The Forgiveness of Radha

BY ‘ANANDA’
(Rendered by K. S. G. from the original story in Kannada)

The Goddess of Earth is alone

The equal of the housewife in forgiveness–

An old saying.

It was morning. I looked at the watch. It was already nearing eight, Padma had got up by six, looked into the cradle where Baby Aruna was sleeping, and left the room after adjusting the coverlet over his body. I used to get up by five o’clock every morning; but today, though I was awake by then, I continued to lie in bed ruminating various ideas. The hour lent itself to such a mood: such a calm spell of two hours! During the last three days I had been revolving in my mind the theme of a picture. “The Forgiveness of Radha” was to be its title. Lord Sri Krishna who had vouchsafed Madana–the Lord of Love–to the world has committed a fault in respect of Radha. Having promised to meet Radha he fails to keep his word. Radha waits in vain for her lover all the night: her impatience and anger reach the highest pitch: she has drowned herself in her tears: and become wan and worn by utter disappointment caused by her cruel Lord. Sri Krishna goes to her next morning beseeching her forgiveness. Seeing in front of her the Lord of the Universe, the slayer of demons, the beloved of a thousand Gopis–the mighty Krishna standing in humble penitence, her heart melts, her wounded pride is assuaged. Radha graciously forgives him….The more I think of this wonderful situation, the more entrancing it becomes. How shall I paint it? What should be the ground?....How shall I make up the colour scheme? The lines that should represent Radha and Krishna and the composition of the figures this moment should result in a proper balance and rhythm. Brooding over this artistic problem for two or three hours in the morning, I had arrived at a satisfactory solution and visualized the whole thing in my mind. All that remained to be done was to transfer my ideas on to paper. Again, I looked at the watch: still four minutes to eight. I resolved to get up on the stroke of eight–and allowed myself the indulgence of the few minutes that remained. At that moment appeared at the door Ra–no, Padma.

“Why–what is this? My right foot is itching this morning,”–she said as she started rubbing the sole of her foot against the door-step–“So–I must be rather careful today,” I said, trailing off the end of the sentence in a single sneeze, another omen of ill-luck. Baby Aruna started crying with a loud shriek that pierced through the very roof. Padma immediately went to him, took him up, rocked him in her arms, and came near my cot.

“Things don’t look well set today. Your right foot itching: my atomic bomb of a sneeze: well, both of us shall have to be careful today. Look out!” I said.

“Do you know why all this happened?”

“No–can’ you tell me why?”

“You were overcome by laziness today. That is why.”

“What do you mean by that? I was busy working all the time!”  I said, impressively putting as much dignity into my voice as I could.

“Oh! And what work may that be? Lying prone–without so much as moving a muscle of your limbs and blinking hard all the time!”

“You will never understand all that, Padma. In our profession, working with the brain is much more important than working with the hand.”

“Yes, let that be! Brain-work or hand-work–well, leave it alone: but first shake yourself up–and attend next to the work with your mouth in the shape of a well-cooked and deliciously seasoned dish of boiled peas that is awaiting you.”

Before Padma had pronounced the last word, I was galvanised into activity and moved quickly to get out of bed. But suddenly she said–“Ah–a little patience–Rest a little while, please”–and gently pushed me into bed. I was surprised. Boiled green peas are no good if they get cold.

“Why?” I asked somewhat intrigued.

“What is this?–Lying so late in bed–and then having brought out an ill-omened sneeze–you will get up from your left side on the top of it all.” Saying this, she set down Aruna, and rolling me over to my right side, pulled me out. But of what avail? I had by then more than half got up from my left side.

I gave strict instructions to Padma that no one was to be allowed to disturb me that day, that I would be engaged in finishing the picture–that if anyone called they were to be told that I was not “at home”. I am using the phrase “strict instructions” merely for my own satisfaction: Padma always enjoys exemption from these strict injunctions. She knows it and carries out the orders with her own reservations.

I ate the boiled peas; washed it down with a cup of coffee by 9 o’clock, and sat down in my studio working on the picture. I never stirred from the place till 3 in the afternoon. The picture was three-quarters finished–. A forest ground, a bakula tree in the foreground at the right hand corner. Leaning against it, the raised right arm placed against a branch, the left arm poised on the hip, with her partly turned away from Krishna, the fair one, supple like a creeper, is standing in a pose possible only to the graceful Radha–the jewel among the Gopis. Though with her to the Lord, her heart seemed to be turned towards him judging by her loving side-glance, her head slightly inclined, claiming Him for her own. A bewitching smile is playing on her finely formed lips, and she seems to be drowning her lover in the nectar of her sweet affection. The Lord who measured the entire Universe in three steps in His avatar, as Vamana–the tamer of Bali’s pride–is seen sitting at the feet of Radha, taking her left foot on to his right lap–and placing on it as a gift his flute whose music thrills all creation, sentient and insentient. He has lifted up his face to her, his looks full of meek submission and fervent appeal. Over Radha’s head is seen the branch of the bakula tree, its flowers all opened out like so many eyes, its leaves like so many ears all agog with eagerness to hear what the two lovers might say to each other at this moment, and to see how this love quarrel would end. The situation opens out an endless vista–to the farthest limit of one’s genius, and to the highest flight of one’s imagination. It is full of aesthetic possibility–this unique drama of love. I had lavished all the artistic power of which I was capable in visualizing this scene and giving a shape to it in this picture. I had only to devote an hour more, and the picture would be completed. Just then I relaxed for a moment, leaned on my seat, my eye playing over the picture, and my brush dipped in one colour or the other, giving a few finishing touches here and there; just at that moment came an interruption–the usual exception to my “strict injunction” not to be disturbed. Why should I express surprise that Padma walked in–anyone might well ask. But there is a reason–a very good reason for my mentioning it. Padma would never approach me in a matter-of-fact, prosaic style. She had as many styles as the lotus has petals. If it were a matter of asking for a little money, she adopted one style. If it was to ask for a “Prabhat” sari or “Bandhan” bangles, the gait was different. By the way she made up to me of a morning I could see that she wished to go to a picture that evening. If she was trying to pull my leg she assumed a different style altogether. If she had decided on going to her mother’s home, that was unmistakably shown in the way she moved towards me. If she had to make a report of Aruna’s doings, whether I was busy or otherwise didn’t make the slightest difference to her. And as she sailed in and began her narration, her words took a poetic turn and were delivered in rhythmic cadence in complete accord with the subject matter of the narration. There was no ‘blank verse’–nothing so colourless ever escaped her lips on such occasions. But today the style of Padma’s approach was altogether different from any usually adopted by her. Shall I call it the “Chandamaruta Kranta” measure? In whatever way she approached me, it produced pleasurable feelings in me, usually. But today it would have been well if she had left me alone for another half-hour or so. My picture would have been finished and I would have been in a mood to welcome her, whatever the style of her movement. But this interruption–it was trying. Her woman’s heart would not yield precedence to anything else in claiming my attention. This is proper feeling for a woman in respect of the lord of her affections. In my own conception of the Radha Krishna picture which I was composing, a similar idea was also brought out in a way. Krishna is the centre of affection of thousands of Gopis. Sitting at the feet of Radha–Krishna has shown approval, for the time being, of the idea that the woman’s heart seeks the exclusive attention of her lover. How should it cease to be applicable in the case of me–who is the creator of this picture? The Radha of that day is the Padma of today: the same woman’s heart in both: the only difference is that of time–Radha, belonged to a past age while Padma belonged to this. But if she stood upon her rights in this fashion–and it became habit with her–what should happen to my normal work? Where would I be if Padma kept on interrupting me every now and then in this inconsiderate way? It was not in her nature to appreciate the importance of the work in which I was engaged: she did not waste a thought on my convenience or wishes in this matter. We had both made a solemn pact early in our married life, four years ago–to regulate the politics of domestic life. This was an agreement we had entered into of our own free wills; that we should not interfere with each other’s sphere of duties, that each should look upon the other’s work with feelings of regard and respect. For my part I have been observing the terms of this sacred (sacred to whom?–Is more than what I can say) pact in letter and in spirit. But Padma?–This Hitler of a woman has broken the pact every day–all through the weeks and months of all these years, in her own non-chalant, defiant manner! And what is more–she is ready to justify every breach of hers with sharp arguments. God created man; and as if to test his intelligence He put a problem before him in the form of a, woman. I had read something like this somewhere and forgot who said it. Some poor fellow! But words precious as gold!

There was a peremptory reason for Padma’s raid on my studio today. I glanced in her direction without lifting my head–noticed the ‘reason’ perched on her shoulder. Truly there was something unusual and strange about Aruna; and it was not surprising that Padma rushed in as she did. I knew what a bundle of mischief this two-year child was,–Padma knew it even better than I did. She liked nothing so much as to recount to me all his hundred acts of mischief on a hundred occasions! She would not be content with describing it at one sitting and being done with the subject–but loved to do it piecemeal and severally at any and every hour. And she would not allow any time to elapse, but break in upon me with a colorful account of the latest prank of the child–at all odd hours. Today Aruna seems to have invaded the worship-room in the house. His face and hands and the front portion of his silk frock were all smeared over with turmeric and vermilion.

“Please leave your painting for a moment. Look here–look at this painting,” said Padma approaching me with Aruna jumping up and down on her shoulder. “Ah yes! And a fine picture he makes–the painter and the picture both seem to have become one! Well, what happened?”–I asked. “Nothing much! Your precious son started offering worship today. And this is the great result!” she said with a mother’s pride.

“Seeing the way he has used up all the articles of worship on himself, your son seems to have treated God with scant courtesy!” I said shaking my head.

“It is difficult to say that yet–but one thing is certain–”

“And that is?–”

“He beats his father in mixing colours! Is that not so, baby?” Saying this she came closer and stood behind my .

Aruna did not understand our talk, or he did not approve of it all–or he wanted to register his protest–whatever the reason, he gave expression to his violent dissatisfaction by giving a sudden kick at my elbow. It was a catastrophe!

The brush was in my hand. Aruna’s kick sent it flying on to the picture where it made an ugly patch right across the painting. The picture was ruined beyond repair. The work of six long hours was undone in the twinkling of an eye. My anger became uncontrollable. I roared like thunder. I broke the brush into two and threw it away. I kicked the box of colours with my foot. I tore up the picture into bits and scattered them on Padma. My indignation was too strong for words. I clenched my fist till the fingers tingled red with blood, and faced her with eyes glaring with fury. Aruna, seeing all this, broke out into a laugh. But Padma quivered in fear observing my fierce mood. Apprehending that I might do something violent to the child, she folded him close to her breast and stood trembling from head to foot. In the fire of wrath that issued from my eyes, Padma withered and sank in a moment.

For a while neither of us spoke. Aruna was stupefied,–and looked now my face and now at hers. Padma broke the silence. She looked at my burning eyes with a tender look, and said in a soft voice:

“W-h-at for–are you so angry?”

“What for–what–for? Have you no eyes that you ask me?–What for, indeed! Get out of here!” I shouted.

“But it has happened–what can one do about it?” she said in the most gentle manner, coming nearer and placing her hands on my shoulders.

“Yes, it has happened–it is all over and done–I am dead now–go and perform the obsequies.” I shouted aloud.

Padma usually was never frightened by my anger nor bowed before it. She had got accustomed to my temper–had tamed it, in fact–these four years on many occasions. But today it was a new experience. My temper had taken an unexpectedly violent turn. And in its blind wayward course, two words had escaped my lips–such as I had never spoken before –such as should never have been spoken at all! Hearing my last words, she crumpled up and collapsed. She closed her ears with her hands–unable to hear any more–and cried”–Ah! Rama–Rama! No more –I cannot live any more!”

And taking up the child she walked away as abruptly as she had come.

The moment Padma left the studio, I began to sober down. Her parting words of anguish pierced my heart. I stood still for a moment and looked at the brush that I had broken and cast on the floor. I noticed the scattered pieces containing my painting that I had torn up in my rage, and the broken paint box which I had kicked aside. I heaved a heavy sigh. I had been revolving in my mind the theme of this picture for four days, had spent six long hours in making it, and now it had all come to this. The thought of all this pained my heart: on the other hand I had used cruel words–ah, too cruel–towards my life’s partner and pronounced on her the terrible curse of widowhood: this filled me with deep remorse. My mind was dulled with pain; and I stood in a daze. It was pain, rather than blood–that seemed to course through my veins. I had hardly strength to stand. I went to the sofa and stretched myself on it, immersed in thought....What, after all, had I lost? Just a little paper–some paint–a picture that I had myself made–and could make again if I sat at it for six hours. If I could not, what was my worth as an artist? And it was possible that my next attempt would be an improvement on the present one. So the personal loss was not so great after all that I should have flown into such a fit of rage, losing all self-control. I remembered the story of Newton who displayed extraordinary patience under similar circumstances when he had sustained a more grievous loss. Early in his career all his work was accidentally burnt up owing to the mischief of his dog–and how well he controlled himself on that occasion! And what had I done–the work of a mere six hours spoilt by an accident caused by my dear child–and I had raved like a mad man, turning the flood, of my wrath on his mother. As soon as I realised this contrast between the great Newton and myself, I cursed myself. And how much Padma meant to me! She helped to give fulfillment to my life–and always thought only of my happiness. I had treated her worse than a dog! How wretched was my wrath! And when I came to think on it, my picture was just a daub of paint, a lifeless object–a mere trifle in my life: an innocent child had spoilt it, by accident. And in return, what had I done–its father–the man of years and discretion? If I had not become blinded by my passion, it should be now hanging before me with its lovely, entrancing theme. I thought of the mother’s pride as she came in with her child jumping on her shoulder. I had destroyed a fine picture that breathed with feeling–what a sinner! My Aruna had spoilt the picture–I too had ruined another–wasn’t I his father? Yes– in how many places, in how many ways the pictures of the Divine Creator are getting ruined, and torn into pieces. But if the Divine Father were also as short-tempered as I, where would we be?

The picture was destroyed; it must be restored. I got up. I went seeking Padma. She was lying in her bed-room, sobbing bitterly with her face pressed to the pillow. Aruna was sitting by her, sucking a Japanese rubber doll of Krishna. Standing on the door-step I gazed on this scene. My legs refused to enter the room. Padma was my wife–and I was her lord–this feeling at the moment made me keep at a distance. No, I was standing as a culprit outside the temple of the goddess of my good fortune, who had turned away from me in just indignation. I was hoping that Padma would lift her head and see me. I brought out a cough once or twice. Fond hope! She was not likely to stir or soothe her anguish if I coughed myself inside out all the day! I went in gently and sat by her side on the cot. I softly touched her shoulder. She did not move. My touch only rekindled her grief. She buried her face more close and wept in silence. At a loss how to proceed, I looked this side and that and turned my attention to Aruna. I grinned at him as if asking for his intervention in this crisis. He merely opened his tiny mouth and made a meaningless “A-hchchi”. I was dismayed: but as if to reassure me he brought out the sound “A-hchchi” again. ‘You have saved me’, I said to myself and took him on to my lap. To caress the baby is the best and most unfailing approach to win a mother’s favour. I wished to try this device and gave him an articulate kiss, and opened conversation with him. But his reply was wholly irrelevant. He rained two or three blows on my face with his rubber doll (fine rubber indeed), and threw it on the floor after sucking it. But to my face it tasted so different from what it did to his mouth! And then he stamped his tiny palm, all wet with spittle and coloured with turmeric and vermilion, on my shirt. And then he tried to separate my nose from my face, fancying it to be some toy! Failing to dislodge it with his hand, he applied his mouth to it. I shrieked with pain. O Lord! It is all very well to say he is a little baby–with a small mouth and sprouting teeth. But then the bite? It was pretty impressive: the pain was fairly severe – though of a temporary character. But the mark left on the nose! Well, it would take at least eight days to heal–which meant I should be a prisoner at home during this period–without the face to go out–on account of the prank of this mischievous brat. And what a punishment! It was too ridiculous for words. And looking at Aruna, I exclaimed, “See the fine work you have done, you little monkey–though someone else possibly has to bear the blame of it. Even if I swore on the Bhagavad Gita that you are the culprit, no one would be inclined to believe me.–So I shall be a detenu for eight days, all on account of you!” He again eyed my nose as if to say that the period should be increased to a month–and should not be merely for eight days. But I was on my guard and told him, “Look here, little fellow! All the calamities of today are on account of you–and you have got to set them right.” But he was unperturbed–as if he had no responsibility for any of the happenings of the day and simply expectorated “Gee-Geedl” He shook his head from side to side, clapped his hands and ended by exploding with a “bur” squirting a quantity of saliva on to my face.

“All right–I own it is all my fault–I have received blow, bite and been spitted upon– and condemned, in addition, to undergo eight days’ imprisonment. Why then are you angry any more–the more I make up you?” I said to him–but really addressing my wife through him. Padma was still silent, and motionless. “Well, look here, little fellow! Manage somehow to get your mother to look at me–and I shall get you butter biscuits, a silver rattle–a ‘Shanta Apte’ sari–everything”–I said again to Aruna–and lifted him on to Padma’s shoulder. He immediately put her hand to her plait of hair and crying “Hey! Hey! “ started tugging at it. Padma had no option but to turn her face. She slowly released his hold on her plait and gently slipped him to the other side of her. When doing this she had perforce to turn her face and take a look at me. My appearance at the moment must have seemed to her perfectly ridiculous. But she did not laugh: that would spoil the (tragic) drama. Woman is normally not so simple a creature–and in such a crisis! It is only those who have been caught in such a situation that can realise what it means. If she continue her look she might be forced to laugh; but laugh she shouldn’t–that was her resolve–so Padma once again hid her face. When her face was turned towards me for that brief moment, I had hopes she would relent, with a little, further effort on my part. Though she was silent, there was a slight shaking in her body. Was she weeping again–or was she laughing at the way my nose was bitten by the baby?–I could hardly guess. Anyhow, Padma was gradually getting round. I moved a little closer, bent down and placed my hand on her shoulder; and in a voice that should have melted even a stone I called out “Padma.”

No reply. She merely shrugged her shoulders to shake off my hand.

“Padmaji.”

Again another shrug of her shoulder. “Padma, Padma Rani, Padma Sudha, Padmakshi, Padmamba, Padma Devi,” I said, stroking her shoulder with every word. What–do you want me to chant all the eighteen names of the goddess as they do in the temple?”

But the goddess had taken a vow of silence. Realising that words were not of much avail, I turned her face towards mine. But it proved fruitless: the eye–which is the centre of expression in the face–was closed. Her face was all wet with her tears–and was flushed with grief–and appeared true to her name. The laugh had come upto her lips but stood arrested. I wished to draw it out–and so bent further. At this moment–I don’t know how she guessed my purpose though her eyes were shut–she put her hand against her mouth and said:

“Go, please”–still with eyes shut.

“Where shall I go?–why are you so angry, Padma?” I said, pulling her hands towards me. But she quickly released her hand from my grasp, and still with eyes shut said,

“Go away, please. I should not exist any longer.”

“What should happen then?”

“Please don’t talk to me. I do not exist, I don’t exist at all!”

“How can I believe it? If I put out my hand, you are still perceptible to my touch”

“Don’t touch me at all”

“That is certainly not possible! Oh, ho.”

“Why o-h-o about it; there is no o h-o about it”

“Look here, Padma! Please put an end to this play-acting–it is all feigned–I know it very well”

At this she opened her eyes and sat up. What had been terribly real to her, I had called ‘play-acting’ and ‘feigning’.

“Tell me–where is my drama or play-acting any more? You have made an end of it with a word from your lips”–And as she said this, her eyes filled with tears and overflowed.

“Well–forget all about it, what should be done if you get so angry?”

“What fine words you speak! Who got angry?–Is it to get angry that I married you?”

“But then seeing what has happened, that seems to have been the chief purpose–” I said.

“On the other hand–it is to suffer your anger–to wither and be scorched by it that I came into your house”

“Siva–Siva! Siva–Siva! what bitter words you speak, Padma.”

“Yes, yes–my words are bitter–but the words that came out of your of mouth are pearls of priceless worth, I suppose?”

“I never claimed that.”

“Do what you like–after I am dead and burnt.”

“No, Padma–I grant that the words I spoke were bad–true–let’s grant it. Thinking over it calmly now I realise they were very bad indeed–but–”

“Yes–proceed–but what?”

“When one is angry–and that too all on a sudden–and by accident–one has not time to think over one’s words–you know that very well–words simply pour out of their own accord.”

“Fine accident–fine suddenness indeed! Your picture was spoilt–True. But did I come in with that intention? Or did the child kick you with any such motive? You tell me, yourself”

“Leave it alone–Padma–Forget all about it.”

“Ah–ah–now it is ‘Padma, forget all about it.’ Fine saying indeed!”

“Why is this, Padma. Even a Court of Law looks with lenience on acts done in a fit of anger and provocation–but you–”

“I don’t want to hear about your Courts and cases! In this court–this is the rule–hereafter.”

“What?–And hereafter?”

“I am the servant of your house–the sweeper of your rooms.”

“So our servant-maid Kempi should be dismissed, I suppose?”

“Yes, dismissed–why should she continue?”

“Well!–Then who should do the cooking?”

“Yes–I am the cook in addition–That is all. What further?” I felt like laughing–the conversation was sliding into the frivolous.

“How can it be ‘That is all’–Padma?” said I laughing.

“That is indeed all–How can it be otherwise?”

“You have forgotten, then, the pact we entered into at the time of marriage”

“What pact?”

“The priest who recited the mantras spoke of dharma, artha, kama, moksha, progeny and so on–I can recall it vividly as if I am hearing it now”

“Yes, what doubt is there?–dharma, karma, artha have all been done–and in the fire of your anger, kama has been burnt up–and in one single word, you have also given me moksha. And then–here is one member of your Progeny–yes, all the terms of the pact have been duly fulfilled. Now you may say whatever you please.”

“And you?”

“I have said–already.”

“For how many days–or, rather how long?”

“As long as I remain merely a servant in your house.”

“I never said you were merely a servant.”

“What else am I? Is it necessary I should be more explicit.”

“How can it ever be–‘A servant when at work–a counsellor at the ear–a mother at dinner, a Padma in her looks–you know the lines–Ah! ah–Padma–And then there is something about forgiveness and mother earth–a whole bundle of virtues at the end–you know the verse, Padma dear?”

“I am no longer ‘Padma dear’–I am only the fuel to feed your anger.”

“See, Padma–you are again harping on the same thing–You are making too much ado about nothing: making out a pie’s worth of anger as if it were a rupee worth.”

“Indeed! If this is a pie’s worth I wonder what the rupee worth will be like,” said Padma, raising her eyebrows and shaking her head.

“Well, that isn’t difficult to calculate–you have only to multiply by a hundred and ninety two,” said I laughing.

“So there is a rupee worth of anger in store for me–well–my life is hardly worth living then,” she said touching her forehead.

“Look here, Padma, it all depends upon what value we attach to things–in other words–your view-point chiefly. For instance, take a lemon-fruit. Looked through a magnifying glass it looks as big as a gourd, But what of that–the gourd is still a gourd and the lemon only a lemon.”

“Yes, I agree–But tell me what money should be spent or what viewpoint would make the bitter gourd a mango fruit?

“Don’t think it is impossible–it is all easy to the power of yoga,–as easy as drinking water.”

“Well it may be so–as easy as sipping water or coffee as you please. But do think calmly–tell me what fault I committed–and I will correct myself.”

“No–no–no–The fault is wholly mine. I have owned it: and there is no further appeal. But it seems to have been predestined that it should all happen like this today–by the itching in your foot to start with and the sneezing in my nose. So saying I felt my nose. It was still smarting. Padma broke out into a loud laugh as she noticed it.

“He has served you right for sneezing the first thing in the morning,” she said.

“And for eight days more I cannot even sneeze–not even a half or a quarter sneeze.”

“And let that nose never more be guilty of a single sneeze.”

“And if you remember the familiar saying that anger is perched on the tip of the nose, well, it is all remedied today–There is no more fear of that!”

“I won’t say that.”

“What will make you believe me?”

“Give it to me in writing.”

“Oh yes, certainly. You write it out and I shall sign the declaration.” Padma got up and fetched paper and pen. After spending some time in thought, she started writing. After putting down the address and date at the right hand corner, she wrote down: “….This is the undertaking I give to my wife and partner in life, of my own free will and accord without any compulsion whatsoever. Today is the last occasion. Hereafter–whatever happens I will never lose my temper.”

“I say, what is all this? It is very unfair. I who eat all kinds of things, sweet, sour, saltish, pungent–”

“Please keep silent for a minute. Don’t interrupt me–” she continued;

“And even if I should lapse into anger, the words ‘dead’, ‘obsequies’

“Won’t you stop it? I swear–but absolve me from taking an oath–won’t you?”

“Hush,” she said turning to me with her finger on her lip “–shall never escape my lips. This I swear on your name. If–I ever break this declaration; for each such occasion, a hundred rupees–”

“Very exorbitant!”

“Shall be paid by me.” She finished writing and pushed the paper before me for my signature with a chuckle in her voice.

“Sign it” she said. I signed the paper and said–“But who is to be the witness? No document is valid unless it is attested by a witness.”

“Oh yes–I shall bring in a witness and have it attested.” Saying this she brought in Aruna, and scraping together all the colour that stuck to his dress and mixing it with his spittle, smeared it on the palm of his right hand. She stamped an impression of his palm below the written declaration, and added below the words, “Witness: Aruna–the mark of his right palm.” And as if the document required to be carefully preserved, she folded it, and tucked it in her jacket.

I sat up the whole of the next day and repainted the picture “Radha’s Forgiveness.” I painted Radha standing in the forest, taking Padma as my model. When I had finished the picture, Padma came–looked at the picture and broke out into a loud laugh.

“How clever you are!” she said.

“Why?” I asked.

“You have made me Radha all right–But you?”

“What about me?”

“Poor gentleman–I suppose it is shameful for you to be holding Radha’s feet”

“So you suggest I should become Krishna–do you?”

“Only in the picture–that is all!”

Something I had mentioned yesterday escaped my mind. But Padma is not the sort to forget such things. She went to the bazaar in the evening and put a bill into my hand on her return.

“One pound of butter biscuits: one silver rattle–one ‘Shanta Apte’ or ‘Bandhan’ or ‘Kangan’ sari. Total Rs. 78-12-0 only.” I must be thankful for small mercies. She had allowed me a discount of Rs. 21-4-0 as it was only my first offence!