"The Thorn that did not Stick"

"The Thorn that did not Stick"

(Rendered by Sri V. M. Inamdar from the Original Mahratti)

I craned out of the window as the train stopped. The signal was not down. The engine whistled furiously, and continuously enough to drive one almost deaf. I was glad, the train had arrived on time,–but to keep her waiting outside the signal like that,–wasn’t it step motherly?

Now to compare the station master who kept a train waiting out side the signal to a step-mother may not be all appropriate, poetically speaking; but I never have claimed to be a poet! A pensioner after twenty-five years of drudging in a college as a professor who had nothing to do either with Sakuntala or Kalidasa! There are numberless figures in mathematics, but they are all wonderfully crooked! And none, not even a madman would ever think of comparing them with Sakuntala when she was pursued by the bees or when she lingered to steal a glance at Dushyanta under the pretext of pulling out a thorn.

But the idea of step-motherly treatment did not come to me out of the blue. One sees but what one thinks. I was travelling to get my grandchildren home. Keshavarao had often written to me: "Dear Pramila and dear Manohar are quite happy, though the latter remembers his mother off and on. But Pramila points out to Mayi and asks him ‘Is this not your mother?’ He feels confused for a moment. But he is getting to like Mayi. You will feel convinced if you can come and see for yourself."

When I read over the first of such letters to my wife, she said to me, "This is not Keshavarao’s writing at all. This is not…."

"But the handwriting seems to be his!"

"That must all be the composition of that new girl. No doubt!"

" Do you mean the step-mother of Manohar?"

"Yes, yes. She–the second wife, who has her husband under her thumb!"

I feared she would remember our dear departed Kamala, and weep; so, trying to crack a joke, I said:

"Is it all so invariably true!"

"As a Rock inscription!"

Well, how can I be so sure of that when my first wife is still living!"

She could not appreciate my joke at all she whose grandchildren recently had a step-mother. She spurted out:

I do not know why I should not kill myself! God’s asleep in heaven! He gives me such a long long life. Why shouldn’t He have spared my Kamala and carried me away.….?"

It was the mother’s wounded heart. I thought it would be hard to check the flow of tears once they started; so I tried to be jocular, though that was not quite the moment. I said,

"The great God has to take care of me and that’s why he spares you!"

She almost sighed to herself: "I wonder how the poor little things are to get on and grow...." There was a quiver of pity in her voice.

Nor was this the first time this subject was discussed between us. When Kamala passed away I went to Keshavarao’s and no sooner did I broach the subject of taking away my grandchildren with me than Keshavarao, almost in a voice full of emotion, said: "I wonder if I can stay in this house without these children. Dadasaheb, these are not children merely to me, they are the balm and the only solace in my life. I do not know if you should remove them from me and make me more miserable than I am…." What could I tell him, knowing as well as I did that children do act like wonderfully effective herbs on all our human ills. And, I had yielded.

Within less than six months Keshavarao married a second time. He would not have been in such haste but for the fact that the calendar hadn’t any further auspicious days later and for the belief that, if he did not marry during the first year, he could not do so for the two years following. No parent-in-law ever dares to attend his son-in-law’s second wedding. Would not every detail of the ceremony only bring piognant memories of the departed daughter? And, then, the idea of bringing the children had to be postponed for a few months more, as doing that soon after the marriage would be somewhat conspicuous and awkward. But nothing could keep our minds at rest. A step-mother for our grandchildren! What was worse, she was a modern girl and educated. She might be asserting her individuality as wife and mistress of the house, and might be making it more than difficult for the dear little ones even to sleep in peace and comfort! She might want to go out for walks with her husband and Manohar of four years could be nothing but an impediment to this new fangled girl, his wife! And what of Pramila? Hardly nine years old! How could she be helpful to her new mother? The innocent fledgeling, with its wings still undeveloped, plays, dances and makes pleasant noises in its own nest. But how can it go out and pick for itself a grain or two? I look upon Pramila and Manohar as two little birds young and motherless. Their young new mother must be making most of her own joy of life and Keshavarao could not be expected to remain unaffected by her youthful gaiety. The two little orphans must be sleeping by themselves, close to one another, seeking mutual consolation. Who was there to console them should their young minds feel frightened by anything?

The signal was down and the train slowly steamed into the platform. I could not see the old familiar places, which I had seen a number of times on previous visits to the place when I had called to take Kamala to her mother. There was the small bridge, the level crossing with a small crowd of people held , and then the porter in the blue uniform waving the green flag. The train slid rattling over to another line and there was in front a lamb running with two younger ones following it, scared. Everything–everything animate and inanimate seemed to be the same, unchanged, but where was my dear Kamala? With eyes almost filling with tears I looked up at the people on the platform and was thrilled at the call "Ajoba" which came sharp from Manohar.

Though Manohar had been bold enough to welcome me with his shrill call, he slid behind Keshavarao when I approached him. Children are like the Bakula flowers or the sensitive plant. As we were proceeding home I looked a little closely at Manohar and could not help remarking, "He looks a little run down. Was he unwell?"

"Oh, he has gained two pounds in weight."

I could not accept the bland assertion. If it would be possible "for a child to gain in weight under the care of a step-mother, one would as well try to feed and fatten a lamb in the presence of a tiger!

When we reached home Mayi bowed reverentially to me. She looked affectionate. But I thought–could not all this be a piece of play-acting just to throw dust into my old eyes or put me off the scent. The face is hardly an index of the heart. I had spent a whole lifetime in examining answer-papers: how many times had I not found that the answer-books written in the most beautiful hand had nothing in them beyond the beauty of the hand. Mayi’s looks reminded me of that experience.

I was right. The proof came in the afternoon. I had just finished my wash and was thinking how I should open the topic with Keshavarao. He was reading something in his armchair.

"What is it, Keshavarao, you are reading?" I asked him, though I was sure it could be anything but a work on the Vedanta.

"Just a special number of a local magazine."

"Special number now? This is neither Diwali nor Dasara, nor……simaga……?

"But you know, a Conference is coming off tomorrow at this place and….."

"Conference?"

"A Conference of the writers in this district!"

"And they have brought out this special number. Is that so?"

"Yes....it is a special number of love stories!"

"Oh. If this be so, we old people cannot be a satisfactory clientele to this special number."

"But cannot even old people accept a copy if given gratis....say, for favour of opinion?"

We both had a hearty laugh over this and I began to turn over the pages of the magazine which Keshavarao handed over to me. The very first story caught my attention. The name was there and the photograph–there could be no mistake about it. It was verily he–that Prabhakar Pandit who had stood first at the Intermediate and who, in his junior class, had mooned about that sweet-voiced Shalini and lost his scholarship. He had joined another college and made up, scoring a first, again at the B.A. I was full of appreciation for that young fellow and said to Keshavarao:

"Do you know this was my student?"

"Is he a Mathematics man?"

"Why, what’s the wonder?"

"You don’t know. He writes such wonderful stories!"

It was my turn to wonder now. Mathematics and fiction-writing! They seemed poles apart! The mathematician, who could easily finish off the tale of a millionaire getting bankrupt within less than four brief sentences, had certainly nothing in common with the fiction writer who could fill pages and pages with throbbing descriptions of the hundreds of potfuls of tears which the hero sheds for the loss of the three-anna handkerchief which the darling heroine had given him! I was surprised and I asked him:

"Does he write often?"

"Yes–"

Perfectly true that one can’t dig out sweet water on a sea-beach. Keshavarao said:

"He writes stories all right and often also, but...."

"But what?"

"It’s one type, unchanging! In everyone of his love stories, it is always the woman who deceives her lover...."

I faintly began to remember the affair between Prabhakar and Shalini when they were in the Intermediate class, his neglect of studies his going over to another college and all that. I said, "Perhaps he has had some broken love affair; that’s all!"

"That may be so. But he is all right, well settled in life. He has a good practice as a lawyer, a beautiful wife and two children!"

"Do you tell me that he is married, and……..?"

Keshavarao was laughing. I could not make out anything of the broken love affair. A good practice, a beautiful wife, children and a broken love affair! They ill went together! I turned over a few more pages and another photograph caught my eye. That was Shalini’s. Without even looking for the name I asked Keshavarao:

"Is this not the wife of that gentleman with the broken love affair?"

"No,’ no. She is the wife of a local doctor. What a fine voice she has! She is to give some recitations in the Conference tomorrow."

I was going to say "Let us see", when I heard Manohar’s voice weeping. Kesharavao was trying to get up from his chair when he entered weeping bitterly, pressing his closed fists against his eyes. I felt in me a strange twist of the heart to see the little helpless thing crying like that. The thorn of a step-mother! What could the little orphan do if the thorn should go on pricking and pricking. I drew Manohar towards me and patted him gently on the . The sobbing subsided a little but the inward simmering did not seem to stop. How could it? How could it in the presence of the step-mother–an ever-burning live coal. A hundred terrible thoughts rushed through my mind.

"What’s the matter, Manya, won’t you tell me?"

"Um…….. Um……..", he only sobbed.

"Well, well, Manu, won’t you tell me?"

"Mayi……….Mayi"

My guess was right. "What did Mayi do to you, dear?" I asked to him, looking significantly at Keshavarao. "We shall have Mayi’s house built in the hot–very hot sun. Now, tell me what she did, won’t you?"

"Mayi–the thorns....." He opened his small fist and showed. There were scratches at three or four places. "I wasn’t given the flower….the thorns the….."

I could understand the whole thing now. Manohar must have had the rose in his hands and Mayi must have wanted it for her hair-knot. She must have snatched it from his hand never caring if that hurt his little palm. That was how he must have been hurt. Nothing very important; but one doesn’t need to drink the whole sea to find out how it tastes! If only Kamala were alive.………

I said to Manohar, "Manu, we shall go away tomorrow. Shall we?"

"Where?"

"To your grandmother...."

"And Akka?"

"We will take her too."

"And Baba?"

"We shall take him also."

"And then, Mayi?"

"No. Mayi shall not come."

"No, Mayi shall not come. We shall not take Mayi with us." He almost began to sing. The thought made him happy. She who had hurt him with the thorns would not accompany him. It was a pretty piece of vengeance for him indeed!

On Our evening walk, I mentioned the subject of taking away the children. With the afternoon’s rose-and-thorn affair still fresh in his mind, it was as difficult for Keshavarao to agree as to disagree to my proposal. He kept silent.

During supper I observed Mayi’s hair-knot. The rose was not there. After the supper, Manohar was sleeping in my lap and Pramila was reciting to me some songs she had learnt at school. As I drew her towards me to tell her of my appreciation, the rose in her hair caught my eye. I thought to myself–"Here is wickedness and shrewdness combined. It seems all prearranged, in anticipation that the afternoon’s affair would be talked about." I decided that the sooner I could release the two little ones from this prison, the better.

The next day at the Conference I sat close to Prabhakar Pandit. At a district place like that he was having a good practice. I particularly asked him about his children.

"We couldn’t half like a tree without butterflies flitting about it. By God’s grace I have two little ones–" he said.

I was surprised to hear him say that and to see his face bright with a smile. He seemed quite happy and to love his children. Why should there be that theme of broken love in all that was written by such a happy man? Was there some arrow rankling in his heart? Perhaps. That Shalini….

Exactly at the moment Shalini ascended the dais for her recitations. I was listening to her songs but my eyes were fixed on Prabhakar. There was scorn in his eyes and as the applause subsided I said to him:

"She has such a fine voice. Hasn’t she?"

"Yes. But the heart, sir? Could you not recognise her? She was with me at college!"

Under the pretext of getting some fresh air I came out, taking, Prabhakar with me. Reminiscence seemed to be burning hot within him. He narrated to me the whole story. He made her acquaintance during his first year and the acquaintance soon developed into love. From the height of his castles in the air Prabhakar would say to her: Won’t you marry me though I am poor?", and she would anwser: "The Ganges hasn’t flowed into an ocean. She has flowed into a bay." On the swing of hope, he had experienced the happiness of heaven. He had thought of nothing but Shalini, with the result that he had failed and lost his scholarship. On that very day Shalini had sent him a letter: "My father is thinking of marrying me to an I.C.S. I do not dare to go against his will. Please forget me and be happy." First the failure in the examination, then this terrible blow. Prabhakar’s heart was broken. To avoid seeing that ungrateful Shalini he had joined another college and had achieved brilliant success at his B.A., like a soldier fighting for victory unmindful of his wounds.

I was not sure if the old description of women as having honey on their lips and poison in their hearts could ever be untrue.

The meeting ended in the meantime and Shalini came out looking about for me. She bowed to me and asked: "May I know how long you will be staying at this place?"

"I think I shall be leaving tomorrow."

"Then you must come down with us to tea right now."

I had thought she would invite Prabhakar also who was standing by my side. But she ignored him so entirely that she never seemed to have known him. Regarding her scornfully, he left us. Keshavarao also left me saying that he had some work to do. We talked about a number of things till we had tea, but Prabhakar never came in even by way of casual reference in the talk. I was put in mind of Mayi. These women! They are frightfully shrewd, I thought. She showed me round the house. I saw the photographs and the furniture and asked her: "This is all right. But what about a cradle? Is there none?"

She smiled and brought her little one, telling him: "Look here ……… Ajoba………".

The child looked worried. When she had finished showing me round, she said: "There is still one thing which remains unshown!"

"What can that be?"

"Well… well. It’s He.....my husband. This is a busy hour for him at the dispensary. I could have sent for him otherwise."

She looked happy. Prabhakar....I.C.S.....Doctor! She was dancing on a bed of roses and no thorns ever seemed to prick her! I wondered. I could not help asking her: "That Prabhakar Pandit…..was he not in our college?"

"Yes!"

"He has forgotten you, it seems."

"He never came to know me at all! And if he ever knew, he has now clean forgotten me!"

"I do not understand you."

"Don’t you read his stories? In everyone of them the woman deceives the man. And that woman is…….Shalini……."

"Is that you?"

"Yes." There was a quiver in her voice.

"That some girl deceived him on the pretext of marrying an I.C.S. man. He was telling me something like that….."

"That’s what he always writes in his stories. A child hardly cries when he has had a fait, if there is none to observe him. But should there be someone nearby he makes such a fuss. It is just like that in his case. Why, that girl told him the story of the I.C.S………"

"Then, was it all false?"

"Quite. It was a invention, pure and simple."

I could do nothing but observe Shalini, surprised.

"The girl could plainly see that he was not reading well, and that because of her. He had never lost the first rank in any examination. But in the junior exam…….."

Though I knew that that girl was sitting before me I said: "Yes. Yes. He failed miserably and lost his scholarship and I guess that was the reason why the girl rejected him…….."

"No. That was not the reason."

"Then"

"She rejected him, no doubt. But she wanted that he should not make a mess of his career and of his life for her sake. If I had not given out the story of the I.C.S. bridegroom, Prabhakar, who is now making a lot of money, would have…..."

"But what about his wounded heart?"

"Well, the wound healed up by the three thousand or so of dowry that he got!"

"Did he marry before you did?"

"Not only that. He never inquired of me. If I were to tell you the truth about it, sir...."

She was speaking frankly like a child. I remembered Manohar.

"We were like gay butterflies then, not knowing how hard it is to build up a nest...."

She looked around with satisfaction, when I interposed:

"But should a butterfly be pricked by a thorn...."

"What does it matter? It does not stick there anyway….."

On my way home I could think of nothing else but of Prabhakar and Shalini. After all, Shalini was right, I thought. We see our ills through the microscope and shut our eyes to simple truth. He was so full of himself....in fact, Shalini had acted thoughtfully. She had no doubt shattered his lovely dreams. But could she be blamed for that?

When I stepped inside the house I could see Mayi leaving Keshavarao, wiping her eyes. I could see that Keshavarao had scolded her and, in order to provide a diversion, I started telling them about Prabhakar and Shalini who fully possessed my mind then. When I had done Keshavarao was obviously satisfied. He said:

"Well that’s how it happens in the world. Always!"

"Yes?"

"Corns develop even where no thorns stick. You remember yesterday, Manya came here weeping and complaining–"

"Yes?"

"And you thought she had snatched from his hand the rose for herself and hurt his palm...."

"And then?"

" She snatched the rose from his hand, no doubt, but it was for Pramila that she took it. She wanted Pramila to accompany her somewhere...."

Could it not all be a concoction? I changed the subject of our talk.

"May I not take the children away with me tomorrow?"

Keshavarao became immersed in thought. After a while he went in and returned with some coloured envelopes, which he placed before me. I could not see why he gave those opened letters to me.

"You please read them and then………."

He was looking out of the window.

I opened the first letter and read the signature.

‘Your beloved wife’–they were all Mayi’s letters! I thought to myself…..well, gentleman, here you are with your second wife….She might be loving you immensely. But how can she love these step-children of hers? I started reading the first letter: "I am feeling so lonely without you. At every step it is you, my beloved" I felt exasperated at his impertinence in asking me to read these letters. But something else below caught my eye. I stopped, to read further. "You can’t imagine how much I remember dear Manohar! People here tell me I am strangely mad of the father-in-law’s house. The husband is a king....that’s all right. But it’s not for him alone that I feel I must be there with you! It’s for those two little lives that my whole self longs to be there! Manohar and Pramila are my own little ones. Aren’t they? You might think I am getting poetic but, by God, I must tell you, I made up my mind, on the very day of my marriage! Does not a grafted plant yield better fruit? Here is one just like it. Children under a stepmother must grow like that. Then only….."

I read two more letters. The same love, the same pure and feeling heart! No thorns anywhere, but fragrance all around! I can’t say with what thought I rose, but I went straight to the kitchen. Mayi was feeding Manohar. They had their s towards me. Mayi was saying to him:

"My dear little rose,

You have thorns,

But let them be there!

Look there,

Manu is come,

To play, dear little Manu is come!"

Manu was almost beside himself with joy. Mayi asked him:

"So Manu, dear, you are going to your grandma, is that so?" Manu swallowed the morsel and nodded.

"Whom are you taking with you dear?"

"Akka"

"And?"

"Baba"

"And Mayi?"…..

He seemed plunged in thought, Mayi asked him again:

"You are not taking Mayi then?"

"Oh yes! Mayi will come too."

"That’s like you, you little dear." And she kissed him on his mouth, that was covered with food.

"Ajoba was saying……."

"Yes? What was he saying?"

"That Mayi shall not come………."

"And then?"

"I will tell him that he must take Mayi with me, I will tell him that I won’t come otherwise!"

Mayi kissed him profusely. I could not help thinking it was my own Kamala come there to feed the little one and be happy with it. With stealthy steps I hurried .

When Manya returned to me after washing his hands I asked him:

"Well, Manya, let me see if you have thorns on your palms still?"

"What thorns Aja?"

"Those that hurt you yesterday."

"Oh! They are gone."

"Gone? But how?"

"Mayi took them away…."

"With a needle."

"No, She kissed them and.….."

He ran to me and playing with the keys in my thread, he said: "Aja, we shall take Mayi also with us to grandma, Shall we not?"