‘Oh, it’s nothing. I was reading The Magic Mountain.’
To this day I know not whether it was The Magic Mountain that did it, or just that the haemoglobules wanted their own release, their own joy, but I sat up and burst my blood all over Saroja’s sari and on the floor. She seemed so courageous, wiping my mouth, rubbing the floor, and gently removing the sheets from my bed; then she went to Father’s cupboard — for this was Father’s room — and gave me some old brandy which nobody had ever touched. It revived me, and when Uncle Seetharamu came, he had only to look and he understood.
‘Poor boy — should the sins of mothers pursue their sons?’ he said, patting me on my forehead. ‘I said you had a mild attack of asthma, when they asked me. Take your time; I shall say the attack is subsiding. The music is growing strong, and it can go on for a long time. One can stretch a raga for hours: I’ll ask Anandi Bai to end her “Bharath Milan” at four in the morning. Good girl you are, Saroja,’ said Uncle Seetharamu, as though he understood everything, ‘to have such a brother.’
I must have gone to sleep for a very long time, because when I opened my eyes I saw Little Mother sitting beside me, fanning. ‘We have no luck, in the family, no luck. To have a beautiful and bright son like you, and to have this. Ah, after that last illness of yours, your father said: He looks just like his mother, Sanna, just like her! He’s frail as an acacia flower.’
Death did not disturb me. But Saroja burst into tears. She said, ‘Brother, promise to come and stay with me. I will look after you.’
I said, ‘I promise.’ It made everybody happy. I think it made me happy, for my breathing became just a little kinder.
Uncle Seetharamu rushed in and said, ‘Don’t you worry, Rama, I’ve arranged it all. I said your air travel had upset you, that you have diarrhoea. That settles everything. Don’t you have diarrhoea tomorrow,’ he added crudely, ‘or I’ll have to produce a commode before everybody, and that’s a damn’ difficult thing.’ He spoke in English and Little Mother did not understand, but the three of us laughed.
‘What a grand person to have about in the marriage house,’ I said, turning to Saroja.
‘All time-servers,’ spat Saroja. ‘When they see you here it’s all milk and sugar-candy, but once you’re out of sight they look at the sky, although we’re standing at eye-level. There’s no love lost between all of us since Father went,’ she added, and we were silent.
Saroja brought bedding from the other room, and laid it on the floor. ‘They say, Brother, I should pray the whole of tonight, What better prayer for me than to look after you. Let us sleep now, and wake me up when you want me. Please do. And to the world, Little Mother, you could say I am in fervent prayer.’
Little Mother was very sad, but she left us. She could not understand this new, university-created world, as she called it. ‘To learn English is easy, it may take only a few years. But to say “Rama-Sita Krishna-Govinda” it takes many lives. The young will never understand,’ she muttered to herself, and left us.
Once or twice when I opened my eyes, Saroja was still at her Thomas Mann. She had washed the blood off the cover, and with the light low she was reading, it seemed to me with interest. I was defeated. I slept.
In the broad morning, as I woke, the house was full of auspicious noises: the musicians were busy with mangalacharanam, and in the bathroom the women were singing away. Saroja was having the lustration of the nine waters, and her young body was being prepared for its ultimate destiny. The fire and incense for drying must have been lit, for I could smell the acridity of incense even upstairs.
‘Baliga,’ I cried, and the servant came running. ‘How is the Master?’ he asked. ‘So often has the Lady of the House come up and gone down, to see if the Master was awake. There is hot water in the bathroom next door. By the time the Master washes his teeth, I will bring up some hot coffee.’
‘Tell Little Mother I am awake and better,’ I said, and went as far as the door to look over the inner courtyard. What blues and greens of saris, what diamonds, rubies and sapphires were seen to glint. And by the tulsi Saroja was drying her spread hair on the fire-basket while the women were busy anointing her with henna and turmeric. Mango-leaves and silver pots were to be seen all over the veranda, and how happy the women looked as they sang:
Laving in the waters of the young stream,
Donning the garments sacramental,
Slowly, ever so silently, adoring Shiva the Lord
She became a spouse, sister.
O, to happy Parvathi,
Raise the censor, wave the kunkum-water,
O holy happiness, forever and ever,
Auspicious happiness be.
The white hibiscus, the garland of round jasmines—
To the parting of the Moon’s hair, Sister,
Pour pearls.
Not my heart, but somehow my belly seemed empty — and I wanted to throw out something again. Children were crying loudly outside and the crows from the coconut tree did not stop their festival. Soon the sun would be hot — and at eleven o’clock the wedding was to be.
When I went in to wash I could see how much blood I had thrown out the night before. I must have thrown much even on Saroja, for her sari stowed away behind the bathtub showed deep red blots. I washed myself with some difficulty, and when I went back to my bed Little Mother was there with the coffee.
‘Oh, I am glad you’re up, Rama,’ she began, ‘You cannot imagine how difficult your sister is. To make her sit or stand you needed a hundred women, to plead, sing paeans and cajole. At last we’d had enough. I sent word to Uncle Seetharamu, and he came and stood there, his tongue like a temple bell; since he’s come, everything has been moving well. It makes all the difference whether there is a man in the house or not.’
Before I had taken two sips of coffee Uncle Seetharamu was there, with his gold-lace upper-cloth round his waist and diamond rings on his fingers; he was clearly feeling very breathless.
‘Wake up and come and help me, Brother,’ he said. ‘We all know you are a delicate, tiptoeing family, but this cajoling and begging — I can’t do it any more. A woman is a woman and she must obey, even if she’s got a first-class university degree. I’ve done my job with Saroja. Now, you take charge of her,’ he begged.
I rose with some difficulty. Baliga brought me my shaving things and hot water for the bath. The music sounded; cars, horse-carriages, bicycles and bicycle-rickshaws came in and went out of the gate; women raised their voices, singing:
And eight are her virtues in which she’s clad, Gauri,
much the prayer that’s gone, that the Lord open the Eye.
I could hear someone come in and say, ‘It’s already half past nine, and nobody is ready. The mohurtham1 is at eleven seventeen.’ I rose and looked at my watch: it was only about nine o’clock. So I washed quickly, had my case sent up, and put on my new dhoti with a red-gold border, my Lucknow waistcoat, and the beautiful shawl Saroja had bought for me, with lacquer-coloured rudrakshi band against a line of fine gold. Sukumari, who came to fetch me, combed my hair and cried: ‘Ramanna, you look so pale — but what a prince!’ And proudly she put her hand in mine, and gently led me down the stairway. She wanted the entire world to see and absorb me.
But the whole house seemed empty by now. The women had all gone to the ‘other house’. Carpets were deranged, flower-garlands were withering in corners, children were asleep on half-open beds, and smells of incense and children’s urine wandered everywhere, with no one to smell them. Even Tiger seemed to have decided to go and smell the marriage-pandal and have a look at the holy Brahmins. I sat in my room and Sukumari said: ‘You cannot imagine how full of auspicious looks Saroja is, Brother. She is beautiful. What a bride! And to think those wretched people will have her.’ And she left me suddenly, as though her words sat in the throat like a gunny- bag-needle. Soon I could hear her whispering away downstairs— perhaps it was to Saroja, for I knew Saroja must be doing her Gauri-puja at the sanctuary. I was afraid someone would come and say, ‘They are all waiting for you. Come, Rama, Come.’ But no one came, and that tumultuous silence was too much for me to bear. I was the younger brother of the world. I tried to tell myself I was the head of the household, and I must be strong. But to give away Saroja — she seemed more like me at moments than my own self. I gathered myself into myself, forced my thoughts out of their orbits, and withdrew into my own inner recesses where peace is like a river in the night, ever present, with fishes, shoals and reefs if you would venture out under the round stars — awake. My illness gave my thoughts strength, no doubt, and I must have gone far deep into myself, for when I awoke I found Saroja’s hand on my head.