Chapter XVI.
AS Kamala and her mother-in-law neared their house, Bhagirathi was seen peeping over the wall in front of her own house. Kamala had a bundle at her waist, and her mother-in-law was far in front of her. Messages passed rapidly from Bhagirathi to the houses near, and before Kamala turned the corner of the street several heads peeped over walls and hedges and women clad in wet garments and with vessels full of water purposely stopped in front of their houses. “Welcome! Welcome! Kamala,” were the first words uttered by Bhagirathi. “How are you?” “Where do you come from?” “Where are you going?”—were questions asked on all sides by ill-clad, shaven widows and by married women. Harni came running, but Rukhma, the usually happy Rukhma, looked strangely sad and thin. At her appearance, too, a sudden hush fell on the company. Kamala glanced at each inquiringly and at Rukhma in particular. Her sad, downcast eyes sent a thrill of fear through Kamala.
“What is it?” Kamala said, with questioning eyes, “what has happened? Tell me.”
“Nothing, Nothing,” said the elder women; as they abruptly turned to pass on to their homes. The smiles of welcome vanished and a dread fear seemed to fill their eyes as they whispered ominously to one another.
“He is better,” said Rukhma with quivering lips.
“We had the vythia (doctor) last night,” and then, unable to restrain herself, she threw her head on Kamala’s neck and wailed.
“Hush, child! you must not cry,” said two or three near her. “You know she will get angry, the revengeful Mari. Don’t you know, no sound is uttered, no cry is heard, for those that she takes away? And it is bad to cry before anything happens. It is an ill omen.”
Kamala was bewildered, and she turned for an explanation to Bhagirathi, who had now come out. “Hush! Hush!” said Bhagirathi, “Don’t be frightened. It is not good to tell a new comer at once, but Mari Aiye has visited our town, and Rukhma’s husband has been ill and two are laid up in our own house, the servant boy and the old cook, and we know not whose turn may come next. She cares for no one—she, the ‘sacrifice demander’ from Yama himself.”
“Oh, how dreadful,” said Kamala, trembling, and pressing Rukhma to herself.
Just then the front door of Kamala’s house opened, and her mother-in-law was seen to look up and down the street. At the sight of the old dame the girls covered their heads more closely and dispersed, whispering, “We will see you again. There is so much to tell. Go now, Kamala, and be careful.” The married women with their twisted bundles of washed clothes went to their houses, which they entered through the front door, whilst the widows entered by the backyard.
That night vague feelings passed over Kamala, and an awe and dread indescribable filled her mind. She had no sleep but lay morbidly wakeful, noting every sound and movement in the next house, which was Rukhma’s. Her intense pity and sympathy for her friend made her feel as if she herself was passing through the same dread experiences. It was an agonising time, and in the stillness of night sounds fell on her ears with an ominous meaning. The moon paled and waned, the night wind rushed and rvared, the owls hooted, their long mournful sounds seemingly prolonged over the dark rolling river, and the deep shadows of the trees at the back of her house appeared to her mind as if peopled by ghosts that night. And when the clouds hid the moon completely she paced her room uneasily. Then sounds of hurried steps in the next house attracted her attention. “Where was Rukhma? What was she doing? O God, what does this mean for my friend, the happy, bright, laughing Rukhma?” And Kamala cried bitter tears and wailed out, she knew not why:— Spare her, spare her, this great misery.” There had been the sound of restless steps and then there was a hush and a groan and next a loud cry—an agonising shriek that made her stand and shiver. It was the last rallying of the sinking powers, the last painful utterance of the departing spirit, which once heard is never forgotten. “Come near, near, near, I am alone,” was shrieked out, and the wail quivered through the air, and then there was a hush. Then came smothered sobbings, and Kamala felt as if she were looking on the weeping Rukhma and longed to put her arms round her friend’s neck and shield her from her sorrow. But ah! How could she comfort the breaking heart? And then came the last cry of the dying man before the soul made its entry into the other world; and Kamala fancied that she could hear the spirit crying even there! “Come near! Come near! I am alone. I am alone.” The hush did not last long this time. There was a loud screech of the owls in the dark groves. A dog howled and then suddenly barked a short, sharp bark as if he saw somebody coming through the unseen air. Kamala threw her cloth round her head and hid her face. She knew what that meant. Dogs saw spirits. Dread Yama’s servants were surely approaching. But what means this unaccountable silence in the house? O God, are they sleeping? Do they not know who are coming? Cannot the dread messengers of Yama be avoided? Can they not shut the doors against them? She felt she could see the dark shadows with the waving noose in their hands coming nearer and nearer towards the house. Was the sound of steps real? And then was heard a sharp bark, a great flutter in the trees yonder, followed by a great many barks and a rush of the dogs to the river banks. “Gone! Gone!” she said. “The soul is caught and taken away.” Dark masses of cloud floated overhead and through them could be seen at times a weird pale moon. There were sudden shiverings and rustlings among the trees, with silences between. Then there was a stir in the house. A great wild wail that seemed to cleave the sky and then again a sudden hush, for the voice of a man in a strained unnatural tone was heard to say: “Cry not. Remove the body lest greater evils come.” It was the voice of the young man’s father and showed that his heart was breaking. Kamala covered her head and cried. The worst that she feared had come on Rukhma, and she longed for the dawn when she could fall on her friend’s neck and cry,“ Rukhma! Rukhma! What a lot is thine.”
Kamala was not allowed to see her friend next day. The silence of superstitious fear seized all. Kamala imagined to herself what her friend had to bear; how her dearest relations would turn their faces from her and say: “Let her suffer, let her bear the sins of former generations, the unfortunate polluted one, who has been the cause of her husband’s death. What sins she must have committed, how many hearts she must have broken!” And Rukhma, she knew how Rukhma would bear it all. How she would hide her face and mourn and not a soul would go near her to sympathise with her or say a kind word to her. Kamala became mad as it were with pain, thinking of all this. But the more she begged of her people to let her go the more they persisted in their refusal. And then came a time of trial and suffering which brought her firstborn infant into the world.
Kamala had to pass through days of great mental agony, and she often longed to be taken away to her husband’s home. Her sister-in-law and her mother-in-law had become more bitter than ever, just when she needed their care and sympathy most; for now they openly told her in sharp cutting words that she was a burden to them and that her death would be welcome. “What a useless weight is left here,” they would say. “She is fit for nothing—a drag not only on her husband but also on her people. How well Ganesh would have got on without her; but for the sake of the world one has to close one’s mouth.” And when Kamala’s child was born they spoke of the infant as an additional load and burden on them. “Who needed a child just now, and that, too, a girl?” they said often. Poor Kamala hugged her new found treasure to her breast as if to shield it from all the harsh words and abuses that fell on its innocent head. Her superstitious mind trembled at the thought that their wicked words might blight the infant as curses were said to do. But when the bright eyes opened and the infant mouth smiled its unconscious angelic smile, she forgot all her troubles in the ecstasy of her new fond joy. “O God! Let me have this my treasure and I care not for anything they may say.”
Two months passed and Ganesh came to Sivagunga. He was moved to see Kamala looking so wretched, but, strange to say, he looked on the child indifferently, and it smote Kamala to see that he found no pleasure in her babe. But all fathers are not expected to make much of their children, and she thought that it was the nature of men to be as he was. She was in ecstasies, too, at the prospect of going and living alone with her husband. Ah! what would she not do to make his life happy? She would watch his coming home and await his arrival with delicate morsels of cookery. The child would be brought out and she would gently endeavour to draw him closer to herself, and he would be sure to appreciate all that she did for him. Thus she gave rein to her imagination, happy in the thought that he would be perfectly happy and his delight would be in herself and her child. On the eighth day after its birth the child was named, and at the special request of Kamala was called Droupadi after her mother’s aunt; for the story of her mother had taken a great hold on her mind and she had conceived a special fondness for the old lady, her mother’s guardian, who was still living. There remained now only a single ceremony to be performed, and then Kamala was to go to her husband’s home at Rampur.
Kamala had to pass through new and strange experiences in her city home. After a few weeks of quiet and peace the castle of happiness she had so fondly reared for herself was rudely dashed to the ground; and she soon learned how great injury a capricious and weak, though at times well meaning man, was capable of inflicting on a sensitive wife. Her husband’s nature was cast in a rougher mould, and he could not understand the keen pain that his words and actions often gave to Kamala. He was kind at first, but Kamala soon found that his moods changed.
Kamala’s sisters-in-law both lived in Rampur, and Ganesh often visited them. When he returned from their houses he always seemed quite a different man. The venom that they poured into his ears made him silent and moody. This was at the commencement of their stay in the city, when Sai was absent from Rampur in her mountain home. One day after his visit to Ramabai, Ganesh told Kamala that his sisters had called her stingy and avaricious, and that they suspected that she saved without his knowledge and that was why he had not money to spare for them. This he told her frankly; and Kamala felt that he knew her better and that his confidence in her was not shaken; but sometimes when he came back and looked gloomy and would not open his mind to her she felt sad and desolate. Other little circumstances also happened that embittered her existence for the time being. He spoke thoughtlessly, and his words often cut deep into her heart and rankled there. They were just little incidents that led to such a strained relationship between husband and wife. One related to an upper cloth which was brought for sale by a merchant. Kamala thought that she had a right to speak out her mind about the article, which she considered very inferior, and when she was ordered to pay for it she went straight to Ganesh who was talking to Ramabai’s steward, and told him that the cloth was not worth the money. Ganesh resented her interference, thinking that she regarded herself as superior to other women in having an independent judgment, and that she was too bold in speaking before a man who was intimate in his sister’s house. He turned sharply on her and said: “Pay at once.” The words were harmless, but the manner in which they were uttered frightened her, and she went in wondering what had come over him. But when after a time he came to her and said that she was a mean, low woman, no better than a grass-cutter, and that she needed shoe beating to bring her to her senses, she was shocked at finding how much her innocent interference had irritated him. Her response after a time followed timidly.
“There is no dishonour in bargaining, so why should I fear to tell the truth?”
“Yes! you don’t care for anybody. Not even for your husband. Even I am as dust under your feet. I am nothing in your eyes.”
“Why do you talk like that? Why do you listen to what your people say, and come and taunt me?”
The venom that her sisters-in-law had poured in his ears was at work and she knew it. Had they not called her over and over again proud, conceited, not caring for anybody, mean and stinting?
That was what made her refer to his people; but at those last words Ganesh was so exasperated that he said.—”My people! How dare you speak of them in that manner? I wish I could beat your meanness out of you. Everybody laughs at you, and even that man there was chuckling at your low grasping nature.” She felt as if struck down by these words, and sat on the ground. She thought that something dreadful was going to happen, and almost cried her heart out.
Another little incident that occurred soon after made Kamala think that her husband had entirely lost his confidence in her and filled her heart with greater despair, for she felt disgraced and demeaned by it. It arose from her servant’s carelessness; and she found to her sorrow that she as a woman was even less than a servant in her husband’s eyes. It was but the old rooted prejudice in the Hindu mind against women; but to Kamala, brought up as she had been, it was all new, and her pain was great when she discovered that the mistake of a stupid servant was laid to her charge. The servant was sleepy and did not take in an order given by Ganesh to buy three annas worth each of three different kinds of sweets. Kamala, to make things plain, had said: “Mind, quarter viss of each.” Her husband had been more than usually cheerful and kind that day. He was home from office early and said that he expected his sisters that evening. What, then, was Kamala’s astonishment when the servant bought only a quarter viss of sweets in all. When questioned by Ganesh the servant looked stupid and defended himself, saying: “Ah! the Bai Saheb said quarter viss.” Kamala turned to her husband with a smile and said: “How stupid! Did you not hear me say quarter viss of each?” But a look of disgust on her husband’s face and a callous, sneering answer, “Who knows?” struck her dumb. Had he really lost all confidence in her? She sat down and murmured: “Yes! Who knows? Who knows?” till she felt almost mad.
Ganesh after a time seldom returned home early; and a strange restlessness came over Kamala, but she never disclosed to others what she felt. Even her faithful servant woman was a mere dumb looker on. She dare not sympathise with Kamala, for the latter would not allow any one to pity her or say anything against her husband. But in a city it is impossible to keep one’s conduct from being criticised by others; and Ganesh’s conduct was being carefully watched by his neighbours. On one occasion a neighbouring woman visited Kamala; and with well-meant sympathy disclosed Ganesh’s movements to her. After that came the silent acting of one of the most heart-rending dramas of life. Kamala used all her winning powers to coax her husband to come sooner from office, for she knew the cause of his staying away. He looked at her suspiciously at first, and then laughed and asked whether she had forgotten all the quarrels. Kamala put her head down and said that if her lord had forgotten she had forgotten too. She begged that he would never misunderstand her any more and told him how it cut her to the heart to think that he thought her mean and lying. Ganesh was good natured. So he promised to come soon the next day and did so. But ah! how disturbed he was, how absent. Kamala, suspecting the cause, wondered whether Sai was waiting for him in some of their well known haunts. “Was he thinking of Sai?” she said to herself. “Oh, that he should be false to me and attracted to her so!” He was positively miserable, she thought; he spoke not a word, but after gulping down some sweet cakes he rose and said that business called him out. What business, she thought she well knew, as she saw him going along the way leading to Sai’s house. She went inside with a sigh and then for the first time after long months taking the mirror in her hand she looked at herself. She had changed terribly. Her miseries were telling on her. Her face had become thin. “Ah, Sai, Sai,” she groaned, “why do you come across my path? Is not what I have to bear enough for me already?” The next day Ganesh looked crest-fallen in Kamala’s presence; and at her direct words he put his head down like one guilty and made feeble efforts to please her. After he went out poor Kamala experienced another kind of feeling. She felt severe pangs of remorse at the thought that she had judged ill of her husband. Why did she argue with him, and utter such words to him? Perhaps he did not mean anything when he said: “Who are you to interfere with my pleasure?” The words had probably escaped his lips unwittingly; and she had taken them up and harped on them as only a mean woman would and made his life miserable. How very sad he looked in the morning; and now what would he feel? He would be more than ever estranged, he would feel that he was married to a woman who did not scruple to think everything evil of him, and he had been so noble, so good, so unlike other husbands, for he had really tried to please her often. She made herself miserable the whole day, crying and thinking of all her words, and putting her conduct in the worst possible light. No! she did not deserve to have a husband like him. How did she ever happen to say such cruel things? Oh, that somebody would trample her down and show her her own low mean nature, and then she would learn to avoid such mistakes. There were, however, grounds for Kamala’s feeling miserable; and it was simply her own noble nature that made her accuse herself and bring herself low even to the dust at her husband’s feet.
The cholera deity