Chapter XVII.
AS days passed Sai even began to frequent the house and to come and go as an ordinary visitor. Whenever Kamala remonstrated with her husband or even alluded to Sai’s coming so often, he silenced her by saying that there was no harm in the visits, and that it was a woman’s low jealous nature that saw evil in everything. He even expressed surprise that she of all women was given to such jealous suspicions. The time, however, soon came when Sai visited regularly in the evening, and she it was whom he called immediately on his return from office, while Kamala sat out in the backyard long into the darkening night. Sai chatted and talked; and he answered in a gay spirit of raillery. Kamala he scarcely took any notice of. She thought of the time when if she was silent for a minute or absent looking in his presence, he made a great deal of her; and asked herself what had changed him so completely. His eyes now fell on her with a blight. His spirits were damped at the sight of her. “In what way is Sai my superior?” thought Kamala. She had a bold air of confidence and laughed and talked immoderately—Kamala thought, also immodestly—but she was not beautiful. She reminded her of a snake, especially when she looked askance at Kamala herself with an air of triumph. Kamala wondered how long this galling servitude and this miserable existence were to last.
One evening an incident happened which gave rather a serious turn to the situation. It was a festival day .at Rampur. Ganesh had not gone to office; and so left home earlier than usual. Kamala had keenly watched him that day and had suffered intense mental agony at seeing him hurry out so as to avoid her company. She was standing at the door when to her surprise she saw Ramchander, her father’s nephew, coming towards the house. He came dressed differently and not as usual in the mendicant’s garb, and walked straight to the door of the house. Kamala, knowing the whole story of his life, did not wonder now at his appearance and the change in his dress. She felt suddenly as if she were living another life altogether. Her own mother’s story came back to her mind, and she felt as if she were living in the higher atmosphere of her mother’s house. Ramchander asked first for Ganesh, told Kamala of her father having been ill again in one of his mountain haunts, and of his own. inability to come to the Rampur side. His own mother had died and he had to look after the affairs of his house and his property. He said that he might take Narayen with him or leave him near Arunyadaya as Narayen chose. He had to look after his own father’s affairs as well, but messages would come for Kamala, he said, and she was to keep them informed of her welfare. He had come specially to inquire after her health at Narayen’s request. He timidly hinted about the child. “Ah, a girl! Whom was it like?” and Kamala rạn in to bring it and entreated Ramchander to stay till her husband came; but he said he could not as he had to go on to Anjinighur. He had just come from Sivagunga, where he had expected to see her. He had, however, seen her father-in-law there. To him he had told the whole story of her father’s life, for her father thought that her husband’s people should know all about her antecedents and that she would inherit all Narayen’s property. Then he added a word of caution: “Be careful of Sai. I hear she is here.” And when going he looked down a moment and said: “May you be happy, very happy, in your husband’s love.” At these words the tears rose in her eyes but she soon suppressed them. Ramchander looked at her kindly and said: “You know that after your father I am your guardian and you will have no lack! You must not cry. You are the happiest of girls, for if you want anything there is plenty at your father’s house, and all will be at your disposal.” With these words he hurried out.
Ramchander stood talking in front of the door inside the yard under the neem tree. All round were heads peeping from neighbouring houses. The servant woman, too, was listening to every word; and whispered to others:—“It is Kamala’s relation for a wonder! Just fancy Kamala having a relation.”
That evening Ganesh returned with Sai. Kamala did not appear disturbed, for her thoughts were wandering far away. She was anxious to tell her husband of Ramchander’s visit, but Sai’s presence, somehow, deterred her from doing so. Ganesh was, however, looking unusually disturbed and absent. Sai sat on the zhopala (a wooden swing) as usual, laughing and chatting, but this time with gleams of triumph which jarred on Kamala in spite of her outward calm. She jeered at the house, at the things in it, at the way in which they were kept, and not stopping there she even ordered Kamala, saying: “Here, get me that spittoon. · Do some work at least, you evil faced girl!” Kamala appeared not to take any notice of her words; but something rose within her at the sight of Ganesh’s unaccountably troubled and depressed look. She thought that the sooner the whole farce was ended the better. What cared she even if she lost her life? The pride that made her calm and indifferent suddenly left her, and the independent spirit of her parents, the spirit that made them leave their homes, preferring hardships to a life of luxury, was not altogether absent even in the gentle affectionate Kamala. “Don’t you hear, you deaf lout?” said Sai, and turning to Ganesh, “Look at her: she does not mind me at all. Make her do it.” Kamala was sitting with her back turned and her head on her knees. She was astonished at the turn of affairs. Never before had Sai behaved like this. Her husband’s voice fell on her ears. “Here, rise and do as she tells you.” With these words she felt a severe thump on her back and she rolled a few steps. But the tiger element in her nature was roused. She got up, suppressed the pain, and facing him said:—“You! You! to strike me for this. Take care that God does not strike you in return.” He felt awed. It was an unusual thing for a woman to behave in this fashion, but she faced him and stood her ground. And emboldened by her victory she cried to Sai:—“ Leave my house for ever. Leave at once. If you do not go I shall force you.” And with extraordinary strength she pushed her out, while Sai kept appealing to Ganesh. But Ganesh seemed rooted to the ground as it were, and Kamala shut the door on Sai and returned, and saw that her husband stood where he was. After that she felt lifeless. The excitement of the moment had passed, and she sat down on the floor and gave vent to her feelings. Sobs, deep sobs, seemed to choke her. Her husband at last broke out:—“What have you done, you Avadasa. You have disgraced me before the public now. What shall I do? How shall I show my face outside? Are you not satisfied with the disgrace that you have already heaped on me that you add this too?”!
“What have I done? I have done nothing,” said Kamala. “I have only sent the woman away who took my place and who had not even the prudence of a dancing-girl, but who was brazen-faced enough to order me to work for her-me your lawful wife whom you loved so dearly once.” Then she added passionately: “Why do you, my husband, do all this? Why can’t we be happy as before for our beloved child’s sake at least?” And she threw herself on the ground and clasped his knees.
“Yes! why?” said Ganesh with a cold contemptuous look at her; and then turning away from her said:— “You to talk to me like this in the face of what you have done, you, who are worse than Sai herself. You have already disgraced me and you shall suffer for it.”
“Disgraced you? Why! what have I done?”
“Why do you feign ignorance, when I can read you through and through, when I have seen with my own eyes the man loitering about here?”
“What man? Of whom are you talking? O God! what is this?”
“You may well feign astonishment, but you cannot deceive me. Our forefathers’ saying is true—’Never trust a woman. You pretended to care for me in order to cast dust in my eyes, to make me believe in you, and leave you by yourself.” And grinding his teeth and stamping his feet, he said: “You shall suffer for it. Why do you fall at my feet? You can put on the appearance of innocence very well. Just now you nearly staggered me and I thought you were innocent, I felt for a moment the old feeling, but it is gone. I see you in your true colours. I shall swear the child is not mine and turn you out.”
“What, so much, would you really say that it is not your child? Ah, welcome death! I don’t even want to know the name of the man you suspect. You to think of me like this. Who has told you this tale, for if you really think like this I shan’t live long to trouble you? Do think again before you accuse me.”
“What is there to think? I know what is true,” said Ganesh coldly and sneeringly.
“Oh God! Why do you talk like this?” An icy chill passed through her at his strange sneering manner. She felt something bound round her heart and choking her. Suddenly she seemed to grow ten years older in experience; and standing up she said in a calm voice: “Kill myself I cannot; that would bring you into trouble. God will reveal the truth; but I will not stay here any more.” Then she told him that if anybody asked about her he was to say she had gone to see her father who was ill. “It will silence all evil tongues and no disgrace will be attached to you.”
“Here is some money,” he said, looking pitifully at her. “No, I don’t want any money. You shall never see me again.” Something made her shudder and tremble as she walked, and she clasped her child and rushed out on to the dark silent road. Before she went out, however, she checked herself and called the servant woman to follow her, while Ganesh quietly looked on. She had not gone many paces before she stopped under a tree. The winds were howling on all sides and the darkened tree-tops rustled ominously. A long desolate plain lay before her. She said to herself: “Where shall I go? Not back to my child home at Anjinighur. No! Never! Never! A woman must die in her husband’s house, and never return to her own home.” Then a thought seized her and she almost ran on while the servant woman followed behind remonstrating. “Don’t tell any one where I am going,” she said. It was the most unlikely place that she made up her mind to go to. It was back to Sivagunga to her father-in-law’s house. “It is they that must have put the idea into his heart; and I must go to them and live my life out with them.”
The darkness thickened as she passed along a weird road that lay between two paddy-fields. The passion in her soul was driving her on. In vain the servant woman called to her and she madly clasped the infant to her breast, and scarcely stopped to hear the words. Her heart beat wildly and her head throbbed. At last through sheer exhaustion she sat down. “So this is what has come of all my strivings.” The words, “This is not my child,” rang in her ears with a terrible wildness, and she said: “Ah! what shall I do? Where shall I hide myself. How shall I destroy myself? Oh! welcome death, but how difficult it is for Yama to come. I implore thee, Yama, come.” But what if death would not come. The future—the dreadful future—seemed to thrust itself before her. Death was her only solace; and she lifted her head up in wild agony. But what was the strange feeling that overcame her now? She felt suddenly a new experience that she could not describe. Above her head lay the vast expanse of the heavens with all its myriad glittering stars; and its silent immensity seemed to strike a thrill through her. The thought darted across her mind—What am I in this great universe, and what matter if I live or die? Just then her little girl woke, and seeing her mother gazing at the heavens, pointed her infant hands to the sky, and gave vent to a wild whoo of delight. Kamala was struck by the gesture, as little things will sometimes strike us. It harmonised, she thought, so well with the great silent magnificence of the scene above and she thought within herself: Was the child appealing to God? Who made this unconscious innocent infant life, and who would take care of it after she died? Living things were cared for in some way or other; and a God—a wise, loving God—must be over all. She felt greatly calmed, and bowing her head ceased to think of the past. In the calm that came over her soul a message seemed to be whispered into the inmost recesses of her heart: “No, you must not die. You must live and show what a life of true innocence can be. You must win by love, win all hearts—stoop low, for nothing is mean. Arise and work, for your work lies in this world.” She rose refreshed. A new life seemed to spring within her. The selfish sorrow vanished. She was going to live for others now and even for those who hated her. She would love, and show what love and innocence could do. She would bear all, even if they trampled on her; and one day Ganesh would know of it too. A soft sweet glamour spread over her and she was happy in the great sacrifice of self she had contemplated. It may seem strange that an experience such as this should have been felt by an ignorant Hindu girl. But even a savage is known to be impressed by grand inspiring scenes of nature, and Kamala, moreover, was different from other Hindu girls, in that she had a highly cultured father and a learned mother; and she had herself learnt to feel and think.