III
The cottage Suraj Prakash had rented for his wife in the mountains was a pleasant one, with a pointed roof, and a glassed-in front veranda. It was high on the hillside, with a grand view of the valley in front, and washed with cool, bright sun during the day. There were deodar trees, thick and fragrant in the back garden, and blue and pink hydrangea bushes down the path leading to the front door.
Virmati quickly settled into housekeeping for her mother. Compared to her duties at home, her work here with one baby and one mother was comparatively light. She had never had Kasturi so much to herself, and was jealous of each moment with her. The best time was the morning havan. In the clear, chilly greyness of five o’clock, before Paro woke, they sat in front of the tiny prayer fire, their chanting the only noise in the house, the yellow-orange flames the only colour. Unlike Amritsar, there was no reason to be distracted from the peace that both mother and daughter felt as they finished praying and sat watching the small, moving glow of the twigs in the havan kund.
*
At other times, Virmati’s attempts to spin webs of love through her devotion were met by exasperation. Kasturi was not used to so much solicitude.
Towards the evening it often rained. Trapped in the house, Virmati mooned about restlessly, hanging about her mother, playing with the baby, fidgeting with some knitting as she looked out of the window.
‘Viru, at least don’t ruin whatever knitting I am trying to do,’ said Kasturi tartly one evening, ‘Why can’t you make yourself useful? There is so much sewing to be done for the baby. There are sweaters to be made for the other children. It’s a shame that your hands are idle.’
‘I’m tired of knitting and sewing,’ flared Virmati. ‘Besides, I’m here to look after you.’
‘I can look after myself.’
‘Why did you bring me if you don’t need me, Mati?’ said Virmati, with a thick lump in her throat.
‘What is all this nonsense? In Amritsar you were bad-tempered because you were busy and tired, here you are bad-tempered because you are idle,’ retorted Kasturi.
‘Maybe I should go back to Amritsar. Pitaji can take me the next time he comes.’
The language of feeling had never flowed between them, and this threat was meant to express all her thwarted yearnings.
‘Maybe you should,’ said Kasturi crossly. Why was her daughter so restless all the time? In a girl, that spelt disaster.
Virmati left raging. Why was saying anything to her mother so difficult? Maybe it was best to keep silent.
*
Back in Amritsar, Kasturi’s residence in Dalhousie occupied much of Lajwanti’s thoughts. She had never seen anybody fussed over as much as that woman. She, too, had been sick after her miscarriages. Had the family offered to send her to the mountains? To her mother’s? Anywhere?
‘See how they are all running around like mad people between Amritsar and Dalhousie,’ she remarked to her husband as he lay on the takht in the angan, having his feet pressed by her.
Chander Prakash twitched his head, but the silence continued.
‘How irresponsible to expect to be pampered like this,’ persisted Lajwanti. ‘Really, some women have no sense. They behave without thinking. I never let my ailments disturb anyone. Only God knew how I suffered.’
Silence. Lajwanti pressed harder to jog her husband’s mind a bit. His eyes remained closed.
‘Your poor brother,’ she proceeded, ‘going every month to Dalhousie. In fixing his wife’s health he will ruin his own. All the burden of running the shop falls on you while he is away, but you are a saint and will never say anything about your own condition. Where do we, and our two children, stand in front of that woman, and her eleven children?’
Chander Prakash muttered something unintelligible, and Lajwanti brooded over the strain of softness that ran through the men in her in-law’s family. Every month her poor brother-in-law made the long trip to Dalhousie. Train to Pathankot, tonga up, money, time and worry, all indulged in so frequently, what good could come of this? As for the children, she was fed up with their wild ways. Last night the cinema chowkidar brought one of the boys home on his shoulders. He had paid an anna to be let in, and had then fallen asleep in the theatre. And where had he found an anna to waste? She resolved to go with Suraj Prakash on his next visit, and let Kasturi know how matters stood. Her policy had always been to be frank and open.
She approached her brother-in-law that evening. ‘Praji,’ she began as she handed him his glass of milk, ‘I worry about Pabiji. That my sister-in-law should do without her family at a time like this! There she is, with just Viru to look after her,
bap
re
. We forget that Viru is still a child. But sitting here, what can I do? I feel so helpless, Praji. I must go with you next time in order to relieve her. I know how you worry, merely once a month as you see her. With an elderly woman staying there, you will get peace of mind.’
*
The cottage Lajwanti saw in Dalhousie increased her concern. She must stay as long as possible, to assist the invalid on her road to recovery. Besides, she herself also needed some rest occasionally.
Suraj Prakash had written to Kasturi about Lajwanti’s anxiety about her health, and Kasturi had known that her sister-in-law had come to claim her own share of her lengthy stay at the hill station. She did not mind. Only Virmati objected, with a fierceness that she concealed by a great show of hospitality, and a refusal to let her tai help with Paro in any way.
‘Beti, I am here now, you rest,’ said Lajwanti frequently to her niece.
‘No, no, Taiji. You are here for a holiday‚’ said Virmati.
‘What holiday is it for you, beti, with your mother so sick and needing constant care.’
Virmati was offended by this implication of herself as a pleasure-loving female, and did not reply. If Lajwanti was offended by her niece’s rudeness, she hid this fact. She did not want to initiate a longish stay, in a house her brother-in-law was paying for, with a quarrel.
IV
Lajwanti stayed and stayed. She wrote to her daughter in Lahore. She too must come and visit – the climate was so nice, the house big enough, of course your cousin and aunt will be delighted, and you too, my child, need rest, you work so hard.
She then broke the news to Kasturi and Virmati. Kasturi said what was required of her, Shakuntala was family, the house was hers, etc. Virmati asked listlessly, ‘How is Shaku Pehnji doing?’ And, since she was annoyed with her aunt, added with a touch of viciousness, ‘It will be so nice to see her, because when she settles down, we will meet her even less than we do now.’
Normally few dared to mention Shakuntala’s unmarried state, each remark was such an insult to the mother.
‘How can anyone see her when she has no time? Such a talented teacher, so popular, what an inspiring example she is for the younger ones‚’ declared Lajwanti, about achievements she herself had never understood or cared for.
‘Still, it is the duty of every girl to get married‚’ remarked Kasturi mildly.
‘She lives for others, not herself, but what to do, everybody in our family is like that. And with all this reading-writing, girls are getting married late. It is the will of God‚’ concluded Lajwanti aggressively.
*
Shakuntala came, very different from the thin sallow creature she had been in Amritsar.
‘I hope I am not disturbing your convalescence, Chachi‚’ she said teasingly to her aunt.
‘Beti‚’ said Kasturi, in a mock scolding voice, ‘how can family disturb? You are getting very modern in your thinking. We hardly get to see you as it is.’
‘What to do, Chachi? These colleges really make you work.’
‘
Hai
re
, beti! What is the need to do a job? A woman’s shaan is in her home. Now you have studied and worked enough. Shaadi.’ Here Kasturi’s eyes glistened with emotion. ‘After you get married, Viru can follow.’
At this entry into the hackneyed territory of shaadi, Shakuntala winced.
‘Now Chachi,’ she said, playfully, ‘you know Viru doesn’t have to wait for me.’
Kasturi knew of course. There was no question of the line being held up. Six girls to marry was not a joke, and nobody could help those who missed their destiny.
‘Another word about shaadi,’ continued Shakuntala, ‘and I’m going back to Lahore.’
Kasturi laughed indulgently while Lajwanti sniffed disapprovingly in the background. ‘When will this girl settle down?’ she asked rhetorically. ‘All the time in the lab, doing experiments, helping the girls, studying or going to conferences. I tell her she should have been a man.’
Virmati, looking at her glamorous cousin, marvelled at the change Lahore had wrought in her. What did it matter that Shakuntala’s features were not good? She looked better than merely pretty. She looked vibrant and intelligent, as though she had a life of her own. Her manner was expansive, she didn’t look shyly around for approval when she spoke or acted.
Her dress too had changed from her Amritsar days. When they went visiting she wore her saris in Parsi-style, as Shakuntala called it, with the palla draped over her right shoulder. The saris were of some thin material, foreign, with a woven silk border sewn onto them. The blouses were of the same thin material, with loose sleeves to the elbows. She wore her hair with a side parting, smoothed over her ears into a bun at the back. Her shoes were black, shiny, patent leather with high heels. Her jewellery consisted of a strand of pearls, a single gold bangle on one arm, and a large man’s watch on the other.
‘She’s become a mem,’ Kasturi said disapprovingly. ‘Study means developing the mind for the benefit of the family. I studied too, but my mother would have killed me if I had dared even to want to dress in anything other than was bought for me.’
Virmati listened, thrilled to be her mother’s confidante, but drawn towards Shakuntala, to one whose responsibilities went beyond a husband and children.
The cousins were taking an evening walk. ‘These people don’t really understand Viru, how much satisfaction there can be in leading your own life, in being independent. Here we are, fighting for the freedom of the nation, but women are still supposed to marry, and nothing else.’
‘But everybody knows how they also go to jail with Gandhiji, don’t they, Pehnji?’ contradicted Virmati timidly.
‘
And
conduct political meetings, demonstrate, join rallies. I wish you could see what all the women are doing in Lahore. But for my mother, marriage is the only choice in life. I so wish I could help her feel better about me.’
The setting sun was colouring the snow on the distant mountains of the Dauladhar range, Paro was looking bright-eyed and kicking her legs in her pram, but for Virmati her cousin’s words were the most vivid thing on the horizon.
‘My friends are from different backgrounds, and all have families unhappy with their decision not to settle down, as they call it,’ continued Shakuntala. ‘We travel, entertain ourselves in the evenings, follow each other’s work, read papers, attend seminars. One of them is even going abroad for higher studies.’
‘I want to be like you, Pehnji,’ blurted Virmati. ‘If there are two of us, then they will not mind so much.’
‘Silly,’ said Shakuntala, stopping in the middle of the path. She turned Virmati’s face to her, caressed the flushed cheek and tucked the loose strands of hair on either side behind the ears. ‘Chachi will say I am a bad influence on you.’
‘No, no really,’ said Virmati, catching her hand. Maybe here was the clue to her unhappiness. It was useless looking for answers inside the home. One had to look outside. To education, freedom, and the bright lights of Lahore colleges.
Through the ensuing days Virmati followed Shakuntala around. She watched her ride horses, smoke, play cards and badminton, act without her mother’s advice, buy anything she wanted without thinking it a waste of money, casually drop in on all the people the family knew. Above all, she never seemed to question or doubt herself in anything.
And suddenly Shakuntala’s infrequent visits home changed their complexion. No longer was she the poor, unmarried, elder cousin, who didn’t come because she was hiding her face in shame. She didn’t come because the glamorous life of metropolitan Lahore was such that she couldn’t tear herself away. Besides, it was easier for her in Lahore than in Amritsar, which represented endless prospective bridegrooms, their money and family histories. And more recently represented the lack of bridegrooms, and her mother’s conviction of her doom.
When it came time for Shakuntala to leave, Virmati clung to her. ‘Maybe I will also one day come to Lahore, Pehnji,’ she wept. ‘I wish I too could do things. But I am not clever –’
‘
Arre,’
exclaimed her cousin patting her on the back, ‘times are changing, and women are moving out of the house, so why not you?’
Why not, indeed, thought Virmati, looking at her, almost breathless with admiration and love.
V
Shakuntala’s visit planted the seeds of aspiration in Virmati. It was possible to be something other than a wife. Images of Shakuntala Pehnji kept floating through her head, Shakuntala Pehnji who having done her M.Sc. in Chemistry, had gone about tasting the wine of freedom. Wine, whereas all Virmati had ever drunk had been creamy milk in winter, designed to deaden the senses with its richness, and frothy cool lassi with its lacy bubbles in summer. No, she too had to go to Lahore, even if she had to fight her mother who was so sure that her education was practically over.
So far, not much attention had been paid to Virmati’s education. As a child she had been sent, a ten-minute walking distance, to the Arya Kanya Mahavidyalaya, situated in a gully so narrow that, with the drains on either side, it took one person, single file. The school was a single set of rooms around a courtyard, with a dark bathroom in a corner. Every morning at nine, the school maidservant collected Virmati from her house, along with others who lived in that area.
The Arya Kanya Mahavidyalaya believed in grinding the essential rituals of life into their pupils’ consciousness by daily example. Every morning started with prayer. Virmati loved sitting with her fellow pupils around the fire, chanting the hymns she had grown up hearing her mother say. She loved the sense of harmony she had when they all tossed havan samagri into the fire with the thumb and middle two fingers of their right hand, the feeling of peace that being away from the home and its children brought.
Once she finished Class VIII, Virmati had been sent for higher studies to Stratford College in the Civil Lines, double-storeyed, red-brick, gardened, with gracefully arched corridors. The first class she had to join was the special class for those girls weak in English. After that, classes IX and X, and then two years to get a Fine Arts degree. And then marriage, said the elders. Thirteen-year-old Virmati listened and felt the thrill of those approaching rites.
But now, sitting in Dalhousie, with only her FA exams to be taken for her education to be over, she began to feel she had not taken the whole process of learning seriously enough. Really, it was the key to – what? She was not sure, but from now on she must work hard, she must practise her English. She could hear her mother telling her not to waste her time, there were more important things to do. Like looking after the children, thought Virmati bitterly, and then, as she thought of Paro’s clinging arms around her neck, she began to cry.
*
Virmati returned to Amritsar with her father. It was obvious that her family didn’t wish her to be further educated. Her future lay in her own hands. But eight months in the hills had made a difference, notwithstanding her diligent attempts to study while looking after her mother. Her English had become rusty. When her mother returned from Dalhousie, Paro, now walking and not considered a baby any longer, became more than ever her care. The other children were constantly demanding.
‘Viru Pehnji, we need more sugar and flour. You’ll have to unlock the storeroom again.’
‘Viru Pehnji, must I take this medicine?’
‘Pehnji, she hit me, and took my book!’
‘It’s really mine! Bade Pitaji gave it to me!’
‘Viru! Vidya is crying!’
‘Pehnji! The uncle in school said to tell you Gopi hasn’t done his homework for a month!’
Such statements provided the background chorus of her education, and formed her character even more surely than any book might have done.
Eventually Virmati failed her FA. The struggle to do well in school while doing her duties at home was too much. With tears in her eyes, Virmati stared at the bulletin board. Higher education involved being on one’s own. At the Mahavidyalaya, the teacher would pay a visit home if a student was not doing well. There would be hospitality offered, respect shown, slowly the topic would be raised, and dealt with, in the same tactful manner. Here, everything was hard, cold and impersonal.
‘Mati,’ she said to her mother that evening, ‘I’ve failed.’
‘I told you it was too much for you‚’ said her mother, busy feeding the younger children.
‘It’s not too much for me,’ protested Virmati. ‘Not if I have time to study.’
‘Ever since we’ve come back, you have been making difficulties,’ said Kasturi crossly. ‘You had the kotha storeroom to study in during your exams, and still you fuss. When Shaku used to study there she never complained.’
‘Mati, that was long ago. There were hardly any children playing on the roof then. Now the boys fly kites all evening, then they splash water about from the pump, screaming throughout. Even the neighbour’s children jump over their wall to our side. Why can’t they stay in their own house?’
‘Since when have you been so particular about theirs and ours?’
‘Yes, but they all dance on my head. Any quarrel and they come to me, any crying or hurt and they come to me. It never ends.’
‘Leave your studies if it is going to make you so bad-tempered with your family. You are forgetting what comes first.’
‘Is that what I am saying? When Paro comes to the kotha, and wants to join the other children, I leave everything only to make sure she does not fall or hurt herself.’
‘Now you are complaining about your sister.’
‘I’m not! Please, Mati, remember how hard Shakuntala Pehnji studied. She did so well her teacher in Lahore asked her to stay and teach when she finished her degree. Her mother understood‚’ said Virmati, not daring to be more direct.
‘Now it is you who are eating my head. What good are Shaku’s degrees when she is not settled. Will they look after her when she is old?’ demanded Kasturi irritably. ‘At your age I was already expecting you, not fighting with my mother.’
Kasturi found the fuss Virmati was making about failing unreasonable. It hardly made a difference to the real business of her life, which was getting married and looking after her own home. There was a good Samaji family making enquiries. The boy was a canal engineer and doing well. His aunt lived in Amritsar and she was getting quite persistent. She was sure Virmati’s grandfather would approve of the boy’s background.
Virmati was over seventeen by this time. She had a long, fine face with large, widely spaced eyes, eyes with a dazed and distant look. Her nose was thin and straight, her colour pale as the inside of a banana stalk. Her lips were full and a natural red, her chin small and rounded. She was short-sighted, and didn’t notice when people looked admiringly at her.