Raja Rao - The Serpent and the Rope

Why, O Lord of Brindavan, O Krishna,

O Why, but in compassion didst thou stray amidst us.

O Son of Janaki?

O thou beloved of Radha, beautiful.

The horse was splendid — it seemed to understand songs in Kannada and hymns in Sanskrit. The music moved on. I led the procession, and it went through the dust of the evening, the beauty of cooled summer streets, round the Hyder Ali Road, Mohammed Bagh, Residency Corner, Mahatma Gandhi Main-Road, and round about the clock-tower to the Hanuman temple. I was not feeling well. I did not go up to the temple. ‘Uncle Seetharamu,’ I said, ‘my chest is giving me some trouble. Do you mind if I slip out? Don’t frighten anyone. Say I have gone home to get something.’

‘Oh, one can’t say that? It’s too inauspicious a thing to do.’

‘Then, Uncle Seetharamu, I’ll sit in one of the waiting cars.’

I slipped into Dr Sunadaram’s car; the old ladies and pregnant women were all huddled together, but they made space for me, and I sat there breathing with some difficulty. Haemoglobules after all have their own laws. I was choking, but I was the head of the family. Little Mother looked so happy: Sukumari was bright and full of fun.

It seemed an epoch before the procession came down the hill. ‘Here is some coffee for you.’ Uncle Seetharamu slipped in to warm me up. ‘I cannot give you anything stronger in front of everyone.’ I did not want anything stronger; the coffee revived me. The procession started moving again. People, common people, gathered on both sides of the street to see us pass by. How many women looked enviously at us! They had also known this, and their daughters would soon know it too. The bridegroom in his grey-green achkan, a necklace of diamonds on his chest, looked a prince. He threw two-anna pieces and four-anna pieces that his elder brother gave him — for the bridegroom’s father was dead— and the streets were smelling of flowers. When the procession turned into the bridegroom’s street, Uncle Seetharamu said, ‘Now, you can give us the slip. But come back quickly.’ A car was waiting for me on a side street; I jumped into it and went home. The whole garden was brightly lit, and was still smelling of flowers and sandal-stick. The servants and Tiger were all at the door, trying to see the procession come back. I bade them stand where they were and went in. But Tiger followed me into the veranda. The house seemed so lonely, so full of its own laral presence. For the first time I wept for Father. And Tiger went back to see the procession.

After a wash and a rest I went up the staircase slowly. ‘Saroja,’ I whispered, ‘Saroja, open the door.’

‘Is it you, Ramanna,’ she cried, as though something untoward had happened.

‘Yes, open the door,’ I begged. She was in the same sari as when I had left her, but there was no flower in her hair. She seemed to have had a wash lately, for her side locks were combed down and wet.

‘Brother, what has happened to you? You look so pale.’

‘Oh, nothing; it’s just that I am a little unwell.’

‘Lie down, Brother,’ she said, so very tenderly, and made me stretch myself on her bed. She took a fan and began fanning me. It was cool as I lay.

‘What is it you are reading?’ I asked, seeing a book half- open by my face on the pillow.

‘Oh, it’s nothing. I was reading The Magic Mountain.’

To this day I know not whether it was The Magic Mountain that did it, or just that the haemoglobules wanted their own release, their own joy, but I sat up and burst my blood all over Saroja’s sari and on the floor. She seemed so courageous, wiping my mouth, rubbing the floor, and gently removing the sheets from my bed; then she went to Father’s cupboard — for this was Father’s room — and gave me some old brandy which nobody had ever touched. It revived me, and when Uncle Seetharamu came, he had only to look and he understood.

‘Poor boy — should the sins of mothers pursue their sons?’ he said, patting me on my forehead. ‘I said you had a mild attack of asthma, when they asked me. Take your time; I shall say the attack is subsiding. The music is growing strong, and it can go on for a long time. One can stretch a raga for hours: I’ll ask Anandi Bai to end her “Bharath Milan” at four in the morning. Good girl you are, Saroja,’ said Uncle Seetharamu, as though he understood everything, ‘to have such a brother.’

I must have gone to sleep for a very long time, because when I opened my eyes I saw Little Mother sitting beside me, fanning. ‘We have no luck, in the family, no luck. To have a beautiful and bright son like you, and to have this. Ah, after that last illness of yours, your father said: He looks just like his mother, Sanna, just like her! He’s frail as an acacia flower.’

Death did not disturb me. But Saroja burst into tears. She said, ‘Brother, promise to come and stay with me. I will look after you.’

I said, ‘I promise.’ It made everybody happy. I think it made me happy, for my breathing became just a little kinder.

Uncle Seetharamu rushed in and said, ‘Don’t you worry, Rama, I’ve arranged it all. I said your air travel had upset you, that you have diarrhoea. That settles everything. Don’t you have diarrhoea tomorrow,’ he added crudely, ‘or I’ll have to produce a commode before everybody, and that’s a damn’ difficult thing.’ He spoke in English and Little Mother did not understand, but the three of us laughed.

‘What a grand person to have about in the marriage house,’ I said, turning to Saroja.

‘All time-servers,’ spat Saroja. ‘When they see you here it’s all milk and sugar-candy, but once you’re out of sight they look at the sky, although we’re standing at eye-level. There’s no love lost between all of us since Father went,’ she added, and we were silent.

Saroja brought bedding from the other room, and laid it on the floor. ‘They say, Brother, I should pray the whole of tonight, What better prayer for me than to look after you. Let us sleep now, and wake me up when you want me. Please do. And to the world, Little Mother, you could say I am in fervent prayer.’

Little Mother was very sad, but she left us. She could not understand this new, university-created world, as she called it. ‘To learn English is easy, it may take only a few years. But to say “Rama-Sita Krishna-Govinda” it takes many lives. The young will never understand,’ she muttered to herself, and left us.

Once or twice when I opened my eyes, Saroja was still at her Thomas Mann. She had washed the blood off the cover, and with the light low she was reading, it seemed to me with interest. I was defeated. I slept.

In the broad morning, as I woke, the house was full of auspicious noises: the musicians were busy with mangalacharanam, and in the bathroom the women were singing away. Saroja was having the lustration of the nine waters, and her young body was being prepared for its ultimate destiny. The fire and incense for drying must have been lit, for I could smell the acridity of incense even upstairs.

‘Baliga,’ I cried, and the servant came running. ‘How is the Master?’ he asked. ‘So often has the Lady of the House come up and gone down, to see if the Master was awake. There is hot water in the bathroom next door. By the time the Master washes his teeth, I will bring up some hot coffee.’

‘Tell Little Mother I am awake and better,’ I said, and went as far as the door to look over the inner courtyard. What blues and greens of saris, what diamonds, rubies and sapphires were seen to glint. And by the tulsi Saroja was drying her spread hair on the fire-basket while the women were busy anointing her with henna and turmeric. Mango-leaves and silver pots were to be seen all over the veranda, and how happy the women looked as they sang: