Raja Rao - The Serpent and the Rope

Laving in the waters of the young stream,

Donning the garments sacramental,

Slowly, ever so silently, adoring Shiva the Lord

She became a spouse, sister.

O, to happy Parvathi,

Raise the censor, wave the kunkum-water,

O holy happiness, forever and ever,

Auspicious happiness be.

The white hibiscus, the garland of round jasmines—

To the parting of the Moon’s hair, Sister,

Pour pearls.

Not my heart, but somehow my belly seemed empty — and I wanted to throw out something again. Children were crying loudly outside and the crows from the coconut tree did not stop their festival. Soon the sun would be hot — and at eleven o’clock the wedding was to be.

When I went in to wash I could see how much blood I had thrown out the night before. I must have thrown much even on Saroja, for her sari stowed away behind the bathtub showed deep red blots. I washed myself with some difficulty, and when I went back to my bed Little Mother was there with the coffee.

‘Oh, I am glad you’re up, Rama,’ she began, ‘You cannot imagine how difficult your sister is. To make her sit or stand you needed a hundred women, to plead, sing paeans and cajole. At last we’d had enough. I sent word to Uncle Seetharamu, and he came and stood there, his tongue like a temple bell; since he’s come, everything has been moving well. It makes all the difference whether there is a man in the house or not.’

Before I had taken two sips of coffee Uncle Seetharamu was there, with his gold-lace upper-cloth round his waist and diamond rings on his fingers; he was clearly feeling very breathless.

‘Wake up and come and help me, Brother,’ he said. ‘We all know you are a delicate, tiptoeing family, but this cajoling and begging — I can’t do it any more. A woman is a woman and she must obey, even if she’s got a first-class university degree. I’ve done my job with Saroja. Now, you take charge of her,’ he begged.

I rose with some difficulty. Baliga brought me my shaving things and hot water for the bath. The music sounded; cars, horse-carriages, bicycles and bicycle-rickshaws came in and went out of the gate; women raised their voices, singing:

And eight are her virtues in which she’s clad, Gauri,

much the prayer that’s gone, that the Lord open the Eye.

I could hear someone come in and say, ‘It’s already half past nine, and nobody is ready. The mohurtham 1is at eleven seventeen.’ I rose and looked at my watch: it was only about nine o’clock. So I washed quickly, had my case sent up, and put on my new dhoti with a red-gold border, my Lucknow waistcoat, and the beautiful shawl Saroja had bought for me, with lacquer-coloured rudrakshi band against a line of fine gold. Sukumari, who came to fetch me, combed my hair and cried: ‘Ramanna, you look so pale — but what a prince!’ And proudly she put her hand in mine, and gently led me down the stairway. She wanted the entire world to see and absorb me.

But the whole house seemed empty by now. The women had all gone to the ‘other house’. Carpets were deranged, flower-garlands were withering in corners, children were asleep on half-open beds, and smells of incense and children’s urine wandered everywhere, with no one to smell them. Even Tiger seemed to have decided to go and smell the marriage-pandal and have a look at the holy Brahmins. I sat in my room and Sukumari said: ‘You cannot imagine how full of auspicious looks Saroja is, Brother. She is beautiful. What a bride! And to think those wretched people will have her.’ And she left me suddenly, as though her words sat in the throat like a gunny- bag-needle. Soon I could hear her whispering away downstairs— perhaps it was to Saroja, for I knew Saroja must be doing her Gauri-puja at the sanctuary. I was afraid someone would come and say, ‘They are all waiting for you. Come, Rama, Come.’ But no one came, and that tumultuous silence was too much for me to bear. I was the younger brother of the world. I tried to tell myself I was the head of the household, and I must be strong. But to give away Saroja — she seemed more like me at moments than my own self. I gathered myself into myself, forced my thoughts out of their orbits, and withdrew into my own inner recesses where peace is like a river in the night, ever present, with fishes, shoals and reefs if you would venture out under the round stars — awake. My illness gave my thoughts strength, no doubt, and I must have gone far deep into myself, for when I awoke I found Saroja’s hand on my head.

‘Do you suffer much, Brother?’ she asked. ‘But your breathing seems more normal today.’ Her voice was light, clear, and like a child’s — simple. She stood a long while, playing with my hair. Then suddenly, as though she had taken courage in her heart, she came in front of me; her peacock-blue sari, her gold— serpent belt, her diamond earrings, the turmeric on her face, the mango-gold necklace, gave her a sense of the important, of the inevitable. Her eyes were long and dark, but she closed them, folded her hands, knelt and touched my feet and begged: ‘Brother, bless me. I need only your tender hands, your firm protective hands over my head.’

She lay long thus, without a sob, a movement. Then she rose and stood in front of me. What deep maturity had come into her young face. She smiled as though I was the one she was sorry for. ‘Brother, I shall bring but a fair name to the household. Do not worry.’ Slowly and respectfully, she slipped out of the room to the sanctuary.

I had hardly time to wipe my tears when Uncle Seetharamu came shouting from the gate, ‘Rama, Rama,’ and I gladly went to the ‘other house’ with him. Sukumari stayed back with her sister. What a magnificent assembly it was, with elders, lawyers, ministers, the wives of the Secretaries and Under-Secretaries of State, of professors, and Raja Sahibs — it was a grand marriage. I was given the seat opposite the fire, a little to one side. How I longed for the golden, the venerable visage of Grandfather Kittanna; but he was no more. Lord, how men live and how men ‘die’…

The Brahmins were happy to see me. No sooner had I come than their voices went higher and yet higher. Old friends of my father came to greet me, to ask news of me. I could see some of my father’s old servants too, who bowed low to me, turban, uniform, and all. The sacrificial fire burnt, and there — the ghee was poured, and then the milk, the curd, the honey. ‘Agneya namohoam… Svaha…’ and how much sacredness it brought to my heart. I, too, had become sacred with this sacredness. Meanwhile Sukumari brought kunkum and put a large tilak on my forehead. The bridegroom looked virtuous and obedient, and there was a lustre on his somewhat commonplace features. His family was happy — he was their best-educated brother and nephew, and it was, they were sure, a very good match. The hymns rose higher and more anguished. Uncle Seetharamu disappeared, and returned from the back door. ‘She’s come,’ he said, whispering in my ear. The bridegroom stood up this time, and Saroja appeared from behind me, serious, auspicious, and firm. The wedding curtain-cloth went up, and Uncle Seetharamu held Saroja from the back of her waist. Her black bangles broke under their own pressure. The kunkum-rice got warmed in our hands. Flowers were being distributed.

A thousand eyes hath man (Purusha)

A thousand eyes, a thousand feet.

On every side pervading earth

He fills a space ten-fingers wide.

This Purusha is all that hath been

And all that is to be, the Law of Immortality.

When the gods prepared

The sacrifice

With Purusha as their offspring

Its oil was spring,

The holy gift was autumn,

Summer was the wood.

Saroja put the garland round Subramanya’s neck. Little Mother was sobbing away in the corner. Sukumari joined her. Then the aunts and the great-aunts wiped their tears. I just closed my eyes. Saroja was gone from our household.