Difficult Daughters (22 page)

*

Meanwhile the Professor had received his friend’s urgent telegram. ‘Come. Virmati here. On her way to Shantineketan. Urgent. Come at once.’ He felt uneasy. Why was Virmati on her way to Shantineketan? He had been expecting her back in Amritsar for the holidays.

During dinner his wife noticed how preoccupied he looked. Hardly any words passed between them, and she was in a state of perpetual hunger to know what he was thinking. Today she associated his distracted air with the telegram. It must be something to do with that witch, what else. The familiar knot inside her tightened, and she prayed to God, like she did every day, morning and night, to keep her home safe from outsiders, safe till her children grew up and married. Then God could do what he liked with her. She would accept.

The next day the Professor informed Ganga that he was leaving by the night train, and she should pack two sets of clothes for him, one pant-shirt-tie-socks-shoes, one dhoti-kurta-jooti.

‘Where are you going?’ she asked fearfully.

‘I have work somewhere. Have you ever shown any interest in it that I should tell you now?’ he snapped at her, as he disappeared into the drawing-room to collect some papers.

Subdued and miserable, she started packing his suitcase. Her son jumped on the bed and insisted on helping. He was by now three years old, fair and handsome, with a straight nose, rosy mouth, gleaming little white teeth, and his father’s large eyes. His hair tended to curl, and she kept it slightly long so that it framed his face. Such a picture he was; could anyone, let alone a father, resist him? As the mother gazed at him, the burning love she had for the boy helped to relieve some of the anguish in her heart.

‘Munna!’ she scolded, pretending to slap his hand, as he started to play with the things in the suitcase, ‘Oho, what a nuisance this child is!’ she exclaimed. But she didn’t take him off the bed, and he didn’t stop throwing his father’s clothes about.

When the Professor returned, the wife turned brightly to him and said, pointing to the mess, ‘Look, even he doesn’t want you to go.’

Harish smiled, and said, ‘You attend to him. I’ll do it myself.’

‘No, no, I’ll do it.’

‘No, he’s quite right. You should be looking after him, not me. Wisdom from the mouths – in this case, gestures – of babes, you see.’ The Professor started picking his things off the floor, dusting them, packing quickly.

The woman did not have the courage to say anything more. She returned to the kitchen, so preoccupied that Giri had to fuss a lot to get her attention.

*

It was the last day of Virmati’s stay in Delhi. ‘Bhai,’ she told the poet, ‘I have booked myself on the noon train tomorrow. I thank you for your hospitality and concern.’

‘But he is coming. I know it. I have sent him a telegram.’

Virmati remained quiet. When Harish came, she greeted him formally, and then withdrew into the kitchen. There the tears sprang to her eyes, and stayed, causing her to cut her hands with the knife she was using to chop the spinach. Luckily the leaves were green, and the blood went unnoticed in the dark colour of the cooking water.

*

Harish and the poet were arguing.

‘You must marry her now, or she will be lost to you forever.’

‘What can I do? I am hemmed in and tortured on all sides. I know I have been unfair to her – I know. And yet what can I do?’ Harish turned an agitated face to the poet. ‘Everybody will condemn me, her. My children will never accept it, nor my mother. You know the constraints. Surely I need not explain myself to
you
!’

‘No, no,’ reassured the poet quickly. ‘I am not asking for explanations. It is difficult, I know. But my friend, there is a time for action, and in your case that time is undeniably before you. Or,’ he paused, ‘be prepared to let her go.’

Harish looked distraught. ‘What can I do?’ he asked helplessly. ‘My wife, my son …’

The poet tich-tiched in exasperation. ‘Bhai, what can they do? Now you get married. Nothing is simpler. A pundit will be arranged – that’s all you really need. You can take the pheras here – right here where you are sitting, in this angan. If you can’t bring yourself to do this, you will never see her again.’

Harish’s face lengthened. ‘Imagine going to Shantineketan! What will she learn there compared to what I can teach her?’

‘Then teach her and be done with it! Now it’s settled.’ The poet slapped Harish on the back a couple of times as he got up. ‘Enough discussion. Expect to be married tomorrow.’

Harish remained sunk in his chair.

*

The next morning a pundit was arranged, and the puja samagri bought. The groom, throwing himself into the spirit of the thing, decided that his bride had to be dressed in something suited to the occasion. Accordingly he took her out and chose a deep red and gold tissue sari with tiny woven silver flowers in the traditional Banarsi style. He draped it around her head in the shop, and his heart took a turn at how beautiful she looked. The bride, for her part, managed to smile at him. The only thing she said she wanted were the red ivory bangles that the women of her family wore when they married.

In the evening the wedding ceremony proceeded smoothly. The poet’s parents did the kanya-daan, the seven pheras were taken, the couple pronounced man and wife. As Virmati rubbed her eyes, watering from the smoke, she knew, rather than felt, that the burden of the past five years had lifted.

Brides in trains travelling to homes they have never seen, fear in their hearts. Years ago, Kasturi had done it.

Two days after her wedding, Kasturi was escorted to the station, amid crying relatives and sober-faced baratis. She was frightened by this journey from which no return was possible. Her mother has assured her that Suraj Prakash will be kind, that she will be happy in her
own
home. Kasturi trusts her mother, but the pain of leaving all that she has ever known is more than the seventeen-year-old can bear. At the same time she accepts her grief stoically, for she knows she has been but a guest in her parents’ house; this separation is ordained from birth.

Ultimately Kasturi had to be half-carried into the train, she was crying so hard. The train starts, but Kasturi was a bride, she could not lean out of the window and wave a last goodbye to her father and brothers. Her husband is in another compartment with the men, strange women surround her. She now belongs to them, and they systematically chuck her under the chin, saying, ‘Don’t cry, soon you will forget, wait and see, I was like this too, poor thing.’ She is part of the tradition of weeping brides, and her sorrow is not taken seriously.

The landscape passed, but Kasturi’s head was sunk beneath a heavy, gold-embroidered dupatta and all she could see were the bangles on her arms, gold interspersed with wedding ivory, painted with red and black circles. Long, elaborate kalira hung from them, tinkling whenever her hands moved. Her motionlessness cramped her; unused to sitting with her legs dangling, her feet hurt. At a station some jalebis were pressed into her hands, lay there soggily and were finally taken away.

At Amritsar Station, Kasturi didn’t dare look around her. Down the long staircase she walked with bent head and tiny, faltering steps, supported by women on either side, into a tonga, with soft, cloth-covered seats and painted sides. Squeezed between the wives of two of the groom’s second cousins with fretful children on their laps, Kasturi felt sick with tension and dread. What was it going to be like, so far from home, with no one she knew?

The streets became narrower as they approached the inner-city area. The bazaar was congested. There were tonga-wallahs shouting to be let through, coolies with baskets and bundles on their heads, and open carts piled with merchandise in any available space. The narrow drains were exposed, there were children squatting over them, fruit peels and flies were all over. The buildings rising above the shops looked solid and substantial, with delicate wrought-iron balconies overlooking the street.

‘Here, the Muslim side of the street,’ murmured one of her companions, trying to keep her daughter’s hands away from the tonga wheel. Kasturi was surprised at how big and fine the houses were. In Sultanpur the Muslims were mostly poor, and the only one she had known well had been her mother’s dai.

‘Yours is the first house on the Hindu side,’ chorused the women. ‘Your father-in-law built a well behind his house for the whole street to use. You are lucky to get such a family.’

The tonga passed by an imposing gateway of red stone. The pointing out continued:

‘Your father-in-law built that gate. It leads to the Samaj headquarters. He has also established a school which runs there during the day.’

Kasturi thought of her uncle. It was reassuring to know that the family she was going to was somewhat similar to her own. The women went on:

‘Education is very important for him.’

‘Only an educated bride would do for his son.’

‘Someone who would carry on Arya Samaj traditions.’

‘Who understood her duties to the community. Fees, books, food, jobs, midday meals for who-all, who-all. His daughter-in-law will have to see to that.’

‘It’s lucky the family is so small. At least the kitchen work will be easy for her.’

Kasturi was indignant. Did they think any kitchen work was beyond her? She came from a good family where girls were taught housekeeping from the time they could walk. All of a sudden Kasturi felt grateful to her mother for those long hours she had spent in the kitchen, cutting, peeling, chopping, slicing, pounding, wrapping, mixing, kneading, baking, roasting, stirring and frying (deep plus shallow). It paid to know these things.

‘Here, here, this way‚’ commanded one of the women, ‘now stop, stop‚’ and the tonga clattered to a halt. While they haggled with the tonga-wallah, Kasturi peeped through the veil the women pulled lower over her face. She saw a narrow gully lined with gold and silversmiths working in tiny cubicles on either side. At the far end were sheds with some cows and a horse and buggy. Mosquitoes buzzed around her, and she could smell urine. This was to be her new home. There were flowers hung across a dark entranceway and a crowd of people swept her inside the narrow spiral staircase that led to the living quarters above. Round and round they climbed the high steps that Kasturi could hardly see. At the top was a narrow landing that ran the length of the rooms. Kasturi was jostled along this into a small angan and the two rooms beyond that she was told were hers. Eased onto a bed, her chin is held up, her veil thrown back for a better look.

‘She
is
old. Must be sixteen at least.’

‘Seventeen. And he chose her himself. Through an advertisement!’

‘Nowadays they all want to decide who they will marry!’

‘Look at her colour! So fair. Like a mem’s.’

‘Isn’t she rather thin?’

‘Her hair is straggly.’

‘When a young boy sees, what does he know?’ they laugh.

Her hands are seized, turned around and examined. Her bangles counted.

‘Such few gold bangles! Look at the crude designs!’ Kasturi shrinks a little more into her clothes.

‘How can Sultanpur compare with Amritsar, after all!’

In the midst of all this someone sat down heavily and pulled her face violently onto her shoulder. ‘She’s just come, poor little thing!
Arre,
such looks, such colour has to have some fault or the evil eye will fall on my pretty one! As for bangles, what need does she have of fine bangles in a jeweller’s family? She is a jewel, that is enough!’

‘Your aunt-in-law is too good!’ the women tell Kasturi. ‘Look at her,’ and the bride’s chin is forced up a little more.

The chatter flows on. Food was brought and Kasturi fed by hands eager, impatient, loving, critical. Women and children are presented to her, their relationships spelt out. Her jewellery is carefully examined before being sent down to the shop to be sold. Her boxes are arranged around the room, in the next few days it will be decided what is to be used, what stored, and what given away.

Night falls, and Kasturi’s husband is ushered in to her, thus beginning her long years of childbearing.

 

Now Kasturi’s daughter was undertaking a journey to a similar destination in a train that chugged over the flat North Indian plain towards Amritsar. The landscape was silvered over by a shiny moon. Coyotes could be heard along with the hiss of the engine and the clank of the wheels. In their Inter-class compartment the bride and groom lay silently on their berths and tried to sleep.

Harish was uncomfortable. He dreaded facing his family, but then, he thought mutinously, hadn’t he done his duty by all of them? Though he had married Virmati, no one could accuse him of precipitate action. Above him her hand dangled, moving gently with the rocking of the train. He could make out the ivory wedding bangles slipping over her narrow wrist in the dim light. It was a delicate hand with long thin fingers, and he stared at it like a talisman and felt himself soothed with the achievement of his desires. There was no need to touch, it was enough to see, and know that it was his.

Virmati was sure that neither parents nor grandfather would ever forgive her. The process of rejection that had started with Tarsikka would be completed. Let them damn her as they might, at least she had this new life. The thought of her husband, asleep in the berth below, made her eyes go soft with tenderness. She promised herself a blissful marriage; after all, they had gone through so much to be together. Her husband would be everything to her. This was the way it should be, and she was pleased to finally detect a recognizable pattern in her life.

She did not as yet think about the home she was going to. That, which she had fought and yearned for, was hers. Virmati was not overly given to speculation, despite an intensive education, and at that moment she believed herself happy.

*

It was early morning when the train steamed into the station. It felt strange to Virmati to follow the Professor into a tonga, and listen to him give directions for Moti Cottage. They rattled over the familiar roads, past the Company Bagh and towards the crossing. Here, instead of the customary left on Lepel Griffin Road, they turned right. Finally Virmati broke the silence.

‘Do they know?’ she asked.

‘What?’

‘That we are married, of course. What else?’ Nervousness made her sound harsh.

‘How can they know? I did not know myself.’

It had been a long time since Virmati had actually seen any of the Professor’s family, a long time since they had been anything but abstract figures in their conversation. Now this seemed a lacuna in her imagination, these were people she would have to eat with, live with, be with, perhaps for the rest of her life. At the thought that, within a few minutes, she was going to their house, to be presented as his second wife, panic set in and her palms began to sweat.

The tonga drew up outside Moti Cottage, and the Professor paid the agreed price leisurely. Then he jumped down and held out a hand. Virmati took it reluctantly, her eyes on a little boy who was making mud houses on the raised platform in the garden. He saw his father and got up, shouting ‘Pitu!’ and then, seeing a strange lady with him, ran inside. Virmati could see the dark stain of mud and water on his flapping white kurta as he ran.

The Professor now waited to be discovered. He moved at a snail’s pace towards the front door. By the time he reached the veranda, his wife had appeared, with her son, Giridhar, three, her daughter, Chhotti, ten, and her sister-in-law, Guddiya, thirteen, ranged solemnly behind her. Kishori Devi came last, with slow deliberate steps. Virmati could feel herself being taken in, the sindhur in the parting of her hair that the Professor had himself put, her tikka, the sari palla over her head, the red ivory bangles from her wedding ceremony. The wife’s eyes wrinkled with tears, her mouth worked, and she turned, clutching at her mother-in-law for a moment, before stumbling inside. His mother looked at him accusingly. Harish responded by pushing Virmati forwards.

‘Here, Amma,’ he said, ‘your new bahu.’

Kishori Devi’s eyes blurred. She could make out the terrified look on the face beside her son’s, but she had no sympathy for her. All this was her fault. If she had not gone after him, he would not have strayed, the family would not be torn apart now.

Kishori Devi turned away her head from the silent, stricken pair before her. She knew she could only bow before the inevitable. In her heart she could hear the wife’s sobs, see her crumpled face, innocent and still young. Her life was over, she would be lamenting bitterly in some hidden corner of the house. She felt Ganga’s claims deep within her, closely identified with her own. How could she possibly console her? Her grandson pulled at her sari. She picked him up, and Virmati could hear him whispering ‘Who is this
gandi
lady? Send her away.’ The grandmother, afraid that her son would hear, smacked the little boy’s back lightly.

‘Munna, come, come here‚’ said the Professor to his son.

Kishori Devi pushed Giridhar towards his father. The son resisted. Harish bent forwards and pulled him towards himself.

‘Here‚’ he said. ‘Your new mother.’ He turned the boy’s face to Virmati.

Virmati held out a shaking apologetic hand to caress him. Giridhar shrank into his father’s shoulder.

‘Come in‚’ said Kishori Devi finally, breaking into this exchange. She opened the door of the formal seating area, used for all the Professor’s guests.

Virmati sat nervously on the edge of an armchair. Her sari palla slipped off her head, and revealed the thick glossy knot of hair at the nape of her neck. Her red marriage bangles clinked with tentative sounds. The Professor smiled at her reassuringly, before following his mother into the next room where most of them slept.

*

‘Beta‚’ began Kishori Devi, ‘at least you could have told me you were going for this reason. So suddenly to bring a new wife home! Is it fair to that one, or even this one?’

‘What to do, Amma? It was unexpected‚’ said the Professor helplessly.

‘This is marriage, not a game. You must have thought
some
thing.
’

‘Amma, you know how many years I have been involved. It is five years now. How long could she wait?’ he said plaintively.

‘Oh! So it is
she
! We don’t matter any more!’