I lay on my bed in the afternoons, aloof and silent; waiting for something to happen — anything.
One afternoon — it must have been some two or three days before the marriage — the postman dropped a letter in through the window. It was from Madeleine, and this is what it said:
‘Rama, mon ami,
In the width of vast and varied spaces, I feel there is always a spot for happiness. Our unhappiness comes from the fact that we do not know what to choose, and when to choose. Life could be filled with pepper-mills — the whole of the equator could be lined up with the silly wooden and iron contraptions, for triturating black pepper over salad or baked potatoes. But one can also stop before a jasmine or a rose (like the one you planted last autumn, which has such lovely red, claret-red roses) and see the pattern of existence — know that all is everywhere, joy is in the instant; that what Georges calls God must be somewhere hereabouts, in the garden, perhaps, between the rows of petits-pois. When I leave the water-hose on near the cypress by the gate, the water gurgles and subsides, flowing evenly to the petits-pois, the jasmine and the roses.
‘This is just to tell you, sad though I am, that I think of you a great deal, and know you in many small things. For example, I miss you when the bathroom is not splashed about with water, or the pencil is not broken as it lies on your table. Women may grumble at their husband’s lack of consideration for them and for things, but our grumbling itself is a form of our love. Look at the letters of Eloise to Abelard, full of grumbles to her Lord in bed and her Lord in Christ. A woman must grumble — it’s her biological defence against the strength of man. I put flowers before your books, and light sandal-sticks at your table.
‘I wonder how you feel back in India, back in your family. We who are brought up in Europe — and especially of late singing Gide’s “Famille, je vous hais” like an incantation, like a mantra— for us any person other than a brother or sister is an outsider, an enemy. Sartre’s “L’ennemi, c’est l’autre”, is the continuance of Gide’s dictum. I know your father did not mean much to you, but your family does, I think. I’ve seen such joy on your face when I said, “A letter from India — from Saroja.” Love them for me — for I can love no one but you.
‘I often ask, lying in my bed, and reaching out in my feeling and touch to that which you have created in me, and which I continue to feed and to fulfil, what it is that brought us together, and what it is that will keep us together. Love is something so indefinable — though we glib Europeans use the word frequently — one cannot possibly love a body (made of the eighteen dhatus, elements, as the Buddhist Nagasena told the Greek King Menander). One cannot love that mirror with a thousand false facets called the mind, which hates what it once adored and fears what it once cared for so dearly. Beyond the body and the mind there may be the heart, but what does it mean? Is it that pumping machine, which feeds our veins with red blood. Can haemoglobules be a proof of love? We are such ignorant people. Every word seems a neologism or a tautology. I often laugh at Georges, who seriously talks of the monads of Leibnitz or the love intellectual of Spinoza as if they were eternal entities, just as Lavoisier thought of oxygen and hydrogen as chemical fundamenta that were preordained in some timeless textbook of God. But as Einstein came and upset the orderly, solid, Monsieur Hommais universe of our ancestors, India may still upset the Saint-Sulpice of Georges Khuschbertieff. Then hurrah to the Himalay!
‘Do I love you, I often ask myself? When I say that I mean, do I love you as Buddha loved Ananda…? “Ananda, dear Ananda do not grieve that the Enlightened One, the one who was like a father unto thee, has gone. Say, rather, ‘I shall be like a flame unto myself,’ and shine.” To help others be — to let the flower flower, let the water flow; to accept that birth and death are cycles, the affirmation of something; that is what love should be. Love should not be different from Truth. But could love be where Truth alone is? Could the sun be tender or the sound gentle? We make tenderness and gentleness. Shine on me, my Rama; as you see I am becoming a good wife.
MADO.’
‘P. S. I should not worry you with medical things, but Dr Contreaux says, though he is not anxious really speaking — my reactions are very normal — that the X-ray is a little blurred in places. I am so fat, Rama, and pink as a Charentaise. I am glad you are not here to see me: I prefer it this way. I have to go again to see Dr Contreaux next week, and I shall write to you. You know how wonderful it is to have happy Catherine about in the house. But I miss you much. Come back quickly, and do not go out in the sun too much: I don’t like a dark husband. And cut your hair, so that it is not like a medical student’s. After all, I am a teacher at the local college, and such things do count. “C’est le mari de Madame la Professeuse… etc.” And forgive the bourgeoise that I am. My affection to Saroja. M.’
For some reason I was angry, but I could not name the name of my anger. Maybe it was for Saroja.
Two days later, I made my first visit to the bridegroom and his uncles, aunts, and elder brothers — they had at last arrived — and my indignation became heavy, silent, firm. I came home and there was a cable waiting for me. This time it was from Savithri. It was from Cambridge, and said: ‘Be happy for me. In your joy is my freedom. And greetings to Saroja.’
I understood it. I must make this marriage a success. I must strive and pray, work myself into a state of happiness, and bring joy and rainshine to others. My happiness was forfeit, but who could prevent me from the gift of joy? Who could stop me making Little Mother and Saroja happy, and Saroja’s ugly, big, lieutenant-looking husband — for he did look so military: governments must make people responsible, heavy, and authoritative. Yes, I would make Subramanya happy. I would make the whole world happy.
I was going to be happy myself. I found joy in the notes of the serpent-clarionet — for the music had already begun — and I went about the invitation-rounds, shouted at the Brahmins, saw to the cars being duly sent to the station for the right trains and the right people, had a look at the horse, a fine white Arab that was to carry the bridegroom to the pandal, I sang hymns in the house and at seven — the bridegroom-procession was to be at nine in the evening — I took Saroja on a walk to the temple ‘What a thing to be done on such an auspicious evening!’ grumbled Little Mother. But I wanted to give myself and Saroja a last chance in space, for some understanding, some statement of the truth. I walked heavily but quickly: Saroja was like a filly dancing about the mother-elephant. ‘Brother, what shall I do, what shall I do?’
‘Do about what, Saroja?’
‘Oh, Brother, I want to run away, run away, anywhere. I cannot marry him. I must not marry him. It is selfish of me to marry a man whom I detest, I look down upon. I think I only like his car, his position; and the feeling that he’s like Father. Since you came I have understood better, Brother. Brother, take me away.’
It was no moment for cowardice. I, the head of the family, could not be a coward; I could not, should not let down anyone in the world. That was my dharma. We came to the Hanuman temple. I bought a coconut and betel leaves, I bought camphor and sandal-sticks, and we gave them for worship. The God seemed so happy, so serene and confirmed in his devotion to his Lord, his Master, Sri Rama. We circumambulated, and sat on the rocks for a moment. Of course, Saroja will be happy. We make our own happiness. Yes, Madeleine, haemoglobules make for happiness. Madeleine, I shall make you happy. ‘Saroja, when you’re married you’ll come and live with us in Aix. And you’ll look after my little daughter.’ Saroja did not answer. I had betrayed her. Then rising, she said, ‘After all, the dead body, when it goes to the crematorium, must feel happy. It does not say, “No, I’ll go back, I’ll go back and be a ghost”. How could it? I have flowers and music, lots of people around me — and I shall be married…’