Raja Rao - The Serpent and the Rope

MADO.’

‘P. S. I should not worry you with medical things, but Dr Contreaux says, though he is not anxious really speaking — my reactions are very normal — that the X-ray is a little blurred in places. I am so fat, Rama, and pink as a Charentaise. I am glad you are not here to see me: I prefer it this way. I have to go again to see Dr Contreaux next week, and I shall write to you. You know how wonderful it is to have happy Catherine about in the house. But I miss you much. Come back quickly, and do not go out in the sun too much: I don’t like a dark husband. And cut your hair, so that it is not like a medical student’s. After all, I am a teacher at the local college, and such things do count. “C’est le mari de Madame la Professeuse… etc.” And forgive the bourgeoise that I am. My affection to Saroja. M.’

For some reason I was angry, but I could not name the name of my anger. Maybe it was for Saroja.

Two days later, I made my first visit to the bridegroom and his uncles, aunts, and elder brothers — they had at last arrived — and my indignation became heavy, silent, firm. I came home and there was a cable waiting for me. This time it was from Savithri. It was from Cambridge, and said: ‘Be happy for me. In your joy is my freedom. And greetings to Saroja.’

I understood it. I must make this marriage a success. I must strive and pray, work myself into a state of happiness, and bring joy and rainshine to others. My happiness was forfeit, but who could prevent me from the gift of joy? Who could stop me making Little Mother and Saroja happy, and Saroja’s ugly, big, lieutenant-looking husband — for he did look so military: governments must make people responsible, heavy, and authoritative. Yes, I would make Subramanya happy. I would make the whole world happy.

I was going to be happy myself. I found joy in the notes of the serpent-clarionet — for the music had already begun — and I went about the invitation-rounds, shouted at the Brahmins, saw to the cars being duly sent to the station for the right trains and the right people, had a look at the horse, a fine white Arab that was to carry the bridegroom to the pandal, I sang hymns in the house and at seven — the bridegroom-procession was to be at nine in the evening — I took Saroja on a walk to the temple ‘What a thing to be done on such an auspicious evening!’ grumbled Little Mother. But I wanted to give myself and Saroja a last chance in space, for some understanding, some statement of the truth. I walked heavily but quickly: Saroja was like a filly dancing about the mother-elephant. ‘Brother, what shall I do, what shall I do?’

‘Do about what, Saroja?’

‘Oh, Brother, I want to run away, run away, anywhere. I cannot marry him. I must not marry him. It is selfish of me to marry a man whom I detest, I look down upon. I think I only like his car, his position; and the feeling that he’s like Father. Since you came I have understood better, Brother. Brother, take me away.’

It was no moment for cowardice. I, the head of the family, could not be a coward; I could not, should not let down anyone in the world. That was my dharma. We came to the Hanuman temple. I bought a coconut and betel leaves, I bought camphor and sandal-sticks, and we gave them for worship. The God seemed so happy, so serene and confirmed in his devotion to his Lord, his Master, Sri Rama. We circumambulated, and sat on the rocks for a moment. Of course, Saroja will be happy. We make our own happiness. Yes, Madeleine, haemoglobules make for happiness. Madeleine, I shall make you happy. ‘Saroja, when you’re married you’ll come and live with us in Aix. And you’ll look after my little daughter.’ Saroja did not answer. I had betrayed her. Then rising, she said, ‘After all, the dead body, when it goes to the crematorium, must feel happy. It does not say, “No, I’ll go back, I’ll go back and be a ghost”. How could it? I have flowers and music, lots of people around me — and I shall be married…’

We came down the hill in silence. Already at the bridegroom’s house the pipers had started their music. Cars were rushing up and down the street and the Hudson lights had come; they came one by one, as if they wished to be counted. I slipped round to see if everything was in order. The horse, bejewelled with necklace and gold anklets and yellow scarf at his neck, stood behind the gate, while the groom was chewing his betel away.

Inside the house there was the terrific noise of man believing he could create happiness. If yogis could will and raise themselves above the earth, I thought, happiness, too, could be created. What was wrong with haemoglobules anyway. They were beautiful to look at — like rubies. And man, after all, takes a woman to his bed and makes her happy. I felt I could have taken a coconut — one of those hanging in the pandal tied to bamboo pillars — and sent it straight at Subramanya’s head. Murder, too, could be joy: haemoglobules have no ethical standards. For them joy is when they can enter the heart at a certain rhythm. I wished I could have gone to the Stag and talked to Julietta about anything. Did the Thames still flow? Had Aristotle said anything interesting? Was there a British Museum with a cupola on its head like a chapel? I suddenly remembered a passage I had read in some huge history of Cambridge, which I had accidently stumbled upon in the British Museum. A bridge across the Cam was permitted by the authorities because the monks from Clare Hall had wished to take their horses to graze across the river:

Your petitioners doe humblie begg of your most sacred Ma tiethat they be suffered at their owne chardge to land a bridge over ye river and enjoy a passadge through ye. But — close into ye field, which would be of great benefitt to your petitioners, especially in times of infecion, having no passadge into ye fields but through ye chappel yard of your said Kings Colledge, ye gates whereof are shutt up in those tymes of danger…

Saroja went into her room on the top floor and shut herself in. I knocked and knocked, and she called out, ‘Brother, leave me to myself for a moment.’ Little Mother came and said, ‘Rama, it’s already half past eight, and at nine the procession will pass before our house. I must tell you what to do. Come, Son.’ So I washed quickly, and clothed myself in white Aurangabad satin, with chudidar pyjamas, and I combed my hair, remembering Madeleine’s admonitions. All the women were gathered under the pandal, and there was a smell of camphor, Lucknow perfumes, and betel leaves; the shine of white teeth, the splendour of black and gold saris, the magnificence of earrings, neckbands, nosedrops, diamond-marks on the forehead — an innocent joy which showed that man was made for natural happiness. The women grew silent as I came down the steps, carrying the silks and muslin in my silver plate, with attar-bottles, sandal- sticks, flowers. Then everybody burst out laughing. ‘What a hoary Head of the Family!’ Aunt Sita said; ‘He looks more the bridegroom than the other.’ Little Mother gave her such a look.

The music started; on the other street gunfire went off; the vulgar brass band started playing some military march, with Indian-style music being piped amidst, in between and behind it all; and when the procession turned into our street and I stood under the pandal, awaiting to honour the bridegroom, I looked up at the house. It was absolutely silent: Saroja’s window was closed. By now the Brahmins had raised their voices; they were powerful and magical, the hymns. It was such a long time since I had heard them. I threw flowers to the bridegroom, spread sweet-scented perfumes on his clothes, gave him honey and milk and melted butter to taste — I dipped my jasmine in silver cups and placed it on his outstretched tongue — sprinkled him with rose-water, and anointed him with kunkum and turmeric; I begged him in melodious Sanskrit, repeating syllable by syllable what the Brahmins enunciated, to marry my sister and found a hearth and household. He agreed nobly on his horse, and the women sang hymns of victory, of joy: