The Choice

The Choice ¹

"But, my dear, you did receive my cable from New York. Didn't you?" "Yes."

"Then why on earth did you leave by the earlier boat, pray? Surely you could have wasted for another fortnight before you booked your passage. Don t you think It would have been nicer for us to have returned to Bombay together? We left India together, and had we also returned likewise after the fine friendship we had between us, don't you think it would have gone a long way in . . . .?"

"How do you mean ?"

"Look here, Malati, don't let us deceive ourselves. We got to know each other on board the Viceroy of India, and you know well how rippingly we got on during those three or four weeks we were on board the ship, and how much we enjoyed each other's company: how we discovered we had many things in common, and how we resolved to dedicate our lives to some cause –to some ideal worthy of our aspirations; wasn't that so? and then supposing we had returned together and landed in Bombay likewise, what a difference it would have meant ?"

"In what way, Shantaram?"

For the first time in his life, Shantaram was puzzled. He wondered what this girl who stood before him, and who had known him so well for these many years, could possibly mean. Perhaps it was all a joke. Just like these women, he thought: always paradoxical and contradicting themselves.

He felt a little funny and not a little worried as well.

"Malati," he began, "what could you possibly mean by such replies? Surely you know well."

"I can't help it, Shantaram; you talk of understanding: but tell me first if you have been able to understand yourself."

"My dear, do not for God's sake torment me thus. I can't argue out these things at length–these things that I feel in me. As regards the ‘understandings’ you speak of, well–what shall I say to you . . ." "I am very sorry indeed, Shantaram, you completely misunderstood me. I wish I could make things a little more plain."

"Good God," he whispered huskily; and this was his Malati speaking! This was the same girl who lived in his memory and to whom he had given the very best in him for these four precious years!

"My God, Malati," he spoke again somewhat sadly, "you little realise what your words convey, and how terribly they hurt me too"

A strange sternness of expression ran over the girl's face suddenly. She moved her chair it little closer and said,

"I tell you what, Shantaram; what is this scene you are trying to enact, and what words have I spoken to you that they must needs have wounded you, as you say? And still do you mean to suggest you have understood my mind?"

Shantaram collapsed.

"Surely! You love me, dear Malati," he implored, "and you have been joking all this time. Was that it?"

"Stuff! You have committed an awful mistake, Shantaram; and so if you are going to mistake my openness and a certain amount of intimacy for love, well, you have to thank yourself; that is all."

* * * * *

Suddenly her soft childish face underwent a slow change. A steady determined look came into her eyes as if she were deciding something, and deciding it too once for all. "You must promise me, Shantaram," she began, "that you won't look up to me in that......way. I am sorry I can't be anything to you but a warm affectionate friend. Nor must you refer hereafter to all my previous letters; for I am afraid I have been quite misunderstood. You see it?"

So saying the girl had waved her saree in that old old way, and left the hall; whilst the poor young man was left alone, speechless and stupefied.

For a long time he sat thus alone, miserable and forlorn thinking over the extraordinary events of that summer afternoon.

Presently somewhere in the shrubbery a little bird began to sing; and the long summer afternoon were on . . .

II

Malati flung herself over the soft padding of the settee in her room in a paroxysm of uncontrollable grief and despair. It was one thing to talk so harshly to a genuine lovable soul like Shantaram, and another thing to feel the glaring injustice of it all. "Oh Baba, Baba", she cried burying her face in the cushions –"forgive me, darling–only God knows how I love you and adore you, dear one: forgive me my harsh, cruel words–oh, why was I born to make other people so wretched?" and so on.

Presently she grew calmer; and curiously went over the bundle of letters that lay before her. Poor broken things! They were the outpourings of a simple young soul, in all the passion of his first genuine love. What right had she to spurn such adoration, such sincerity and the utter sacrifice of the young man, who had lived on her assurances, hopes and good-will?

But, no, no, it could never be: what would Nasiruddin think after all? What would her own friends say? What really mattered was the principle and the duty and her ideal. All other things must needs be in the ground. People had to suffer, and if Shantaram was going to be a victim, well, it was not her fault. She must make good her promise to Nasiruddin. For a moment she lazily thought of Nasiruddin's household. She wondered what sort of thing it could be. Of course, Nasiruddin had given her such a graphic and dainty description too of his Mahomedan household and said to her that it was absolutely hers; and Malati had taken every word of it for granted. She was going to show a waiting, stupid world how even a Hindu girl could manage a great racial problem–Yes: she had met Nasiruddin quite casually in New York, one day at the college buffet, and after an engaging conversation, had responded to his invitation to while away a lazy autumn afternoon at his flat in the 47th street. Nasiruddin was at the Polytechnic and Malati at the Social Training School. Both of them had met for the first time; both of them were very young and impetuous and loved excitement. The topic of that afternoon tea was all about the Hindu-Muslim rioting in Bombay. "One way out of all this muddle, Miss Malati," Nasiruddin was saying, "is to try to have an understanding" and try as far as possible whether a cultural and intellectual union is possible between the two people. Do you think it is impossible?" "No, no," she had answered, "it might be, –but probably with certain limitations. Do you see, Mr. Nasiruddin, the giving in must be on your side as you see. It is true the Hindu girl is quite docile and adaptable; but I see no reason why she should be compelled to forsake her religion. Nor do I see any reason why a Mohammedan should forsake his religion if he wanted to marry a Hindu girl."

"Quite so," returned Nasiruddin, "but where are the girls, pray? You might be prepared, let me grant it for tile sake of an argument–but show me a girl who will do it–who will be prepared to sacrifice for the sake of an ideal and bring about such a union."

"I do not know, Mr. Nasiruddin," the girl replied somewhat reluctantly, but you people–you must give us a chance. What do we know of your culture, of your attitude and of your instincts? What we gather is from the outside generally; and to that extent our knowledge is either highly coloured or prejudicial."

"Very true," he said, "the fault is ours, madam. But supposing there was a chance, do you think a Hindu girl will rise to the occasion?"

"Oh, yes, why not?"

"I am not quite so sanguine, Miss Malati. Take your own case–if you will excuse my pressing the point–will you be prepared to marry a Mohammedan, and think of him just in the same way as you would any other young man of your race?’

"With the greatest pleasure, Mr. Nasiruddin–provided of course, he is a clear honest sort–you catch what I mean?"

"Precisely, Miss Malati."

So that was the conversation that afternoon; and after that they had met pretty often, just as acquaintances, and later on as friends. Malati was battling furiously within herself. She wanted to do two things simultaneously. She wanted to be loyal to her first attachment to Shantaram who was away in England–and secondly she wanted to show that it was not impossible for a Hindu girl to have the same cultural outlook with a Mohammedan. The conflict of loyalties was terrible to bear. But she did want to show to the world the grit in her, with the result Mr. Nasiruddin became a permanent factor even like Shantaram. But what answer could she give to that lonely boy over there–who had staked his faith in her; who had answered her eyes, as he alone could; who had whispered into her little pout of a face, all those dear, dear things–and who had left her alone–yet absolutely his? What could she say to him?

And Nasiruddin? He began to like her in a brave way and admired her too for her courage. What could she tell him?

These were the thoughts that confronted her as she landed in Bombay one late afternoon in October at the Ballard Pier, alone: Nasiruddin had already arrived in India, and Shantaram was due by the next home-coming boat.

And the very first interview that took place between the young man and the queer girl ended as described above–in her giving way to a paroxysm of helpless grief and wanting to be true to herself, and his speechless amazement at the turn things had taken.

III

The engagement was announced in P–; and P–is a place which eats gossip with its breakfast. Then came the talks, the discussions, the silly protests and the jeering of the young men at the college. Shantaram had the exquisite misery of hearing her discussed, and of course criticised by a score or so of men and not a few women. He heard her gravely discussed because of her great versatility. He heard her torn to tatters by high-born dames who would have been wiser to remember the fragility of the houses they themselves sheltered under. Yet the men admired her in a subtle way. No passing word had dropped from the lips of man regarding any levity in her conduct or lightness in character. But the women spoke and they did consign her to the bottomless pit wherever that might be; but that amounted to nothing, and harmed no one. But the agony of the young man was terrible to bear. Yet the sense of loyalty he bore to the girl he loved made it impossible for him to think of her in that light-hearted way or to blame her. But one thing for the life in him he could not understand; and that was how the girl could completely draw a curtain on one aspect of her life. That sort of detachment was something wonderful. He did not know Nasiruddin–but of course had heard of him as an elegant young man but of a very frivolous type; gay, pleasant and emotional, but thoughtlessly cruel in many small things. That was what they said of him; and it might have been so, for aught he knew. But he did not meet Malati again after that interview. He had written to her a short note telling her of his presence in P–and if ever she wanted him, she need never think twice about it. He had few friends and he did not want to show to the world his lacerated heart as it were. And so he tried to bear his burden, yearning to be of some use to his beloved and feeling very unhappy.

One evening he had passed her, as she sat alone on the huge boulder behind the old Vetal temple; and his heart had become like a lump of lead to see her so seated alone. Evidently she was very unhappy; and the mute eyes were full of a sadness which he could not understand. He had made some commonplace enquiries about her health and her future progress, and then had walked away down the hill towards the colleges below.

Whilst alone on the hill-top, the girl had wept with a gnawing sense of grief and failure.

IV

Nasiruddin's friends made capital of the affair. Here was a Hindu girl becoming a Bibi and in such a fashionable way too! The only point they insisted was that the marriage must be a regular swell thing, a Kazi and all that. Great heaps of the costliest garments that Inayatullah's Zenana stores could supply, were lying in Nasiruddin's bungalow; his mother, an old mumbling dame, and her sister, a pretty young kid, were busy sorting out the sarees and the brocades: for there was barely a day between the blessed day and that afternoon, whilst from inside the kitchen, came the smell of dainty Pulaos, and Kabobs and Kacheris and sweets, Nasiruddin was feeling very happy and was inclined to be a little jocular too with his coarse subordinates and friends. Everyone congratulated him on his moral courage, on the fine choice he had made. Men spoke of their marriage as a grand event and as one ushering the millennium to come. Prominent people winked slyly and with a great deal of portence. And Nasiruddin enjoyed it all.

The marriage was a simple affair. First there was the Nikka, and then the pair drove to the Registrar's where proper witnesses signified their consent to the union and signed as such in the book. Later came the midday dinner, the clothes, and finally the mysterious meeting at night, when Malati became Nasiruddin's wife.

It all seemed to choke her: the meaningless ceremonies, the coarseness of the people around, the want of consideration on the part of Nasiruddin himself, when he had pressed for the marriage to be done in the Mohammedan way; and then the sense of possession he began to show the very night of their first meeting. How different, how polite, how sweet he had appeared a month ago, whilst he was at New York in the lounge room? Was it the same Nasiruddin who spoke to her, on the very first day of their married life, about her duties, her business and so on? Were men always like that? she wondered. Why did they wallow in this sense of possession? Was a common healthy normally-developed life impossible between two people?

"What is it that you are worried about, dear," Nasiruddin drew close to her, "won't you tell me"?

"No, Nasiruddin," the girl replied, and turned her head to the wall, longing for her lost girlhood, and longing for the one man whom she loved above all things, in spite of herself; and wanting to throw herself in his arms. She wanted to cry aloud, to weep like a little girl and tell Shantaram how much she needed him at that moment . . .

But the world is a dull place; and the tragedy in our daily lives is in the fact, we do not get what we long for.

V

Little Fatima came into the world one December morning with pink cheeks, and eyes like the blue of the cigarette smoke. And when the pink little mass nestled into her, crying out for the nourishment, Malati's heart had warmed to a new feeling; suddenly the world changed for her: she forgot all things, excepting the little one near her. How frail it looked, the little creature which had come there to stay, and which had been the result of a most fantastic union! Into this little mass of dimples and pretty smiles, Malati poured out her words, her thoughts, her longings, and watched it grow day after day, little caring what happened to her household and what happened to Nasiruddin and the rest of the world. By and by, the house- hold assumed its normal aspect: Nasiruddin was a busy man with his great engineering schemes, his club life, and his sneaky contempt for his young wife who seemed to devote all her life: and soul to a brat of a baby girl. But he held his peace: somehow he had lost all the romance of his life. He could not tell why there seemed to be such a barrier growing day after day between himself and his wife.

One day the little baby had a raging fever; and it rapidly developed into an acute attack of pneumonia. Malati's heart sank within her as she saw her dear one gasping for breath and struggling for its life. She was helpless. The doctor had said it was a pretty serious affair and only proper nursing could bring the little one to life. Days and night followed, and long tiresome weeks of agony and despair. Malati's world was the little sick room and the pretty balcony outside: she had chosen to forget all other things besides.

Nasiruddin was not a bad man at heart; but he did resent this apparent neglect. Was he nowhere in her scheme of things, he asked himself several times; and must a dying child need such unheard-of attention, as if there were no children born and that died in the grim world outside? Why should his wife take it to heart like that–a common sickness. Did he deserve all this really? Thus did he feed himself in his own way upon the imaginary wrongs; until one evening, when the sun was sinking in a riot of crimson and gold and little birds were yet singing, the child passed away.

Then Malati's heart revolted; her soul recoiled in horror at the things they did with the dead one. They said she could not have a look even at the dead child. Much less could she touch her. That was the custom. Everywhere custom, tradition and misery! As they took the lifeless little body away, out for its burial, Malati fainted, and for the first time in her life became aware of it all–the horror of her situation, and the ghastly discrepancy in their outlooks! Life was over for her. She fled.

And Nasiruddin took it all in quite a business-like way. ‘Just these women,’ he thought, ‘sentimental fiddlesticks!’

VI

One afternoon the clouds had gathered thickly and the river was beautiful to behold, with its banks full of the big lilies and the wild sunflowers. Somewhere under the spreading branches of an Asoka tree, a little boat had been moored and two people sat there enjoying the grave beautiful silence of the evening.

By and by, the clouds cleared away. The sun sank down tired and wistful behind the long low line of the Ghats in the distance.

"Tell me, dear," the girl was whispering huskily, "I am forgiven. Tell me I have you yet, here . . . thus." A man feels like the dog of a god, when a woman tells him how she came to place him on her altar. That is exactly what Shantaram felt. "There was nothing to forgive," he blurted out, "my dear . . . . And then Shantaram took up the oar. Malati looked at him proudly. He was hers, after all! . . . Let the world say what it would. . .