Vidya-A Memory

Vidya: A Memory

(1)

This autumn evening, as I look out of the window at the withered trees rocking wildly in the gale, memory comes to me of innocent, sixteen-year-old Vidya, and that memory is fraught with pain.

It was years ago, so that it seems as if all that happened in another world. Vidya must have grown up into a woman now. I wonder if she has been married after all. Yet it is almost impossible to think of her otherwise than as the simple-minded, drudging girl I saw in Vedachala Iyer's house in T–.

I was young then; my heart was nobler, but my blood much hotter. Business took me to T–, and on the strength of a letter of introduction from my late father, I found myself comfortably lodged in Vedachala’s nice little bungalow. I discovered that it was a pleasant home. Vedachala had been a great friend of my father in their younger days, and recounted to me, with many a sigh, their youthful pranks and deeds. His wife, Rajamma, more than made up for her garrulousness with her affability. The house was full of the laughter of children of whom there seemed to be any number; while Sakuntala, the eldest of them all, was most sweet and attractive. Sakuntala seemed to be studying in the local girls’ school, and she eyed me, all the evening of my arrival, through the corner of her eye, and it was tickling–the way in which she bashfully withdrew her eyes from me, the moment my own had caught them. Vidya herself I first saw only in the night, when she served out food to us along with the female cook, but I was so absorbed in the conversation, and so completely ensnared by Saku, as they called Sakuntala, that I did not take much notice of Vidya.

I had been given a room in one corner of the house, and, the next afternoon, I happened to step out of my room into the compound with no other motive than curiosity. The kitchen was nearby, and in the small strip of garden that lay between my room and the kitchen, tall and slender arali plants, laden with red blossoms, swayed and stooped with that elegance of which only arali plants seem to be capable. The time was autumn as it is now, and the weather windy, but the spiky leaves and the red flowers clung firmly to the slender stem of the plant with proud and beautiful defiance of the weather. Suddenly, Vidya came out of the kitchen with a used vessel in her hand, and put it in front of the kitchen, apparently for the maid to wash it. Only when after doing this she stretched herself up, and turned into the kitchen with a bashful smile on her lips, did I have a full sight of her….

She must have been sixteen; she was slim, tallish, her hair was lovely, and her complexion dark. She had a gentle and innocent look that would have won a heart much less impressionable than mine used to be. But one thing about her struck me as very peculiar, and that was, although one could easily see from her figure that she was at least sixteen, she was not dressed in a sari, but in a faded-green pavadai and white chithadai, as girls much younger ordinarily wear. Something about her told me that she could not be a servant–was it the very expression of her face, I wonder? But if she was not a servant, who could she be? A relation, or an orphan that Mr. Vedachala was supporting.

While I stood musing thus, there rang out the sharp, clear voice of Rajamma, calling out,

"Vidya, Vidya."

Incidentally, it was then that I got to know her name. Vidya did not at once answer Rajamma. She delayed by the fraction of a minute, so that Rajamma called out again, somewhat annoyed:

"Vidya, Vidya–the cheek of that girl not to answer when I call her!"

And the next that I saw of Vidya was when, throwing a ladle in front of the kitchen-door, she ran breathlessly into the house, smiling shyly and answering rather loud,

"I’m coming, aunt; I’m coming."

So Vidya was some sort of niece to the Vedachalas. Why then the pavadai and chithadai? Couldn’t Vedachala afford to have the girl decently clothed in a cheap sari? And why put her to this cooking and serving work, while yet she was so young? Involuntarily, my heart sighed for the girl, as I went into my room.

(2)

Next day was Sunday. In the morning when Vidya came to serve us coffee in the drawing-room, I looked at her closely. And I was struck by the sudden change in the look of her face; it was neither Gentle nor exactly, innocent as it had been the previous day, but just devoid of all expression. Outside the drawing-room, in the verandah, the little children were playing and quarrelling, and their noise was hard to bear. "The naughty ones! I have half a mind to thrash one and all of them," said Rajamma, but actually she didn’t even ask them to stop their infernal uproar. It being Sunday, Saku was in no bother of hustling up for school, and she lingered in the drawing-room, not saying anything, but sitting demurely, and occasionally glancing at me with a coquetry which was far from affected, but seemed to be part of her girlish nature. Her sari enveloped her young figure most becomingly.

"Vidya, Vidya," suddenly called out Rajamma in the midst of our talk, as though she had remembered something, and as the girl rushed in breathlessly, she said sharply:

"Vidya, when will you learn to clear the cups after everyone has taken coffee? What an incorrigible girl you are!"

I looked at Vidya through the corner of my eye as she cleared the table, and found her face just as devoid of expression as before. My glance stealing to Saku, I found her smile gently at me. As to Vedachala, he sat as if nothing had happened. My heart was suddenly filled with pity for Vidya’s loneliness.

"An utterly ungrateful girl!" Rajamma complained to me, "for all that we are doing for her, she won’t listen to one word that I tell her."

"That’s because she is young, I suppose," I said, trying to plead for Vidya in a careless voice. "When she gets older, maybe she will be more sensible."

"Young!" exclaimed Rajamma. "She is over sixteen. Saku is only fourteen, yet doesn’t she behave nicely?"

I looked at Saku; she did blush very nicely. For the present I forgot Vidya completely, and we went on to talk pleasantly of other matters. And all the time we talked, the noise of children’s laughter and high-pitched shrieks came to us from the verandah so that Rajamma would exclaim:

"The naughty ones! I have half a mind to thrash them."

After the morning meal, I had to go out on the piece of business which had brought me to T–, and when I returned in the afternoon, I was so tired with my wanderings and on account of the dust that the autumnal wind would ceaselessly blow into my eyes that, seeing Rajamma in the drawing-room I at once joined her, and stretched myself on a sofa just under the electric fan.

Suddenly, Saku stalked into the room, and with a charmingly coquettish frown on her face, said to her mother,

"Amma, Vidya comes and disturbs my studies!"

"Oh, Vidya, Vidya," cried out Rajamma desperately, "How often have I told you that you should not go into Saku’s study! Come, now, why did you go there?"

Vidya appeared in the drawing-room, and her face was as expressionless as in the morning. She said:

"I went there to search for the kuja."

"You leave the kuja in some place, and then search for it all over the house, disturbing everybody. Go to, you naughty girl, you will never improve, however much I might din into your ears," and as Vidya went away, she added to me:

"The girl gets on my nerves. Wish to goodness she was married to somebody! But it is so difficult to get her a husband."

Saku, meanwhile, stalked out as she had stalked in, with sinuous grace and the same coquettish frown. Yet Saku was only fourteen!

Again, my heart went out to Vidya. Was she really as naughty as Rajamma accused her of being? Yet, when I had first seen her outside the kitchen, I had been struck by the gentle and innocent look of her face. In any case, Saku need not have come and told her mother, particularly in my presence. And I felt angry with Saku.

(3)

I stayed at Vedachala’s for another two weeks, and the more I stayed, the more my heart went out in sympathy to Vidya.

"Vidya, Vidya," always rang out Rajamma’s voice. There seemed to be no limit to Vidya’s talent for doing the wrong thing, for ever and anon Rajamma would be chiding the girl. Rajamma was kind to me, to the children, and even to the servants. But she did not utter a word to Vidya except to order her about or to scold her.

Every night, from the window of my room where I skipped over the pages of a novel, occasionally my glance stole towards the kitchen and the strip of garden lying between the kitchen and my room. In the night the narrow, pointed, dark-green arali leaves shone like steel, and the heavy scent of the flowers rushed into my nostrils. In front of the kitchen, there was the noise of utensils being thrown away for cleaning, and the sound of scrubbing. Vidya worked till about nine in the night, and I slyly watched her coming and going during her work.

She seemed so lonely, and not one exchanged a word with her except to complain. The children pestered her endlessly, and even the servants did not hesitate to lay the blame on her for anything amiss.

As I watched her drudge like this ceaselessly with that strange, expressionless face of hers, and rarely with that gentle, innocent look which had first attracted me to her, I was filled with a sudden loathing for everyone in the house, at the thought that not one had a heart large enough to harbour a little affection for a poor orphan girl.

And occasionally I tried to give her a kind glance so that she might know that in me at least she had one who sympathised with her and thought well of her.

(4)

Poor Vidya! Who cares for the heart of a poor orphan girl?

It was the evening before the day I was to leave T–. I returned to Vedachala’s house, laden with toys and confectionery to be distributed among Saku and the children as my parting gift. I found the house empty save for Vidya. It had been arranged in the morning that we should all go to the pictures together, but as I had not arrived early enough, they had obviously decided to leave me, and–Vidya.

When I went into my room, I saw the poor girl sitting at the doorway of the kitchen, crying.

I was first for turning away my face and pretending not to have seen her, but a sudden longing seized me to tell her soothing words.

"Vidya, Vidya," I cried softly, going out of my room, "What is the matter? Why are you weeping?"

The kitchen lamp was lit, and the light fell on her lovely hair, as she bent down her face, covering it shamefully with her hands as I talked to her. We were alone together, and the arali flowers nodded gracefully in the big square of light thrown from my window. I felt a pure affection flood my heart for the poor, ill-treated girl.

"You can freely tell me what is wrong, dear girl," said I, "for I understand you, and shall cheer you up a bit."

This must have given her confidence, for she uncovered her face, and lifting up her innocent, tear-filled eyes, sobbingly said to me:

"Auntie had promised–to take me–to the pictures–But–but–Saku told Auntie–I wanted her jacket of her–so Auntie got angry with me–and–and left me behind,"

All alone, and for a mere jacket!"

"Yes-alone. The cook went away–after cooking the food."

"Leaving you alone, the heartless hag!–Now, don’t you cry, Vidya. I shall keep you company. You come into my room. You know, I have got some sweets for you. Will you have them? Come, dear girl, you needn’t fear me in the least."

And only when with meek obedience she rose up, and followed me into my room, did I realise for the first time the full beauty of her child-like heart.

She might have been a child of eight, the way in which she avidly ate the sweets, and answered my questions. It appeared that she was the stepdaughter of one of Rajamma’s sisters. Her parents had passed away, and her grandmother on the paternal side, who was yet alive, was too old to take care of her. And that was how she had come to live with the Vedachalas.

"What a nice girl you are!" I told her. "Do you know. I thoroughly liked you the very first time I had a good look at you? I wonder why these people dislike you, But don’t care for them. They are fools–particularly Saku!"

And little by little, I brought the smile to her lips. She fully trusted in me, and chatted with me as freely as a child. And I too felt as though I were her brother, and a mingled sense of pride and purity overcame me when I thought of the comfort I had brought to her. I patted her gently on the shoulder, and lifted her chin up to my face.

But suddenly-everything was changed. It was as if a demon had entered into my soul and body. Her pavadai and chithadai seemed all at once to be clamourous with the figure of her womanhood. I clasped her hands, saying:

"Vidya, I love you, I love you, I shall marry you….Hereafter, your troubles will be over."

But the words faltered on my lips. I saw her lift her gentle, simple face to mine, lit up as if with a new hope, but, on seeing the wildness of my look, change colour, and stare at me with unbelieving eyes. I saw her whole body shiver as though in fear and pain….There was not a soul in the house, and there is nothing more easily tarnished, no flower more easily plucked than the unsophisticated soul of the young maiden, standing on the threshold of womanhood….It doesn’t know its own folly, and is so full of trust….

The next day when I left, my heart was laden with sorrow and disillusionment, and I hardly dared to look anybody in the face. All crowded in the verandah to see me off–all but Vidya. "Farewell," said Mr. and Mrs. Vedachala; "Ta-ta," cried the children; and Saku smilingly waved her fingers at me as the car bore me away….But where was Vidya?