All Alone

All Alone
(A Story)

(Rendered from Tamil by V. Narayanan)

I was eight or nine years old. Kalyani was older by four or five years. But we were like two playmates of the same age. Kalyani was the only daughter of her parents.

Gopalan, the eldest son of Vakil Dasaratharama Iyer, was insisting on studying England for the Indian Civil Service examination; his father was anxious that his son should proceed to England only after getting married, and because of the excellence of Kalyani’s horoscope, it was settled that he should marry her. He left for England the month after the marriage.

Just a week before Deepavali, Kalyani’s father was continually sending messengers to his sambandhi Dasaratharama Iyer’s house inquiring whether there was any cablegram. I was at Kalyani’s house as usual on the Deepavali eve. Kalyani and I were discussing about the Chinese crackers we would have on the next day and about the new dresses that had been bought for our use on the morrow. Suddenly, both the elder brothers of Kalyani burst into our room holding out a cablegram and exclaiming “Kalyani, mappillai (brother-in-law) has secured a pass”, Kalyani was a bit shy, but could not control her joy; she snatched at the cablegram and went into the inner hall. Her two brothers followed her there, leaving me alone. And all the household were gathered together; I could hear them talking and laughing and partaking of the merriment. Why did they not invite me to join them?

It was then that I felt, “Why was I not born as Kalyani’s younger sister?”

I too became a girl of sixteen in due course. My mother kept worrying herself that I was not married yet. My father was searching far and wide for a good husband for me. Who would like to push his own child into the well? As he was anxious that I should be happy, he did not like to do things in a hurry, for this was a matter which would decide my future irretrievably; and as he could not secure a suitable bridegroom, he had perforce to postpone my marriage from year to year, He had secured fairly good bridegrooms for all my elder sisters. But as financial troubles grew, he began to lose confidence in himself. My mother used often to remark, “Oh, that this girl was born a boy!”

One day, I heard that somebody was coming to our house to have a look at me. Although I tried my best, I could not learn anything from the subdued discussions between my parents. Only, my mother took me aside and told me to dress my hair and remain at home wearing a good saree and not to stir out. I tried to picture to my mind how he would look, but I could not. I did not know if he was dark or fair even; and there was nobody who would tell me. It was only then that I felt, “Why am I not of the age of my younger brother Kittu” Then, nobody would suspect me, nobody would hide things from me. Kittu was always with my father; he was always sitting by my father’s side, listening to his discussions with my mother. Nothing could be learnt from Kittu, however. If I were only Kittu, how clearly would I follow the entire discussions!

I was married to a rich widower; though he was fifty, his strong build showed no sign of middle age. At first sight, I did not dislike him. But I was upset when he insisted on my accompanying him to his place, immediately after our marriage.

What could I do? My father came with us to the railway station and took leave of us. I sat in a corner of the railway carriage. When the train started, my husband came and sat by my side and leisurely surveyed me; and as he was new to me and as I could not guess what sort of a person he was, I did not know what to do. I kept gazing towards the unshuttered door. His first words which came slow, “Are you sad to marry me?” stressed the fact that he was an old widower. As I gathered from his faltering voice somewhat of the storm raging in his mind, I just nodded, ‘No’. “But,” he added in a low tone, “it would be somewhat of a task. My eldest boy Ramu is somewhat obstinate. With him only, you will have to be cautious.” It was only then I knew that he had children. I had a mind to know how many they were. But could I ask? If I asked, what would he think of me? So, I thought it proper to keep mum.

When we reached his place, his car was waiting for us at the railway station. It was then I learnt that he had a daughter also; for, as soon as we were seated in the car he inquired of the driver, “Is Sundari at home?” and the reply came, “Yes, Sir, she is here.” Then he turned to me and said, “Don’t worry about Sundari. She is an innocent girl. You can easily take care of her.” I knew well enough what was in his mind.

The car stopped in front of a small bungalow and the servants were busy with the luggage. ‘Father’ came a shout from inside the house; and before we were at the door-step, a girl came running towards us. Yes, she was Sundari. Nestling in her parent’s embrace, she stared at me, while my husband gathered her up on his shoulders and walked in. As I stepped in behind him, a woman in a white saree, greeted me, and talking hold of the kuja which I carried in my right hand, she took me inside the house. I looked in vain for my husband’s eldest son, about whom he had warned me. He came downstairs quietly from his room, only when my husband called him later in the day, to come down for breakfast; and, even then, saying nothing, he went straight to his place next his father without lifting up his head. I looked at him from my hidden corner. And when he was asked, “Have you no school today?” I heard him mumble, “I have; but–” I was not able to see much of him afterwards. I was able to observe him only on that day; thereafter I could scarcely notice him.

Four years flew away. Not only was my husband very loving towards me but he never even once felt uneasy about my conduct in any particular. And I, too, regarded Sundari, as if she were my child. Only Ramu passed his days in the city attending college, except on the few occasions when he came home for the recess. When he topped the list of successful candidates in the B. A. degree examination, his father’s joy knew no bounds. He used to reply at once to his son’s letters and to send him every month whatever money he asked for. He did not even object to his proceeding to England forhigher study, but made all the necessary arrangements therefore accompanied him to Colombo to see him off and remained dumb stricken with grief for a whole week thereafter. But when he talked with me, it was always, about me; sometimes it may be about Sundari but, never, never, even casually, would he mention Ramu. What guilt of mine was this a punishment for? I admired Ramu’s brightness of face when I saw him, and I liked him. And whatever careful and elaborate attention his father might have given to his future requirements during his sojourn in England, Ramu must have felt the absence of a mother who would have anxiously and repeatedly advised him on the eve of his starting on such a long journey to take care of himself, and particularly to take care of his health. That day, I expressed to my husband in tremulous words my anxiety about the boy going alone to such a distant place at such a tender age; and he said, “If you like, speak to him yourself.” How can I talk freely with one with whom I had not talked before? But he could have spoken to me, at least a formal word of leave-taking.

My husband was proud of his son’s studies in England. If anybody asked him, “When is your son coming ?”, he would at once start off boasting, “He says that he will sit for all the examinations, ‘Why, sit only forthe I. C. S.?’ he says; his professors are all proud of him. Even Ranga Iyengar’s son who returned from England last week admits that it is so.”

One evening, when I had just returned home, and my husband had not returned from the club, our servant handed me a cablegram. I tore off the envelope and hurriedly glanced through the message. Ramu’s friend had cabled that Ramu was having high fever for over a week. I was oppressed on the one hand by the urgency of sending the message to my husband, and on the other hand, by the uneasiness due to having looked at the message. However, I hastened to send the message through a servant to the club. In ten minutes my husband had returned; and, without a word, he wrote a message and sent it to the telegraph office, while I looked on with an anxious face. Hanging down his head in grief, he went straight to his room and would not come out. Gently and slowly I stepped into his room and saw him lying in an easy chair, with his eyes closed and supporting his head with his hand. At the sound of my foot steps, he opened his eyes just for a moment and closed them enquiring, “Has Sundari gone to sleep?”  Apparently he did not believe in my joining him in his grief. My mind was oppressed. What could I do? I did not know how to induce my husband to share his grief with me. He could not take food as usual. And when he did not take his usual food, how could I by myself have my fill of food?

Thus, two days passed; on the third day–O! that day had never dawned–another cablegram! Anxiously, my husband read the message and dropped in his chair. What had happened? Terror-stricken, I ran to his side and picked up the message: Ramu was dead!

What could be worse? My husband had lost the apple of his eye and was distracted with grief. I did not know what to do. I too was over whelmed with grief. I wanted to gather my husband to my bosom and to sob with him in unison. But I had not the courage to go near him.

And in my dismay and extreme mental distress, an idea flitted frequently across my mind:

“Would that Ramu was my son!”