Indulekha’s solitude, but at length, yielding to the earnest representations of Govindan Kutti and Sankara Menon, Govinda Panikkar entered the room in which she lay prostrate.
"Come, Indulekha," he said, "why do you give way like this? There’s no cause for grief yet. If you continue to lie here and give yourself up to sorrow in this way, you will only prevent Govindan Kutti and me from starting to look for Madhavan."
Hearing this Indulekha rose up. "Are You determined to go and look for him ?" she asked.
"Of course, we are," replied Govinda Panikkar. "I am going now."
"He may have gone on board some ship at Bombay yesterday or today, and what will you do then?" said Indulekha.
Govindan Kutti Menon here entered the room and said, "Can’t we get a ship and go to England, too? There is really nothing for you to distress yourself about, Indulekha. If he is alive, we shall bring Madhavan back with us."
He then went out and, asking his mother to get everything ready for his departure, proceeded to Puvarangu.
"Who is it," said Indulekha to Govinda Panikkar, "who is it that has deceived him like this? I don’t know that we have any enemy so cruel as to do it."
"People must have made some terrible mistake," replied Govinda Panikkar. "Some lying rumour must have got about from your playing the piano to the Nambudiripad in in your boudoir, and from his having stayed here two nights. I heard it when I was at Polpai. Then probably our friend the Sastri, with the best intentions towards the lad, went and reported all this folly to him., That’s how Madhavan must have heard it. We made a great mistake, but can’t help it now. I won’t return until I have found my son. If I don’t find him, I shall give up my own life."
As he spoke, the tears welled up into his eyes, and Indulekha strove to reassure him, saying, "Don’t grieve about it. You are sure to find him, and then we shall all be happy. But what I feel most of all is that when he knew me so well as he did, he should have been so hasty in believing that I had become utterly worthless. This is what pains me, this is what I cannot bear," and she burst into tears again.
"When Madhavan went to Madras last," said Govinda Panikkar, "I spoke to him a great deal about your firmness and constancy, Indulekha. But unluckily he seems to have forgotten all about it. However, there is no use in grieving over it now, and I had better get ready to start."
Having in some degree comforted Indulekha, Govinda Panikkar sent her to Puvarangu with her mother, Lakshmi Kutti Amma, and then consoling his wife as best he could, began to make preparations for his journey.
As for Panchu Menon, he was greatly pleased when he heard the news. "Obstinate young blockhead, now he’ll see what comes of it," he said, but he did not very clearly understand why Madhavan had taken flight. He had a vague impression that Madhavan had heard of his oath and was terrified at it. The expedition about which Govindan Kutti informed him was also not at all to his liking. But he saw that opposition would be useless and gave a tacit consent.
Accordingly after supper that evening, Govinda Panikkar and Govindan Kutti Menon with four servants started on their
search for Madhavan.
Chapter 16
As already stated, Madhavan took a, ticket at Madras for Bombay. He travelled unattended by any servant, and determined to wear throughout his wanderings clothes and boots such as are worn by Englishmen. His luggage consisted of a portmanteau in which he had packed two or three suits cut after the English pattern, a chest containing his beloved guns and a few cartridges, and a despatch box which held his money and some books. Moreover, according to a practice he had adopted on some former occasions, he resolved to carry, from the commencement of his journey, a six-chambered revolver in his coat pocket. As Mr. Gilham had advised him not to think of going to England at present, and as his means were limited, he abandoned the idea of visiting the places he had thought of while meditating under the peepul tree, and determined to travel through Upper India and Burma. On arriving at Bombay, he sold the ruby ear-rings his father had given him, although there was no immediate necessity for this step. He had about two hundred and fifty rupees with him in cash and notes, but nevertheless, as the ear-rings now felt heavy and cumbersome in his ears, he took them out and sold them to a knavish dealer, who cajoled him in his ignorance to part with them for a hundred and fifty rupees. After breakfasting at a hotel, Madhavan betook himself about half-past three in the afternoon to the harbour and stood gazing at the sea with a keen sense of enjoyment. Those who have seen the shore only at Calicut and other ports of Malabar can form no adequate conception of the Bombay harbour, a fine anchorage for men-of-war and merchant vessels, which cross and re-cross the seas between Europe and India, and constantly crowded with stately ships. Thither all travellers of high degree from Europe chiefly direct their course, and thence set sail almost all who visit Europe from this country. This is the mightly emporium for merchandise of all kinds, rich and rare, brought from Europe, and my readers must bear with me while I attempt to describe the magnificence of this wonderful harbour.
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