Raja Rao - The Serpent and the Rope

I am He,

Thou art She,

I am the Harmony,

Thou the Words.

I am the Sky

Thou art Earth,

Let us twain become One

Let us bring forth offspring.

Even I threw flowers and kunkum-rice on the bridal couple. Happiness is a question of determination. You can be happy when you want to be happy; it is a question of haemoglobules, maybe. Happiness is in a husband, a home, children. After all, where would Saroja go?

Seven times she went round the fire making saptapadi, seven times taking the names of my ancestors Ramakrishnayya, and Ranganna, Madhavaswamy, Somasundarayya, Sanjeevayya, and Ramachandrayya, and seven times she changed her name, that she might belong where she was going. The fire burnt, the ghee went in, the flames purred and rose and asked for more. Perfume was distributed to the guests. The tali was touched by the elders first, then by the great, and then by all of us. The bridegroom tied it round Saroja’s neck. ‘She looked a Lakshmi,’ said Aunt Subbakka to me.

Music went up, and it was wonderful, for piper Siddayya had come from Madras especially for the marriage. The women sang songs of blessing while coconuts were being distributed. Little Mother gathered the gold jewels, saris, silver plates, and silver vessels, as the name of each donor went up and came down according to Sanskrit rhythm. There was joy in the atmosphere. People in the pandal started smoking. They came, the visitors, one by one to press my hands, and tell me what a wonderful son I was of my father. ‘You will soon be our colleague,’ added some professors. ‘How long to do you stay on in India?’ others asked.

Cars came to take them away, guest after guest — turbans, sashes, upper clothes, wristwatches, canes, pumps, coloured handkerchiefs, garlands — they all disappeared. The bicycle- rickshaws clamoured with their unholy bells and somewhere a horse neighed. Tiger stood at the door, as if he were counting the guests, and would go and tell Father in the other world. Meanwhile the musicians had to be paid, and the taxis were asking higher rates for overwork. The milk for the khir had been spoilt. The procession this evening had to change its route— nobody had realized you should never go south first. ‘Some ignorant females must have advised such an inauspicious thing,’ Uncle Seetharamu concluded. I was exhausted. Slowly I rose up and went in. There was a divan meant for the bridegroom to recline on in between the ceremonies: Uncle Seetharamu took me to it and asked me to lie down. Sukumari stood by me, fanning me with a large, decorated palm-leaf fan. It was cool. I could smell sandal paste all over the house. Jasmine garlands were hanging just behind me. ‘It’s too strong a smell for me. Could you put them away somewhere, please,’ I asked. The flowers were removed, and from the kitchen came the noise of cooking laddus. They smelt delightful.

I must have gone to sleep, for I woke up, perspiring. Sukumari was not there, but Baliga stood fanning me. Uncle Seetharamu came in, followed by the Brahmins. The coconut and betel leaf and dhoti and gold-coin were ready. I placed one silver plate before each and touched their feet. ‘May the householder, the giver of kine and gold, be blessed,’ they muttered, with wrong Sanskrit accents. How very painful Sanskrit wrongly pronounced can be, I was trying to say to myself, when I rolled over and fell on a Brahmin, kicking the coconut and the betel nut right across the room. They lifted me up, and Uncle Seetharamu said, ‘Oh, it’s nothing. Air journeys can be so tiring.’ The Brahmins agreed with Uncle Seetharamu.

The bridegroom came and sat by me. He was full of respect and affection for his new brother-in-law. He felt proud of Saroja, and showed how honoured he felt to be a member of our family. ‘I have a boss who knows France very well,’ he explained. ‘He knows Monte Carlo, Paris, and the South of France. You will meet him when you come to Delhi.’ His brother, younger than him, dropped in to say he had taken French for his degree. He was reading Lettres de Mon Moulin and Moliere’s Malade Imaginaire. He was going to be a diplomat, he had decided. Cousin Vishweshwara’s son Lakshmana came to say how delighted he was to see me. He had just returned from Cornell. He had a degree in radio engineering. The world was large and prosperous. There was no reason why I should be suffocating in this room.

‘You idiots,’ shouted Uncle Seetharamu, ‘here is a man who’s tired and wants air, and you are surrounding him as though he were on the point of digging out sacred gold.’ Everybody left. Only the bridegroom remained, with his crown, perspiration, and gold on his fingers. As I closed my eyes he went, and returned with Saroja, Saroja sat at my feet, pressing my legs. I went back to sleep.

It is no use giving you details of the procession, the laddu and pheni dinner at night, and the way in which the other party came to take Saroja away. Long after midnight, as Saroja sat near my bed saying nothing but fanning me, the bridal car came and the ladies invaded the house. ‘The bride, the bride!’ they demanded, and Saroja said, ‘It is time for me to go, Brother,’ She laid the fan beside me and started to go. ‘I’ll come back soon. Get well quickly, Brother. Meanwhile I will look after the household,’ she said, smiling, and went down the steps. So much gravity, decision, and responsibility had come into her that already she looked a woman.

Ladies sang songs of welcome as she came down, and laughed and asked her to name her husband, as she crossed the threshold of the house. Saroja did not need much persuading. ‘Mr Subramanya Sastri,’ she said, as if it was the name of her professor.

All the night Little Mother sat up fanning me. I spat blood once again, but it was not too serious. I pressed her to go to the ‘other house’ and see the dancing and hear the music. ‘Baliga will do,’ I said. She went. Late in the night I could hear them come back.

‘Low untouchables, they be,’ said Little Mother. ‘To think we gave such a flower of our courtyard to them.’

‘Ah,’ rejoined Sukumari, ‘till the tali is tied all is sweetness, afterwards it’s the festival of the bitter neem leaf.’

In the morning, as I sat drinking my coffee, who should drop in to see me but Uncle Seetharamu. ‘Oh, Rama, to have given such a slip of a girl away to these cadaver-eating pariahs. They will sell their tongue for position, and the rest I cannot say before women. The whole night,’ he whispered into my ears, ‘the sisters and aunts went round and round the bridal room singing ribald songs, and in the morning hardly was the cock crowing before they entered the bridal chamber, those widow- born did. Are we Muslim, I ask you, Muslim? What? Saroja sat in a corner and wept. Ah, the butchers — did I give them a talking-to! “We don’t sell meat in our houses. Sir, we marry our girls,” I told them.’

Little Mother heard half of what was said: ‘Shiva, Shiva,’ she cried, and went into the kitchen to bring us more coffee.

Two nights later Saroja and Subramanya came to take leave of us. Little Mother had prepared all there was to give her— dolls, sheets, vessels, gods, saris, photographs of Father and myself — and Saroja seemed full of smiles. She left home looking bright and fulfilled, as though she liked marriage. ‘Come and spend at least a week with us in Delhi,’ she begged, and looked up to her husband for support.

‘The climate of Delhi is wonderful — it’s a tonic,’ said Subramanya. Saroja was really married.

‘She looks happy. After all, Rama, what more happiness does a woman need than a home, and a husband. The temple needs a bell,’ Little Mother quoted some proverb, ‘and the girl a husband, to make the four walls shine.’