We came down the hill in silence. Already at the bridegroom’s house the pipers had started their music. Cars were rushing up and down the street and the Hudson lights had come; they came one by one, as if they wished to be counted. I slipped round to see if everything was in order. The horse, bejewelled with necklace and gold anklets and yellow scarf at his neck, stood behind the gate, while the groom was chewing his betel away.
Inside the house there was the terrific noise of man believing he could create happiness. If yogis could will and raise themselves above the earth, I thought, happiness, too, could be created. What was wrong with haemoglobules anyway. They were beautiful to look at — like rubies. And man, after all, takes a woman to his bed and makes her happy. I felt I could have taken a coconut — one of those hanging in the pandal tied to bamboo pillars — and sent it straight at Subramanya’s head. Murder, too, could be joy: haemoglobules have no ethical standards. For them joy is when they can enter the heart at a certain rhythm. I wished I could have gone to the Stag and talked to Julietta about anything. Did the Thames still flow? Had Aristotle said anything interesting? Was there a British Museum with a cupola on its head like a chapel? I suddenly remembered a passage I had read in some huge history of Cambridge, which I had accidently stumbled upon in the British Museum. A bridge across the Cam was permitted by the authorities because the monks from Clare Hall had wished to take their horses to graze across the river:
Your petitioners doe humblie begg of your most sacred Matie that they be suffered at their owne chardge to land a bridge over ye river and enjoy a passadge through ye. But — close into ye field, which would be of great benefitt to your petitioners, especially in times of infecion, having no passadge into ye fields but through ye chappel yard of your said Kings Colledge, ye gates whereof are shutt up in those tymes of danger…
Saroja went into her room on the top floor and shut herself in. I knocked and knocked, and she called out, ‘Brother, leave me to myself for a moment.’ Little Mother came and said, ‘Rama, it’s already half past eight, and at nine the procession will pass before our house. I must tell you what to do. Come, Son.’ So I washed quickly, and clothed myself in white Aurangabad satin, with chudidar pyjamas, and I combed my hair, remembering Madeleine’s admonitions. All the women were gathered under the pandal, and there was a smell of camphor, Lucknow perfumes, and betel leaves; the shine of white teeth, the splendour of black and gold saris, the magnificence of earrings, neckbands, nosedrops, diamond-marks on the forehead — an innocent joy which showed that man was made for natural happiness. The women grew silent as I came down the steps, carrying the silks and muslin in my silver plate, with attar-bottles, sandal- sticks, flowers. Then everybody burst out laughing. ‘What a hoary Head of the Family!’ Aunt Sita said; ‘He looks more the bridegroom than the other.’ Little Mother gave her such a look.
The music started; on the other street gunfire went off; the vulgar brass band started playing some military march, with Indian-style music being piped amidst, in between and behind it all; and when the procession turned into our street and I stood under the pandal, awaiting to honour the bridegroom, I looked up at the house. It was absolutely silent: Saroja’s window was closed. By now the Brahmins had raised their voices; they were powerful and magical, the hymns. It was such a long time since I had heard them. I threw flowers to the bridegroom, spread sweet-scented perfumes on his clothes, gave him honey and milk and melted butter to taste — I dipped my jasmine in silver cups and placed it on his outstretched tongue — sprinkled him with rose-water, and anointed him with kunkum and turmeric; I begged him in melodious Sanskrit, repeating syllable by syllable what the Brahmins enunciated, to marry my sister and found a hearth and household. He agreed nobly on his horse, and the women sang hymns of victory, of joy:
Why, O Lord of Brindavan, O Krishna,
O Why, but in compassion didst thou stray amidst us.
O Son of Janaki?
O thou beloved of Radha, beautiful.
The horse was splendid — it seemed to understand songs in Kannada and hymns in Sanskrit. The music moved on. I led the procession, and it went through the dust of the evening, the beauty of cooled summer streets, round the Hyder Ali Road, Mohammed Bagh, Residency Corner, Mahatma Gandhi Main-Road, and round about the clock-tower to the Hanuman temple. I was not feeling well. I did not go up to the temple. ‘Uncle Seetharamu,’ I said, ‘my chest is giving me some trouble. Do you mind if I slip out? Don’t frighten anyone. Say I have gone home to get something.’
‘Oh, one can’t say that? It’s too inauspicious a thing to do.’
‘Then, Uncle Seetharamu, I’ll sit in one of the waiting cars.’
I slipped into Dr Sunadaram’s car; the old ladies and pregnant women were all huddled together, but they made space for me, and I sat there breathing with some difficulty. Haemoglobules after all have their own laws. I was choking, but I was the head of the family. Little Mother looked so happy: Sukumari was bright and full of fun.
It seemed an epoch before the procession came down the hill. ‘Here is some coffee for you.’ Uncle Seetharamu slipped in to warm me up. ‘I cannot give you anything stronger in front of everyone.’ I did not want anything stronger; the coffee revived me. The procession started moving again. People, common people, gathered on both sides of the street to see us pass by. How many women looked enviously at us! They had also known this, and their daughters would soon know it too. The bridegroom in his grey-green achkan, a necklace of diamonds on his chest, looked a prince. He threw two-anna pieces and four-anna pieces that his elder brother gave him — for the bridegroom’s father was dead— and the streets were smelling of flowers. When the procession turned into the bridegroom’s street, Uncle Seetharamu said, ‘Now, you can give us the slip. But come back quickly.’ A car was waiting for me on a side street; I jumped into it and went home. The whole garden was brightly lit, and was still smelling of flowers and sandal-stick. The servants and Tiger were all at the door, trying to see the procession come back. I bade them stand where they were and went in. But Tiger followed me into the veranda. The house seemed so lonely, so full of its own laral presence. For the first time I wept for Father. And Tiger went back to see the procession.
After a wash and a rest I went up the staircase slowly. ‘Saroja,’ I whispered, ‘Saroja, open the door.’
‘Is it you, Ramanna,’ she cried, as though something untoward had happened.
‘Yes, open the door,’ I begged. She was in the same sari as when I had left her, but there was no flower in her hair. She seemed to have had a wash lately, for her side locks were combed down and wet.
‘Brother, what has happened to you? You look so pale.’
‘Oh, nothing; it’s just that I am a little unwell.’
‘Lie down, Brother,’ she said, so very tenderly, and made me stretch myself on her bed. She took a fan and began fanning me. It was cool as I lay.
‘What is it you are reading?’ I asked, seeing a book half- open by my face on the pillow.