Chapter V.
IT was night. Hills rose above hills in sullen, silent majesty, piercing the skies. The silver light of the moon fell over all, enhancing the loveliness and solitude of the scene. The fairy veil was brightest over the vast wilderness of peaks as they rose behind one another, dazzling the eye like so many snow-clad mountains. There was a unique grandeur about it all. Nearer, the shimmering light covered in sombre glory the thickly foliaged plants, the mighty forests below, and the wooded sides of the hills, that hid with a soft feathery veil the deep caverns and the dark repulsive ravines. Here and there the moonbeams touched with a tender kiss a solitary bush or a gigantic tree overhanging a precipice. The waters from the neighbouring hills and mountains, sparkling in the light of the moon, like molten silver, dashed down the ravines with a roar, to get lost in the densely wooded valleys below. In the midst of this scene was a table-land containing a few mutts, the abodes of religious recluses, who went thither from time to time for prayer and meditation. On this particular night two men were seen on this table-land engaged in earnest conversation. One of these was Kamala’s father. The tall thin figure, the peculiar bend of head and walk, and the absent look on the face were unmistakably those of Narayen, the sanyasi, the man who lived in himself and in his dreams. What was it that led him to spend half his life in these weird mountain solitudes? What was it that he found so congenial to his cultivated mind in this life of meditation? What was his early history? And why was he unlike other recluses that he did not care for money and gifts offered to him? The person with him was no other than the unexpected young friend who visited Narayen on the eve of Kamala’s betrothal.
“Ramchander,” said Narayen, “I am sorry for you and for myself. But it is too late, and you will promise me not to see Kamala now. The secret, I hope, is safe in your possession. Happiness does not depend on riches, and I expect my Kamala to be happy as she is. I know from my own experience that when I left the world I was happy till the envious gods and Yama, the enemy of life, deprived me of my wife. Oh! how I should like to have had you as my son, but the fates were against it. I seem to have lost everything with that one great wrench. Kamala alone is left, but I dare not see her, for I should long to have her with me again and she must do without me. Strange that I should find you on the eve of her betrothal. Say, can I rely on you for everything?”
“You may,” said the young man, with evident emotion. “I leave Sivagunga to-morrow, but I have left those behind who will watch over your daughter and let you know everything even in these mountain solitudes. May you find the happiness that has eluded you so long. I am off.” The young man’s face indicated sadness and great disappointment.
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The town of Rampur, where Ganesh, Kamala’s husband, had gone for study, was not far from Sivagunga. It had an important institution and students from all parts resorted thither for their education. They lived in different parts of the town in bands of three or four, the cheapest and most convenient spot being near the bazaars. Let us dwell for a moment on the sights and sounds familiar to those who live in a narrow street in a crowded part of a town like Rampur. Vegetable and fruit sellers are seen squatted in different parts vending their goods. On one side of the street is a row of sweetmeat shops. In the distance the ironmonger’s din and the jingle of the brass vessels is heard, while now and then the uproar is greatest close by, for either a sack of corn has fallen from the overladen carts or a fight is taking place between two cartmen whose carts have got jammed together, and who with their fists are discussing the truth of the doctrine ‘might is right.’ The people are shouting: “Arrai! Arrai! (Enough! Enough!) you go first and he goes afterwards.” The shopkeepers, stout and greasy looking, scarcely able to move about, stare with indifference, chewing betel-nut. The road is stone paved and uneven, and the noise made by the carts is deafening. Here and there are seen groups of Brahmans with their characteristic red shoes, their flowing dhoties, and their turbans about the size of a small umbrella. Some have the upper cloth thrown round their necks, others not so well dressed have only a waist cloth and the sacred thread hanging from the shoulders and reaching to the waist.
Overlooking such a busy scene was a dark, upper-storied house, with small, dingy, crudely railed windows. It was occupied by three young men whose ages ranged between eighteen and twenty-four. Two were deep in their books, sitting on ricketty chairs with their legs stretched on a table in front. The third was lounging near the window on a thick heavy mattress, with a long round pillow under his head. A newspaper was in his hand but he laid it down and looked lazily out at the window. After some time one of the two sitting near the table threw his book down and got up with an air of disgust, saying:—“ This is stupid stuff. Ah, Ganesh! You are enjoying your rest. I wish I were in your position. Secured a good place, too, in the Collector’s office so soon after passing, and now going home for the holidays.”
At this Ganesh looked at the speaker with a smile, yawned lazily, and stretching himself, said: “That dramatic performance which we witnessed last night has undone me. I never felt so tired even after an examination.
“Yes! We know what the attraction was. Take care, Ganesh!”
“I know how to take care of myself. You needn’t be alarmed. I was only admiring her wit and beauty from a distance. What a fund of humour she has, and how self-possessed she is, to be sure! She was holding a conversation and actually kept three engrossed near her. I don’t think she noticed me. I was far off, but by the gods I could not take myself away from the place.”
“She not notice people? She sees them with the corners of her eyes and when she has a hold on them she never leaves them. She is a woman who in olden times would have made kingdoms to rise and fall: she is not like other women.”
“No, that is the difference, and therein lies her power over men,” said Ganesh. “She is wonderful indeed. Do you know I have heard that she has bands of Bhils who work as her slaves and she is very lavish in her gifts? It looks suspicious, but she seems to know something about every man that others don’t know.”
“A very dangerous character indeed,” added the third young man, who had put down his book and joined in the conversation. “The whole world knows Sai. I should like to study her character.”
“A very worthy occupation, but wait till you have passed your examination like Ganesh, and then you can take to the study of people’s characters,” said the other. “Now that you are going home, Ganesh, that is good.”
“Yes! and there is no fear of my being influenced by her.” “We shall see! We shall see,” said the other students as they left the room for their baths, for it was dinner time.
Ganesh was come of a learned family. His father and his grandfather were shastris, noted for their learning and their bigotry. But in these days Sanskrit learning is not appreciated, and those old days have gone when young men of high descent congregated in groves and temples and sat at the feet of learned shastris and pandits, wearing the mendicant’s garb, begging their meals and spending their days in chanting hymns to the gods. The groves are no more the resort of the wise and the good. Sanskrit learning is despised and English learning is all in all, for it pays best. So much against his will the old shastri of Sivagunga sent his only son Ganesh to an English school. The old man in his inmost heart had the greatest contempt for English learning, which he regarded as not only superficial but also as antagonistic to the Hindu religion. But he was forced to yield to the influences of the times, and he felt no doubt some satisfaction at the success of his son, though he had his own misgivings as to the influence the new training would have on the young man’s religious belief and conduct.
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It was evening in Sivagunga. The streets were unusually quiet, the only sounds heard being the heavy rumbling now and then of a cart or the song of the cartman as he lazily drove his bullocks. The light was fast fading and the narrow streets and shaded places looked dark and dismal. Only in the open spaces near the river did the departing light linger for a little. Groups of girls played in the backyards of their houses. Most of the men had sallied out either to the river-banks for a stroll, or to the bazaars, the general rendezvous of the gossips of the city. The women also, dressed in their best, had left their houses on some pretext or other, either of washing clothes, bringing in water, or making poojah to the gods. Kamala was left in the house with only the servant woman who was attending to the cows just come in from their pasture. Her heart was sad. She had of late undergone much hard discipline and she felt as if there was no love left in the world for her poor little self. Nobody cared for her. Her father had not even once come to see her. She felt desolate, and wondered how long all this was going to last. She had tried her best to get into the good graces of Ramabai, who was all-in-all in the house, but it was no use. The woman who seemed so full of spirit, bright and happy, had no kind word for the shy girl who did her best to win the love of her sister-in-law. Kamala would hasten to bring the little things which Ramabai wanted when cooking, or making cakes and other delicacies, at which she was an adept. But no amount of willing labour was of any use. To such questions as:—“Shall I do this?” “May I do the pounding or the rolling, or the kneading?” timidly asked with an eager trembling voice Kamala received but an unwilling grunt of assent, and she looked in vain for a smile of approval while her little hands pounded the dough or rolled out the flat cakes. This particular evening she was seated in a corner of the backyard near a clump of trees overlooking the river. She was giving rein to her thoughts, and the sadness gradually left her as in imagination she beheld her own mountain home, Yeshi and her other friends, and somehow the thought of the fields, the rocks, and the flowers brought quietness and peace to her and filled her heart with a calm joy. She began to think of happy things that were possible even now. “Ramabai will be won over soon. Surely she will love me when she sees how I long for her love. And Gungi will become my friend, and then there will be such happiness,” thought Kamala; and she conjured up in her mind visions of going to Yattras and festivals with her companions in gala attire, her father with them, and herself happy in the love of all. She even thought of her husband, but was puzzled whether to regard him as her friend or not. She had sat long thinking thus when she heard voices near and trusted that her people had returned. She was preparing to go in when some words fell on her ears that sent a pang through her. She was stunned and her visions fled completely. It was Ramabai who was saying in a tone of disgust in answer to her husband:—……………..“Who knows who her mother was? That she, a penniless girl, should be thrust on us in this way. My poor father, how he was taken in! Now there is this golden opportunity. What a grand match it would have been and what a good family for Gungi to be given into. It seems impossible to get rid of her.”
The meaning was clear. It was about Kamala that they were talking, and she winced as she heard those words and thought of running away. But where could she go? Why was she born? In her agony she unconsciously went to her father-in-law. It was he who had brought about the marriage and she would speak to him. She rushed in through the quadrangle to the side room where her father-in-law usually stayed. Trembling with excitement she fell at his feet. “Oh why did you get me married to your son? Why did you not ask for money? Did you not know that I was a beggar? Now all this trouble has come on me. No one will love me. Let me go to father.” The words were uttered in a tone of agony.
“Hush, child, why are you so agitated?” said the solemn man in a tone of surprise. He stooped to raise her, saying, “Don’t cry so. Who told you that you were poor and penniless? We have to look to that. You go and do your work.” She was so child-like in rushing to him and crying that he forgot that she was a grown-up girl and stroked her face and said that she must not get all kinds of nonsense into her head. He did not expect that of a shastri’s daughter. She must work to please her mother-in-law.
“Oh! He does not know and cannot understand what I have to bear,” thought Kamala. “Father will say the same.” And she went inside to her own room and almost sobbed her heart out. The whole thing was clear now. She was born to give trouble to others. She was a poor man’s daughter and they wanted to get rid of her. That was the reason why she was so despised. And now her husband would also despise her. She tried to remember if her father ever spoke of money. Did he possess any? And if she asked him would he give her any? But how was she to see her father? And what was that about her mother? Did no one know her? Everything looked so dismal. Her happiness seemed to depart with the evening light, and there was darkness in her soul. While she was thinking thus, some one happened to enter the room. The light of the window fell on the face and figure of a young man. He said: “Mother! mother!” Kamala turned and looked full at him. Was it her husband, who had been expected, that had returned? And the thought that he too had come to despise her sent a pang through her. In a voice that was full of pain and scarcely audible she said: “Mother is not here.”
“And who are you in the dark corner? Get up.”
Kamala rose shyly and said, “It is I.” The light from the window fell full on her as she stood there, and revealed to him what seemed a vision of beauty. It was now two years since Ganesh left his girl-bride, and he was quite taken aback at the sight of a tall, slim, but handsome girl, with tears trembling on her long dark eyelashes and her white rounded cheeks. Her soft fair face seemed as if it were lit by a moonbeam. “Are you Kamala?” he exclaimed, and Kamala looked up with surprise and her gaze went through him, so child-like in its helpless innocence and confiding trust it seemed. He turned away as if he did not care, but he felt a yearning in his heart to say a kind word to the startled girl.
The upper cloth worn by men
Pilgrimages