‘Now when he returned, he came to the blind man and his fields. “O, Brahmin, sir, O, Brahmin, sir, how wondrous to behold your sacred looks again. No sooner had you told the story of Rama and left than my father-in-law, blind these two score years and more, had his eyes given back. ‘There, there, the parrots,’ he said; and now he flings his catapult at them, and they fly away.” “Sir, we kept guards at the north and the west that the returning pilgrim be brought home; and Guest, sir,” said the daughter-in-law, “please be seated.” And she laid leaf and silver vessels before him and gave him the meats of the pilgrim. Ishwara Bhatta said, “Wonderful, wonderful.” And when he had risen and had washed his hands, he sat on the veranda and told them the story of Rama again. He had hardly told them the story than the son, staff and satchel in hand, bare and bedraggled, so long gone a-travelling, returned. And as he entered he said, “Father, you can see!” and the father said, “Yes, I can see now, for I have heard the story of Rama.” After telling them the story again, Ishwara Bhatta wended his way homewards.
‘Going and still going along Ishwara Bhatta came — after nights and jungles, rivers and many wild spaces awesome to behold that make the hairs stand on end — to the country where the lonely woman was. “Now, sir, learned and auspicious Brahmin, hardly had you turned to the north, than my husband returned from the west.” And they both stood by Ishwara Bhatta, she serving many meats and sweet dishes, while the husband waved a peacock-feather fan to the pilgrim. Then when he had eaten and washed, and had partaken of the betel nuts and presents, as he started to go he told the story of Rama to the united couple. “Rama, Rama…”
‘And then he went, and the rains came, and he saw the new creepers of the autumnal woods, and the birds with fresh-washed plumage, and the fields rich with rippling harvests. He came nearer home, and when he entered the hermitage of his son-in- law, bright was the home with grandchildren and daughter. And having partaken of all the offerings of the daughter and son-in- law, and blessing the children as he rose to go, the daughter said, “Tell the cruel mother, I am happy,” and he said, “Nay, nay, not thus. After all, it was she who bore thee, Daughter, and one does not speak ill of that which bears one.” The daughter said, “So be it Father”; and he sat himself down by the pool of the hermitage and told them the story of Rama. “Rama, Rama…” Soon, very soon he would be home again, and would see with these God-seen eyes the son, Brahma Bhatta, and the wife and the cattle and the bright nine-pillared house.
‘But here after the traveller had first gone forth, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday came, and then Thursday, and auspicious Friday of the woman. And on Saturday Brahma Bhatta said, “Mother, come; it’s Saturday and we’ll tell the story of Rama.” But his mother said, “Son, wait; I will go and give rice- water to the cattle. Measure the grain for pounding.” And with this and that the morning went by, and the evening fell and the story of Rama was not said. The next day was Sunday and then came Monday, then Tuesday, and Wednesday, and Thursday… And on Saturday the mother said, “Come son, it’s Saturday, and we must tell the story of Rama.” And the son said, “Mother, I’ve to go to the fields, and look after the sowing and the manuring, and the repairing of canals.” And the day went and evening came and the son did not return. When he returned, he was so tired he had no breath, and his face was all covered with sweat and dust. Brahma Bhatta washed and came to the kitchen. “Poor child, he’s so tired,” said the mother; and the story of Rama was not told.
‘The Saturday went, and Sunday and Monday, and when Saturday came again the story was not said. Week after week went by, and there were always the cattle to look after, and the sowing to be done. The byre roof started falling and the pillars of the house, and cracks appeared on the walls; the fields became fallow, and yet the story of Rama was not told. Sickness came and old age, and the house fell and the lands were all sold; the cattle had died of this pest and that, and stubble beard had appeared on the face of the son — and the father did not return.
‘One day, however, passing travellers brought the news, that the pilgrim was returning to the village — and all with fife and turban, garland, scents, and umbrella, they went to the village-gate. There he was, the returning pilgrim, who had seen the face of Sri Rama. Bright was Ishwara Bhatta’s face like a million suns effulgent, and he had grown neither old nor young, so steady his looks, so kind his eyes. And when Bhagirathi fell at his feet and rose, he said, “Who may’st thou be, Lady?” for so dishevelled was she. And when Brahma Bhatta fell at his father’s feet prostrate and arose, the returning pilgrim said, “Who may’st thou be, sir?” for he had such a stubble beard, and many a tooth had gone, and he was so fibrous. “Father, I’m your son,” said Brahma Bhatta. Ishwara Bhatta was so moved, he wept and said, “Son, how has this become?” And they told him, “This is so, Master of the House; thus it was and thus it is.” And the master of the house said, “I am so sorrowful. Have you told the story of Rama on Saturday?” Then Brahma Bhatta said, “No, Father, when I went to Mother, Mother was busy with the kitchen; and when she came to say, ‘Son, it’s Saturday, the day of the story of Rama,’ I had to go to the collection in the fields. What with this person and that, week after week went by.” And the mother said, “The nine-pillared house is falling, and the cattle all dead. Oh! Oh!” she cried. So Ishwara Bhatta said, “Tchi, Tchi, sinners,” and told them then and there the story of Rama. “Rama, Rama…”
‘And no sooner did he start telling them the story of Rama, than the house rose on its pillars and the granary stood on its four walls; the cattle began to low from the bright-red byre, and there were servants and bailiffs, and the carriage-house full of carriages and chariots. A chariot of four white horses stood at the village-gate, and with music and procession the villagers brought back the returning pilgrim. The son had grown so young to look at, and the wife with marks auspicious of venerable splendour. Then she said, “How is she, my daughter?” And he said, “Oh, they are happy together. I married her off to a worthy ascetic. And they have many children, and a shining house.” The music and four white horses now stood at the door. And thus with many mantras and aspersion ceremonies Ishwara Bhatta, who had seen the face of Sri Rama, returned to his noble nine-pillared house.
‘Rama, Rama, Sri Rama, give us wealth and give us splendour; give us the eight riches auspicious, give us an heir, give us a home and sanctuary, give us earth and gardens; those who go to lands distant, may they return, may the body be firm and innocent; give eyes to the blind, give legs to the lame, give speech to the dumb. Rama, Sri Rama, Rama, give us Thy Holy Presence.’
Little Mother had hardly finished the story of Rama than a car stopped at the door. ‘That must be Saroja,’ whispered Little Mother. She went to open the door, and said, ‘Saroja, I’ll offer you now the best jewel you could ever have at your wedding— the only diamond that’s true.’ When Saroja came in and saw me, tears began to roll down her cheeks, for she thought of Father and not of me. ‘You’ve come to bless me, my brother,’ she said. ‘It’s so large-minded of you to have come.’ And like a child, like a doe in fear, she curled herself and sat against my knee, protected. Little Mother distributed the sugar and Bengal gram and we sat for a silent meal.
Those were days of pain, of such a luminous, nameless pain, but there was no cruelty about it.
Men and women came in and out to decide whether this sari was good or the other, peacock-blue one; whether the opposite party should be given Dharmawaram saris or only cotton Kanchi ones—’And the gold sovereign will do the rest.’ The cooks, fat-bellied, belching, bejewelled, snuff in their palms and money tucked away at their waists, came in to ask if one needed a thousand laddus or a thousand two hundred, and whether the laddus would be for the second day or the third, and whether milk had been ordered for the khir, and saffron, almond, and sugar. The house began to fill increasingly with neighbours making pappadams, the Brahmins came and showed their thirty-two teeth, knowing that now the master of the house was come—’And from London too,’ they said between themselves — there would be nothing lacking in honour and silver. The bamboos for the pandal began to arrive too, ‘Where shall they lay the bamboos, Mother?’ asked Baliga, the servant. ‘Not here, you silly fool. Is there place here to erect a pandal, say? You have them taken to Engineer Shivaram’s house. There you’ll find everybody you need.’