Raja Rao - Collected Stories

‘Well, Ramu, my son,’ went on Nanjundayya with indefatigable patience, ‘anyway, I shall look for a suitable bride for you. And when you are back you will tell me your decision. There’s no hurry — not the least. You understand, my son. This poor Nanjundayya will always be the same old chap, tender, generous and paternal, and he only wishes one thing, and that is Ramu’s happiness.’ His lips trembled, and his eyelids gently closed with emotion.

‘May your blessings be on me. I promise you again, I will think it over.’

They had now finished their coffee. Nanjundayya went to the counter, paid the bill, and joined Ramu on the steps. Ramu was happy to be going home. He was glad of the treat, but now he had to go and work. So, turning to Nanjundayya, he said, ‘Well, when shall we see each other next?’

‘Why, Ramu!’ exclaimed Nanjundayya anxiously, ‘surely you do not want to disappear so soon! I want so much to take you home and show you to my wife and children. You must see them, my son, you must.’

‘Please do excuse me, do. I shall surely come and see you before I leave for Hariharapura. But not today. . ’

Nanjundayya looked embarrassed. What the devil could one do with such a boy?

‘Anyhow,’ he said after a moment’s reflection, ‘you go by Dodpet, don’t you? I go the same way. So can we go together?’

‘Most willingly,’ answered Ramu amiably, and they hurried along the busy Chickpet. When they were at the Dodpet corner, Nanjundayya suddenly stopped, his hand upon his forehead, looking irritated, restless and confused.

‘My son, my son,’ he cried out helplessly, ‘I am awfully sorry. I had completely forgotten that I had an engagement at six with a friend. I am really sorry. Would you mind coming with me for a few minutes — just here, in the Potter’s Street — and I will see you home? Unless. . ’

‘Of course I can do that,’ answered Ramu. But what a curse!

They walked on silently for some time. Nanjundayya still looked greatly annoyed, and now and again he would unconsciously stop for a few seconds as though thinking over something, and suddenly turn to Ramu, force a smile and ask to be excused for this irritating delay. He had lost his vigorous gesticulations and his bubbling gaiety. But Ramu was much too lost in his examination worries to think about the old man’s moods. They were soon in the New Market Square, and slipping through one of the side streets, they arrived in a narrow, quiet lane.

‘Thank God!’ exclaimed Nanjundayya, ‘we are out of that noise and stink. Well, Ramu, you are going to see one of my very best friends. Vishweshwarayya was a class-fellow of mine. From an ordinary constable he rose to be the Director-General of Police, all by sheer intelligence and courage. You will see for yourself what a simple, generous, unassuming man he is. He simply loves me. He does!’ Nanjundayya’s enthusiasm seemed less brilliant and he spoke in a mechanical staccato. ‘He retired some years ago, and now what do you think, Ramu, he is one of the richest and most powerful men in this city. He has four sons-in-law, and all in responsible posts, entirely due to his influence. There is no Minister, Ramu, there is, I tell you, no Minister who does not go to consult him and ask his advice on the most important affairs of the State. . And yet you will see what an honest, respectful and loving man he is. . ’ Ramu was a little tired of all this. He was thinking of his room, books and examinations. But the old man continued, ‘You will see all that for yourself. I’m sure you will.’

They slipped again into a smaller lane and were soon in a narrow square, where among mud-walled houses there rose a two-storeyed bungalow, with a balcony, curtained windows and a large garden of mango and guava trees.

‘That is the house,’ said Nanjundayya, pointing towards the bungalow. ‘You will see how very fashionably it is furnished. All in modern style; All. . ’ They were at the gate. Nanjundayya opened the door as though it were his own house. And when they were halfway up the main drive, Vishweshwarayya himself came down to meet them. He was tall, and his navy-blue suit in European style shone like sapphire with the evening sun. He had a very amiable smile upon his face and his voice was deep, deferential. Thanking Ramu for having honoured him with this visit, he led them to the drawing-room. Nanjundayya was silent now, and looked more annoyed than ever. What after all was this, thought Ramu. But Vishweshwarayya kept him so busy with questions — what subjects he had chosen for his degree, where he lived, and how long he intended to stay in Bangalore — that Ramu had hardly any time to think. Somehow he felt uneasy. Besides, this beautiful drawing-room in European-style lamp-shades with birds on them, vases with artificial flowers, velveteen carpets on the floor, and magnificent gilt-framed pictures of the English countryside — all this so bewildered him that he felt confused and lost. Suddenly the door opened, and a charming girl of eleven or twelve, dressed in a gorgeous Dharmawar sari of blue and gold, entered with a silver plate full of fruits and cakes and glasses of coffee, and placing it on the table by Ramu, went and sat between her father and Nanjundayya, her hands upon her knees, shyly, awkwardly. There was a crammed silence. Nanjundayya, who had been silent so long, turned dramatically towards Ramu, and roared with victorious laughter. He had won. Ramu sat on his chair, his hairs on end, and feverish with indomitable hatred. Immediately he remembered the cat at the window. It licked its feet, and with quiet, sinuous movements, lifting up the head, glowered at him and fell on the autumn leaves below. In the neighbouring room, his fat landlord, with a large tummy and one eye, sneezed. Once. . Twice?. . No. . Fallen into the trap, thought Ramu. Yes! he had. Would he marry the girl?

My Prince, Royal Prince,

Charming Prince, Eternal Prince,

You are mine and I am yours,

Virtuous and adorable, my Lord, my Husband,

sang up the innocent voice.

I was born in a dharmasala, 1room number one, in (the town) Beautiful, Hassana, whose goddess, the Lady Beautiful, Hassanakamma, saw her devotees only once a year, and again for just nine days, while an ancient worshipper, that lone and cursed girl, because she never did come on appointed time, became a rounded long stone, and you can still see where she started from and where she now is, there, in the large courtyard of the temple, for she goes but the pace of a rice-grain, one rice-grain step a year, so that when she reaches finally the sacred Feet of the Lady Beautiful, not only this town but the whole world will be dissolved, till, when the waters have stayed quiet for Brahma’s requisite aeons (432,000,000 man-years) and the karma of the world, lying asleep for all this while, curled deep under the waters, will wake again, and the world will revolve in its own rhythm, and man and beast will go their own conditioned way, and the Goddess Beautiful too will emerge from the earth, and the accursed girl also will, no doubt, go a single rice-step a year, till the world dissolves once more — unless one goes beyond the real, the mental, the essential, that is, beyond cause and effect, and this one, he, he will have, as you well know, neither birth nor death.

I heard all this, not that I understood it, when I was a boy four or five years of age, my grandfather a convinced Vedantin (from a family that can boast of having been Vedantins at least since the thirteenth century, and again Brahmin advisers to kings, first in Rajputana, another thousand years earlier, and yet again Brahmins to other kings, maybe the Greco-Indian ones in Gandhara, earlier yet — at least such our mythical genealogy tells us) — and my grandfather taught me Amara, that wonderful thesaurus which, like a grave and good Brahmin boy, I had to learn by heart, and thus never have to ask who the Two-Mothered One is, of course he is Ganesha, or Kartikeya, his brother, who of course is Commander-in-chief of all the armies, etc. Life would not be worthwhile if you did not know which God was what, and if you will not have understood that Shiva is so awesome, you could see him only between the two ears of his vehicle, the bull, such as I did every evening at our family temple while the women chanted hymns to Parvathi his bride, so richly adorned in gold, silk, sapphire, ruby, gifts that came from generation after generation of the family. Some kings of Mysore had given us privileges (for carrying the Royal Post, as also collecting the fee when a concubine-girl first ‘tied on her bells’) and thus the lands we had, while the Maharaja of Mysore, when he came to Hassana, had perforce to stop first in front of the Post Office House, which now explains why my mother, not finding enough room in our ancestral home for her lying-in, had to be transported to the dharmasala, room number one, and hence when my father was offering the presented ‘half-cut lemon on the knife’ to His Highness (and this was Krishna Raja Wodeyer, the Vedantin-king), my mother was so vitally shaken she threw me into the world, hence instead of being named Ramakrishna, like my grandfather, I was simply called Raja.