Raja Rao - The Serpent and the Rope

‘One day, however, passing travellers brought the news, that the pilgrim was returning to the village — and all with fife and turban, garland, scents, and umbrella, they went to the village-gate. There he was, the returning pilgrim, who had seen the face of Sri Rama. Bright was Ishwara Bhatta’s face like a million suns effulgent, and he had grown neither old nor young, so steady his looks, so kind his eyes. And when Bhagirathi fell at his feet and rose, he said, “Who may’st thou be, Lady?” for so dishevelled was she. And when Brahma Bhatta fell at his father’s feet prostrate and arose, the returning pilgrim said, “Who may’st thou be, sir?” for he had such a stubble beard, and many a tooth had gone, and he was so fibrous. “Father, I’m your son,” said Brahma Bhatta. Ishwara Bhatta was so moved, he wept and said, “Son, how has this become?” And they told him, “This is so, Master of the House; thus it was and thus it is.” And the master of the house said, “I am so sorrowful. Have you told the story of Rama on Saturday?” Then Brahma Bhatta said, “No, Father, when I went to Mother, Mother was busy with the kitchen; and when she came to say, ‘Son, it’s Saturday, the day of the story of Rama,’ I had to go to the collection in the fields. What with this person and that, week after week went by.” And the mother said, “The nine-pillared house is falling, and the cattle all dead. Oh! Oh!” she cried. So Ishwara Bhatta said, “Tchi, Tchi, sinners,” and told them then and there the story of Rama. “Rama, Rama…”

‘And no sooner did he start telling them the story of Rama, than the house rose on its pillars and the granary stood on its four walls; the cattle began to low from the bright-red byre, and there were servants and bailiffs, and the carriage-house full of carriages and chariots. A chariot of four white horses stood at the village-gate, and with music and procession the villagers brought back the returning pilgrim. The son had grown so young to look at, and the wife with marks auspicious of venerable splendour. Then she said, “How is she, my daughter?” And he said, “Oh, they are happy together. I married her off to a worthy ascetic. And they have many children, and a shining house.” The music and four white horses now stood at the door. And thus with many mantras and aspersion ceremonies Ishwara Bhatta, who had seen the face of Sri Rama, returned to his noble nine-pillared house.

‘Rama, Rama, Sri Rama, give us wealth and give us splendour; give us the eight riches auspicious, give us an heir, give us a home and sanctuary, give us earth and gardens; those who go to lands distant, may they return, may the body be firm and innocent; give eyes to the blind, give legs to the lame, give speech to the dumb. Rama, Sri Rama, Rama, give us Thy Holy Presence.’

Little Mother had hardly finished the story of Rama than a car stopped at the door. ‘That must be Saroja,’ whispered Little Mother. She went to open the door, and said, ‘Saroja, I’ll offer you now the best jewel you could ever have at your wedding— the only diamond that’s true.’ When Saroja came in and saw me, tears began to roll down her cheeks, for she thought of Father and not of me. ‘You’ve come to bless me, my brother,’ she said. ‘It’s so large-minded of you to have come.’ And like a child, like a doe in fear, she curled herself and sat against my knee, protected. Little Mother distributed the sugar and Bengal gram and we sat for a silent meal.

Those were days of pain, of such a luminous, nameless pain, but there was no cruelty about it.

Men and women came in and out to decide whether this sari was good or the other, peacock-blue one; whether the opposite party should be given Dharmawaram saris or only cotton Kanchi ones—’And the gold sovereign will do the rest.’ The cooks, fat-bellied, belching, bejewelled, snuff in their palms and money tucked away at their waists, came in to ask if one needed a thousand laddus or a thousand two hundred, and whether the laddus would be for the second day or the third, and whether milk had been ordered for the khir, and saffron, almond, and sugar. The house began to fill increasingly with neighbours making pappadams, the Brahmins came and showed their thirty-two teeth, knowing that now the master of the house was come—’And from London too,’ they said between themselves — there would be nothing lacking in honour and silver. The bamboos for the pandal began to arrive too, ‘Where shall they lay the bamboos, Mother?’ asked Baliga, the servant. ‘Not here, you silly fool. Is there place here to erect a pandal, say? You have them taken to Engineer Shivaram’s house. There you’ll find everybody you need.’

Of course Uncle Seetharamu was there, and my cousins Seetha, Parvathi, Papa, Lakshmidevi, Nanja, Sita, Cauvery, Anandi, Ventalakshmi, Bhagirathi, and Savithri. (This Savithri was a lean and haggard thing, having borne four children in succession, year after year; her belly was round and her breasts indeterminate.) Father’s cousins Ramachandra and Lakshminarayna were there too, gay with laughter, and spontaneous pun. Sanskrit, Kannada, Urdu, Telugu, English, were full of contradictory significances, so a word in this language meant something to me and something quite different to you, and so you laughed. Smutty stories, too, there must have been and many, as the coolies were laying the palm leaves on the roof, and the string was being tied to hold the pillar decorations. Green cloth, with white lilies covered the bamboos, and someone, in patriotism, hung a huge, crude picture of Mahatma Gandhi, paper garland and all, to show our devotion to the Father of the Nation. Nobody had the courage to remove the picture, so we were protected from every form of criticism. Ladies now came in and out of the place, with more and more silk on them, and their gaiety and their fussations were always amusing. The men were good for nothing in these affairs. They would go straight to the kitchen and talk to Little Mother, whether she was praying or feeding, or shut up in the bathroom having a bath, or away in the garden and in some unmentionable place. Fortunately Little Mother had her ‘month’ this time quite early, and as she could not go into the kitchen, she was available to anybody at any time, so the work went on the quicker.

People began to arrive by train. My cousins, Raghu, or Chandu (he who worked in All-India Radio) went to receive them, and the visitors were put up with Sanjivayya or Finance- Officer Sankarnarayan Iyer. Now that the examinations were over, it was a splendid time for the young. Saroja’s joy was golden you would have thought, if you had not known her. But she used to sit by me, as I lay in my room, and I spoke to her of Madeleine and myself, or of Georges and his forthcoming marriage with Catherine, for I talked a great deal. She wished she had been a European woman; it would have given her so much freedom, so much brightness.

‘What freedom?’ I exclaimed. ‘The freedom of foolishness. In what way, Saroja, do you think Catherine or Madeleine is better off than you?’

‘They know how to love.’

‘And you?’

‘And we know how to bear children. We are just like a motorcar or a bank account. Or, better still, we are like a comfortable salary paid by a benign and eternal British Government. Our joy is a treasury receipt.’

‘Oh, it’ll be all right, Saroja. Time and experience soften all things.’

‘But a mother-in-law is a mother-in-law, and she can bring tears to your eyes. And the sisters-in-law, and the brothers-in- law…’

‘Times have changed, Saroja.’

‘Not in India yet — and certainly not among Brahmins. You had better wait till you see my in-laws. They already think I’m a cloth in their wash-basket: they’ll know when to beat me against the stone, to make me white as milk. We girls are thrown to other families as the most intimate, the most private of our clothes are thrown to the dhobi on Saturday morning. Like cotton, we women must have grown on trees…’