‘Do you suffer much, Brother?’ she asked. ‘But your breathing seems more normal today.’ Her voice was light, clear, and like a child’s — simple. She stood a long while, playing with my hair. Then suddenly, as though she had taken courage in her heart, she came in front of me; her peacock-blue sari, her gold— serpent belt, her diamond earrings, the turmeric on her face, the mango-gold necklace, gave her a sense of the important, of the inevitable. Her eyes were long and dark, but she closed them, folded her hands, knelt and touched my feet and begged: ‘Brother, bless me. I need only your tender hands, your firm protective hands over my head.’
She lay long thus, without a sob, a movement. Then she rose and stood in front of me. What deep maturity had come into her young face. She smiled as though I was the one she was sorry for. ‘Brother, I shall bring but a fair name to the household. Do not worry.’ Slowly and respectfully, she slipped out of the room to the sanctuary.
I had hardly time to wipe my tears when Uncle Seetharamu came shouting from the gate, ‘Rama, Rama,’ and I gladly went to the ‘other house’ with him. Sukumari stayed back with her sister. What a magnificent assembly it was, with elders, lawyers, ministers, the wives of the Secretaries and Under-Secretaries of State, of professors, and Raja Sahibs — it was a grand marriage. I was given the seat opposite the fire, a little to one side. How I longed for the golden, the venerable visage of Grandfather Kittanna; but he was no more. Lord, how men live and how men ‘die’…
The Brahmins were happy to see me. No sooner had I come than their voices went higher and yet higher. Old friends of my father came to greet me, to ask news of me. I could see some of my father’s old servants too, who bowed low to me, turban, uniform, and all. The sacrificial fire burnt, and there — the ghee was poured, and then the milk, the curd, the honey. ‘Agneya namohoam… Svaha…’ and how much sacredness it brought to my heart. I, too, had become sacred with this sacredness. Meanwhile Sukumari brought kunkum and put a large tilak on my forehead. The bridegroom looked virtuous and obedient, and there was a lustre on his somewhat commonplace features. His family was happy — he was their best-educated brother and nephew, and it was, they were sure, a very good match. The hymns rose higher and more anguished. Uncle Seetharamu disappeared, and returned from the back door. ‘She’s come,’ he said, whispering in my ear. The bridegroom stood up this time, and Saroja appeared from behind me, serious, auspicious, and firm. The wedding curtain-cloth went up, and Uncle Seetharamu held Saroja from the back of her waist. Her black bangles broke under their own pressure. The kunkum-rice got warmed in our hands. Flowers were being distributed.
A thousand eyes hath man (Purusha)
A thousand eyes, a thousand feet.
On every side pervading earth
He fills a space ten-fingers wide.
This Purusha is all that hath been
And all that is to be, the Law of Immortality.
When the gods prepared
The sacrifice
With Purusha as their offspring
Its oil was spring,
The holy gift was autumn,
Summer was the wood.
Saroja put the garland round Subramanya’s neck. Little Mother was sobbing away in the corner. Sukumari joined her. Then the aunts and the great-aunts wiped their tears. I just closed my eyes. Saroja was gone from our household.
I am He,
Thou art She,
I am the Harmony,
Thou the Words.
I am the Sky
Thou art Earth,
Let us twain become One
Let us bring forth offspring.
Even I threw flowers and kunkum-rice on the bridal couple. Happiness is a question of determination. You can be happy when you want to be happy; it is a question of haemoglobules, maybe. Happiness is in a husband, a home, children. After all, where would Saroja go?
Seven times she went round the fire making saptapadi, seven times taking the names of my ancestors Ramakrishnayya, and Ranganna, Madhavaswamy, Somasundarayya, Sanjeevayya, and Ramachandrayya, and seven times she changed her name, that she might belong where she was going. The fire burnt, the ghee went in, the flames purred and rose and asked for more. Perfume was distributed to the guests. The tali was touched by the elders first, then by the great, and then by all of us. The bridegroom tied it round Saroja’s neck. ‘She looked a Lakshmi,’ said Aunt Subbakka to me.
Music went up, and it was wonderful, for piper Siddayya had come from Madras especially for the marriage. The women sang songs of blessing while coconuts were being distributed. Little Mother gathered the gold jewels, saris, silver plates, and silver vessels, as the name of each donor went up and came down according to Sanskrit rhythm. There was joy in the atmosphere. People in the pandal started smoking. They came, the visitors, one by one to press my hands, and tell me what a wonderful son I was of my father. ‘You will soon be our colleague,’ added some professors. ‘How long to do you stay on in India?’ others asked.
Cars came to take them away, guest after guest — turbans, sashes, upper clothes, wristwatches, canes, pumps, coloured handkerchiefs, garlands — they all disappeared. The bicycle- rickshaws clamoured with their unholy bells and somewhere a horse neighed. Tiger stood at the door, as if he were counting the guests, and would go and tell Father in the other world. Meanwhile the musicians had to be paid, and the taxis were asking higher rates for overwork. The milk for the khir had been spoilt. The procession this evening had to change its route— nobody had realized you should never go south first. ‘Some ignorant females must have advised such an inauspicious thing,’ Uncle Seetharamu concluded. I was exhausted. Slowly I rose up and went in. There was a divan meant for the bridegroom to recline on in between the ceremonies: Uncle Seetharamu took me to it and asked me to lie down. Sukumari stood by me, fanning me with a large, decorated palm-leaf fan. It was cool. I could smell sandal paste all over the house. Jasmine garlands were hanging just behind me. ‘It’s too strong a smell for me. Could you put them away somewhere, please,’ I asked. The flowers were removed, and from the kitchen came the noise of cooking laddus. They smelt delightful.