Raja Rao - The Serpent and the Rope

But I, too, was happy in these south Indian surroundings. Since I left for Europe, I had never had an opportunity to live with other Indian families. We played — Kaumudi, Lakshamma, Little Mother and I — country chess that afternoon. In the morning Mother and I went down to the Triveni for the ceremonies and later I showed her Ananda Bhavan. 2One day I took her to the Museum.

It must have been on the second or third evening of our arrival, while sitting in the drawing room and reading some book on Mathematics — for I had my father’s interest as well — something happened which was to change the whole perspective of my life. Venktaraman came from the university club, bringing along a former student of his, Pratap Singh, to the house. Pratap Singh, as I was soon to learn, had been a very bright student at Osmania University. He had taken English Honours, and indeed did so well that Venktaraman had given him special coaching for the I. C. S.

Pratap was a posthumous son — his family were jagirdars of Mukthapuri in Aurangabad District. Of a melancholy temperament, Pratap at least wished to brighten other people’s lives. So he worked hard to brighten his mother’s solitary existence. He sat for the examination but the competition was too severe: they took only seven Indians that year, and he was but the twenty-sixth or twenty-seventh on the list. The British Resident, however, immediately recommended him for nomination into the Political Services. He was a Raja Sahib of sorts; besides, he was such a clever lad, and the family had always been loyal to the Crown. He was of course chosen, and was sent over to England, being one of the last batch of civil servants to do this. His mother was so happy she went to live with her daughter in Parbhani.

One thing, however, remained to be done. If only the boy could be affianced, of course on his return, to the right party, then even if his mother should die before her time, she would breathe her last with peace in her soul. Pratap not only came from an ancient, if impoverished, family — they only owned some six or seven villages now — he also had a certain gravity of bearing. He was naturally virtuous. He was steady, and he was devoted.

That the choice should fall on the daughter of Raja Raghubir Singh of Surajpur — on the daughter who has just been sent to Europe for her education — seemed neither strange nor impossible. That the Raja Sahib was a tyrant and even his servants were afraid to go anywhere near him, made no difference to the choice. On the contrary, having such a manly father — he had once tied one of his servants to a pillar and given him such a licking that his wounds took a month to heal in hospital — all this made the marriage even more desirable. A manly father has a gentle daughter always. Her mother was the gentlest of creatures, ever bent over her Ramayana and Gita. Her fasts and kirtans were known everywhere. She had lost a young son, her firstborn, while she was only eighteen — and it had given her such a shock that nobody had heard her speak a loud word or seen her make a quick gesture the many long years since. Dignified in carriage, she was a contrast to the whip-bearing, paan-spitting father, who was known to have other and more common vices. But music is, after all, as much mine as yours, and if dancing girls are more learned in the art the fault is not theirs but that of our own women!

Savithri, for that was the daughter’s name, was the eldest. She was sent to England as soon as the war was over, with the Lord Sahib’s own recommendation. And so to be eventually married to a civil servant would be no real humiliation, even if the young man did not come from so good a family. After all to be in the Political Services was to belong to the most exclusive cadres of the Government of India: you were not quite an Englishman or a Maharaja, but about equidistant from both, and sometimes superior, because you played polo. You ruled Maharajas, who ruled Indians, and the British received you at the Club. Thus an Assistant Resident was still a highly respected party in the marriage market of north India. The British Governor’s presence, music and a few Maharajas, would do the trick in the end. And then Pandit Nehru could pat his bald pate as long as he liked. And hurrah for the Congress Raj!

The story is too long to relate. Sufficient that the girl did not agree. She came home on holiday and was shown him, and he her — and she suggested he marry Pushpavathi, her younger sister. It was nevertheless agreed that the engagement would be between Pratap and Savithri, for Savithri was still very young and she might yet change her mind. If in a few years she did not, Pushpavathi would certainly be ready to marry him. Pushpavathi did not care for her studies anyway, and she longed for a large family and a good mother-in-law. Pratap’s mother actually liked the second daughter, but the first was the girl Pratap chose, and on the auspicious star, with coconut and kunkum, Savithri was officially engaged to Pratap. There were drumbeats and a lot of music. The best dancing girls had come from Lucknow, Rampur, and Benares, and the Raja Sahib of Surajpur had special illumination arranged on the dome of the palace. Guns popped off announcing the fiançailles and some ten soldiers of the army, for that was what protocol permitted, marched in front of the palace. Horses and elephants were adorned; the temple of Amba Devi was lit with a thousand lights. Even the children at the local school were given sweets. Altogether it was a splendid occasion for all concerned.

When the family came back to their city home in Allahabad the girl refused to see Pratap. She said it was just her official engagement: nothing had been promised and nothing would ever take place. She had, besides, an aversion to British rule in India, and though Britain was giving up India, in Great Britain the mood had not changed. That Pratap had served the British so faithfully during the terrible war years was a point against him. There was no question of marriage. Months had passed since then, and there had been no letter from her. When she came back again from Cambridge she still said she would not see him. It was here that I was to come in and unweave the whole mystery. Why did she not want to see him? Why?

Living in Europe as I did, and having a French wife, seemed in their eyes to give me some special privilege in the understanding of love, which I did not, of course, possess. But when Pratap invited me over with him to the Raja Sahib’s house I, who hate all this decayed and false modernity of our small Rajas and Maharajas, went with some apprehension. That the whole set-up of Kumara Villa was in the bad taste I had anticipated did not surprise me. It is often difficult to be wrong about modern India. The crust is so superficial — it lies about everywhere but you can remove it, even with a babul thorn.

The Rani Saheba received us in one of those modern drawing rooms hung with huge oil portraits of British ex-Governors and sundry Maharajas. There were a few Ravi Varma lithographs on the walls, too, with paper flowers round them. There were three tiger skins, one of them almost a nine-footer that the Raja Sahib had killed in Kumaoan, and there were English-speaking servants. The tea-set was suburban, the English babu — English, and then came Savithri. There was nothing in her round, almost plump face and her thick spectacles to show but the most ordinary upper-middle-class Indian. Apart from France, and all that, the fact that I was a Brahmin by birth and a south Indian seemed to have given me a natural superiority. Though Pratap was at least four or five years my senior he fumbled at every step and looked up to me for explanation and support. It seemed that even if my father’s death had served for nothing else, it would serve to bring Pratap and Savithri together.