Triveni Journal

1927 | 11,233,916 words

Triveni is a journal dedicated to ancient Indian culture, history, philosophy, art, spirituality, music and all sorts of literature. Triveni was founded at Madras in 1927 and since that time various authors have donated their creativity in the form of articles, covering many aspects of public life....

Love is Blind

Prof. N. S. Phadke

(A SHORT STORY)

BY Prof. N. S. PHADKE, M.A.

(Rajaram College, Kolhapur)

When the train whistled and started she once again looked at her father standing on the platform, and raising her voice a little, said, “I’ll let you know how my business succeeds. And I’ll try my best to return on Monday.”

She could not hear what her father said but she continued to stand peeping through the window, and did not move although the train went across the bridge and people on the platform looked like lunch of jumbled figures. The thick grove of Babul trees on the outskirts of her village was moving past her eyes; their tops looked tender and green owing to the recent heavy showers; the tall and thick stalks of cornfield waved in the wind, the rays of the sun shining on their dark green blades as on the surface of a lake; far away at the foot of the hill she could see the grazing sheep making clusters of dark spots; and the tin roof of the little temple on the hill-top glinted to brightly that it hurt the eye. There was a distinct promise all around in nature that the approaching Dasara holidays were going to be a festival of plenty and joy.

But was there a promise of happiness for everyone?…

With a heavy sigh she drew from the window and sat on the bench where she had already placed her things.

Now she noticed that there were very few people in the compartment. This was unusual and she was surprised. There were half a dozen rustic women, an old man leaning on a big stick, a middle-aged fellow guarding a load of wares who was evidently a trader, and beyond him.

She started as her eyes fell on the young man in the farthest corner who had closed his eyes and rested his head on the hard wooden side of the compartment.

She had never seen such a beautiful young man before.

His clothes were simple but very clean and fresh from the laundry. He was exceedingly fair, had dark waving hair, and the lashes of his closed eyes were long.

She made a slight nervous movement trying to look away and adjust the end of her sari which covered her bosom. A smile came on her face as she thought that it was foolish on her part to be so embarrassed. In the first place his eyes had not met hers. And, again, even if he had seen her there would have been no cause for her to blush. Only pretty women blushed; and she was almost ugly. She knew that everyone in her little home-town had long ago decided that Vatsala, the daughter of Mr. Deshpande, was an ugly duckling, dark, uncouth, with a pock-marked face. She had come to learn that ugliness was an insurmountable hurdle in her way when she passed her first University examination she had decided not to be a burden to her father and to pay her way through the remaining years at the college. She had frantically tried to secure a job. She was prepared to do any sort of work, but no one was willing to have her and she knew in her mind of minds that it was her ugly face that made peoples send her away with a refusal. She was now going to Poona to try for a new job, butt there was doubt and fear in her heart more than hope. Her application had been approved and she had been called for an interview. But when she would present herself....

Vatsala had often cursed her face.

She was tempted to look at the young man again, and summoning courage she did so. He moved his right hand, and with its palm pressed the locks of hair which were being blown by the strong breeze. But he did not open his eyes.

Vatsala was surprised at this. She was terribly curious to know whether his eyes were as dark as his hair. Her heart beat with nervousness but she kept gazing at him. It was rather very strange, but the young man kept his eyes closed. He would not open them. She wondered in what deep contemplation he was lost.

There was a Tumble of the wheels as the train neared the next station. Now he will open his eyes, Vatsala thought. The train halted; the old man with the big stick got down; a few fresh passengers climbed into the compartment with their loads; there was a whistle and the train moved on. But the young man did not open his eyes.

Then a suspicion occurred to Vatsala and she minutely looked at the lids of his eyes.

Yes, she had guessed correctly. The young man was blind!

She was deeply moved. It was a pity that such exceptional masculine beauty was cursed with blindness. Could anything be more tragic? A surge of sympathy for the young man rose in her heart. When she had first noticed him in the compartment she had said to herself, ‘How handsome!’ But now, watching him she said to herself “Poor dear”, “Poor dear” She wanted to know who he was, where he lived, and what sort of life he led. Her mind was filled with curiosity about him.

After a while big dark clouds gathered in the skies, winds blew, and a downpour started.

Vatsala quickly drew the shutter of the window.

She noticed that the window near which the young man sat was open and gusts of rain were coming in. “She got up and drew down its shutter. The young man smiled and said,” “Thank you.”

She said, “Will you please move a little to your left, because although I have shut the window water is rushing in through the chinks? May I move your suit-case?”

He obeyed her like a child. And that made Vatsala think that it must be the lot of the blind people to be always obeying some one. How helpless they were, poor dears!

She was about to resume her seat when he asked, ‘How far are you going?’ She replied, “I am going to Poona. Where are you going?”

Bombay.”

“But you have no one with you?”

“How can I always get some one with me? A friend put me in this train at Miraj. Now another friend will meet me at the Poona station, and put me in the Bombay train. Someone will also be present at the Victoria Terminus to receive me.”

“But don’t you need assistance on the way?”

“Yes, I need it, and I am usually lucky to get it. For instance, didn’t I get it just now?” He laughed.

But she did not. He was taking his curse of blindness lightly, and even making fun of it. But this did not amuse her. On the contrary, she was struck by the pathos that was concealed behind his jovial laughter.

She asked him, “Do you always live in Bombay?”

He did not make any reply. He was so intently listening to the quality of her voice that the meaning of her words did not quickly reach his mind. Vatsala, however, thought that he wanted to avoid her question, and she wondered about it.

After a while he asked, “Have you moved away to your seat?”

His question surprised Vatsala. How did he know that she had moved away? But then she remembered that the blind are usually very sensitive to movement and sound. While she was thinking of how there is a law of compensation in nature, he gave her a further shock of surprise by asking, “It was your father, I believe, who had come to see you off at the station?”

So this young man had listened to the talk between herself and her father when she got into the train! And just as she had watched him closely with her eyes he must have listened to all her talk. This thought was enough to embarrass her.

But she remembered his question and said, “Yes, it was my father who had come to see me off.” And somehow, before she knew what she was doing she was telling him about the job in Poona for which she was trying.

He listened to her talk, but he seemed to be more attentive to the sweetness of her words and the music of her voice. For, a broad smile came on his face as though he was enjoying some rare delight.

A little before dusk the rains stopped, The sky was still overcast with clouds and so the light was very dull, Vatsala looked out of the window. Nature seemed to be so enveloped in sombre sadness that to look at it was enough to touch the hidden chords in the human heart, and to draw out some deep-lying yearning. It is in a moment like this that poetry is born. Or you feel like calling after someone very dear to your heart whom you cannot reach. Or, you are moved to hum the lines of song laden with the longing of a love-sick heart.

Vatsala began to sing in a subdued voice.

“How long shall I wait for you my beloved?
I am roaming through the woods and searching,
But there is no end to this journey.
Where are you my dearest? And how shall I find you?”

Gradually she forgot herself. Her voice slowly rose to a higher pitch and she sang– 

“There’s a rustle in the leaves of trees;
There is an aching flutter in my heart;
Come to me my dearest–”

She suddenly stopped because she noticed that somebody was softly keeping a beat to the rhythm of her song.

She turned round. The young man had placed his lap and was beating the rhythm with his fingers on its leather cover.

She blushed.

He asked, “why did you stop? Please go on.”

She kept silent.

He said, “The next lines of the song are even more touching, I know. Sing them. Please.”

“But I have never learnt to sing.”

“But you have the rare gift of a lovely voice.”

She started to sing again, but now she was conscious that he was listening to her and this awareness spoiled her freedom and her abandon. As soon as she finished the song she said, “Do you know what a poor singer I am?”

He said, “No, I only know how cleverly you can lie when you mean to. You said you didn’t learn to sing. I cannot believe you.”

“Cannot believe me? Good!” She broke into laughter and then for a long time kept looking at him.

As the train was nearing the Poona station he took out a small note-book from his pocket and holding it out to her said,

“Will you mind writing your name and address here? I am not a big man deserving to be remembered by you, but you may as well keep this visiting card with you.”

Vatsala wrote her name and address in the notebook and handed it to him. Then she looked at his card.

Vishwanath K. Pandit,
Golden Voice Gramophone Co.,
Bombay.

At the Poona station a well-dressed gentleman came searching for the blind young man. Before going away with him he moved near her and asked, “I hope you will remember me.”

“Yes, certainly.”

On her way from the station to the city Vatsala again and again thought of the incident in the train. She had made a fool of herself and sung to a perfect stranger. He must have decided to himself that she was a thoughtless simple girl. He must have surely laughed at her….The only consolation was that there was no chance of her meeting him again, and so it did not matter if he had taken her for a fool….

Her thoughts then turned to the interview which she was due to have on the next day. If it came off well everything would be all right and there would be an end to her worries.

But her worries did not end.

The interview did not prove satisfactory. The job was given to another lady. Vatsala decided that her ugly face had once again ruined her chances. She was terribly hurt. For a long time she felt very miserable and hopeless. But then gradually she recovered from the shock. There came in her heart a sort of desperation. If life was going to be unfriendly to her, she thought, she must not go under and give up the struggle. She must rather fight . She decided not to go home until she got a job. Any job would do. Any salary. Twenty chips, fifteen chips!

Her father kept writing to her asking her to return. But she did not go. She had not succeeded in securing a job but her resolve had not weakened. One day she received from her father a thick long envelope. In the left hand top corner of it she found the letters “Golden Voice Gramophone Co. Bombay” printed in attractive style. Her home address was typed on it, but her father had scratched it and written her new address in its place. She opened the envelope and read the typed letter.

“I have no idea if you are still in Poona or have returned home. But I hope this will reach your hands wherever you are. I want to make a request–call it a business proposal if you like–taking advantage of the slight acquaintance which I had the pleasure of making in the train. Our Company will soon start its recording session. It has been our policy during the past years not only to record the music of well-known artists put also to discover new talent and introduce them to the public. People always want something new. I very much wish to record your songs and I shall be very much obliged if you come down to Bombay for the purpose. The Company will pay all your expenses and will also, if you suggest, arrange for your stay. If you intimate to us the date of your arrival and the train by which you intend to come I shall arrange to have our man meet you at the Victoria Terminus. Please, therefore, let
me know as early as possible your decision in the matter.

“I forgot to write one thing. The Company will record four songs from you and will pay you one hundred rupees!!”
One hundred rupees?

This was incredible! Vatsala could not believe it.

And when after a few days the records of her songs had been made and she was asked to put her signature on the usual contract she could not believe her eyes. But when she signed the contract and picked up the currency notes which the accountant placed on the table she found no gladness in her heart. On the contrary, she experienced a deep regret at the thought that her business was over. She did not want to go away.

She new that Vishwanath was very ill and she could not bear the idea of leaving him. She had spent two weeks in Bombay and she had begun to experience an attachment for him. He had been awfully kind to her. How he had fretted and worried over the recording arrangements and how anxious he had been to see that her songs were perfectly recorded. How sweetly he had helped her to overcome her nervousness, and what clever tricks he had used to make her feel at home when she had been put on her first trial. And how constantly he had looked after her comfort....

He was laid down with an attack of fever on the very next day after the recording had been finished, and had been confined to bed for the last four days. She had sat by his side and nursed him. Her heart melted whenever she had to move away from his bed. And now she was going to leave him for good.

During his illness he would often hold her hand and lie still. Her hand would understand what his hand said. Sometimes he would speak out a few words and express his feelings, and then her mind would be very much troubled. She wanted to hold his love with both her hands. But then she would ask herself, was it not quite natural for him to imagine that she was handsome? Would it be right to take advantage of his innocence and to deceive him? Would he have drawn her to him if he could see her face? Was it not her duty to tell him the truth and have done with everything? In moments like these she would be torn with the torture of temptation and indecision, and she would find it difficult to hold her tears.

“Once her tears dropped on his hand. He startled and asked,

“Vatsala, are you crying?”

She said, “No.”

He lifted his hand and his fingers, groping her arm, then her throat, then her cheeks, rested on her eyes. And wiping her tears he said:

“Don’t cry. Are you silly?”

She pressed his hand and said, “How good and kind you have been. I can never forget your obligations.”

He laughed feebly and said, “To talk like this is even more silly than crying. Come, wipe away your tears and read out to me the book which you read out to me yesterday.”

Then she got up and picking up the book began to read from it. Listening to her sweet voice he went to sleep like a child. She had then found it impossible to move from him without softly putting her lips to his hand, which still rested in hers.

And now she was going to leave him for good! She managed to put off the moment of parting as long as she could. Once she even decided to leave a note for him and go away without seeing him. But she thought it too wicked to do so. When at last she went to him the day had ended and night had already fallen. His room was dimly lit.

As soon as he heard her footsteps, he said, “Is that you, Vatsala?” There was eagerness in his voice. He must have been anxiously waiting for her.

As soon as she sat near him, he held her hand. She thought of disengaging it, but she could not do it.

He said, “I have no fever today. Tomorrow we will go to the studio together.”

“Tomorrow? How is that possible?”

“Why not?”

“My business is over. The Company has paid me. I have received one hundred rupees. My father would never believe that I have earned such a fortune. Even I do not believe it. All this has been to me an incredible dream….”

She was trying to conceal her real feelings under her talk and her laughter. Vishwanath easily saw through this. He said, “Aren’t you going to listen to me?”

“Yes?”

“We will go to the studio tomorrow.”

“No. I want to go home.”

“But how can I let you go? You came because I called you. Didn’t you? How can you run away then without saying good-bye?”

“I am not running away. In fact, I came just now because I wanted to say good-bye.”

“Can you leave me so casually? Is it so easy and simple for you to say good-bye? Vatsala, why are you silent? Why don’t you say something?”

She kept looking at him. He was so terribly handsome. And she was an ugly woman. She made a desperate effort not to let her heart melt, and said:

“I must leave tomorrow. I have to.”

His fingers made a caressing movement on the of her hand, and the words came slowly from his lips, “Don’t you have any compassion for me? Vatsala, don’t you understand that I love you? I had been clinging to the hope that you will accept my love and never go away from me. Will you crush my hope and go?”
She collected all the strength of her resolve, and said:

“Vishwanath, listen. It seems you have an illusion about me. If I kept your illusion and consented to link my life with yours I shall be only doing you a great harm. How could I do that? I can never do anything that will hurt you because, in the first place you, are my benefactor, and besides, I love you very much.”

“Vatsala, do you really love me?”

“Yes, very much, very much. I cannot tell you how much.”

“And yet you talk of going away from me? Vatsala, I want you!”

“Vishwanath, you want me because you do not know me, I mean you do not know the reality that is me.”

“I do not quite understand you.”

“I am not at all as beautiful as my voice. I am so dark that I would not be fit to be your maid. My features are ungainly and my face is ugly and pock-marked. People who have eyes turn away their faces as soon as they see me. Do you know what the people in your studio had been saying “Where did Vishwanath pick up this sweet throated ugly duckling!” All through these years people have despised me. This is the real me. Will you want a woman whom the world has despised for her ugliness and at whom people have always laughed...?”

She could not control her feelings and she broke into sobs. She thought this was the end of everything! The illusion had been dispelled. Happiness had ended. Now Vishwanath would loathe even the touch of her body.

But he drew her closer to him, and the touch of his hand was at once more urgent and tender. He said,

“Now listen to me. Physical beauty is for those who have eyes. I am born blind, and since I have been denied the pleasure of looking at the outward beauty of things, I have developed an inner sense of sight which men with eyes can never possess. With this heavenly insight I can see such of the loveliness of the world to which people are usually blind. I can see the exceptional charm of your voice as no other man can. I can see the softness and sweetness of your heart. I can understand the subtle language of the yearning of your heart whenever I touch you. I don’t have eyes. But I have far better sight than common people and I see in you nothing but beauty Do you understand me? Have I convinced you that I know you as you really are? I was never under the illusion that you are beautiful. I had known from people since long ago that you were an ugly woman. I do not love your looks. I love you. Vatsatala, do you understand me? Will you still leave me tomorrow? Tell me.”

She said nothing.

But when he drew her and held her head in both his hands, and caresing it said, “Vatsala, my dearest!” she fainted with happiness and nestled close to him.

Her tears trickled down on his bare chest; and Vishwanath kissed her hair!

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