A Woman’s Heart

(A Story)

I

Sivapura is like any one of a hundred villages in the south-west of Mysore. It is situated in a flat expanse of cotton soil, very black and dry in summer, very green and miry during the monsoon, with a narrow cart-track leading from the Taluk road to a clump of trees which shelter the village, and relieves the blackness of the summer landscape. The track, after running on the boundary of the village pond, skirts the temple grove and becomes the main street. The approach to Sivapura is not without a simple charm, which went to the heart of Rudrappa, student of the Bombay College of Medicine, returning home for the holidays after a year’s absence. As Rudrappa walked on the bund of the pond, young women who had come for water smiled welcome at him, shy or frank according to age and temperament and gave him a thrill of home feeling. It was the hour of worship in the Basavesvara temple, and the bells pealed out as he passed the grove, seeming to greet him with augury of good. He saw the old jangam Sidda Devaru tending his little flower garden where, with great care, he could hardly save a handful of blossoms for worship from the flower-loving little girls of Sivapura. Rudra touched the hermit’s feet, for his twelve months’ life in Bombay had not quite obliterated his long habit of reverence for the sanyasi.

“Saranu, to the guru’s feet”, he said, and then smiling, “do the girls leave you any flowers for Siva at all, father?”

The jangam showed his toothless gums in a child-like laugh.

“All–all the flowers go to Siva. He is a great family man you know, father of the world and of all the little people in it, and when the laughing little ones take the flowers, Siva takes their laughter and is pleased. You must now, go home to your parents who, I know, await you eagerly; but come some evening, and tell me about Bombay and the sea.”

Rudra was perhaps too young to understand the first part of the speech, but he said he would gladly spend an evening talking to the guru about Bombay, though he did not think he could adequately describe the sea to one had not seen it.

The sanyasi laughed again. “You are more modest than Gopalayya, the Shanbhog’s son, who is reading to become a lawyer. You know he is conceited like most Brahmins. When I asked him about the sea, he repeated some mantra,^l which he said was the Ramayana, and meant ‘the sea is like the sea; the sky is like the sky’, which, though no doubt quite correct, did not seem to improve one’s knowledge very much. If he had said ‘the sea is like the sky’, I might not have believed him, but still, it would have been something to go upon.”

Rudra laughed.

“That is not such a bad description of the sea”, he said, “you are a bit of a Valmiki yourself, I really think.”

And he passed on.

The next man he met was old Linga, the ‘untouchable’ jeeta ² man. When Linga saw his master’s son in Bombay-cut clothes, with up-to-date neck-wear, he held up his hands in delighted wonder.

“O my master’s son–my own little god, my gold, don’t look so entire like a little Feringhee Saheb. The evil eyes of admiring people will fall on you, and you will become thin.” And as a prophylactic against such a calamity, he cracked the joints of his fingers repeatedly round his own head. Rudra laughed, but the tears rose to his eyes. He said in gentle raillery, “Now that you have cracked your finger joints and I am once more safe, let me get on”–and he was at the gate of his father’s house.

Sivabasava Devaru, Rudra’s father, was the most considerable man in Sivapura, and its twelve hundred inhabitants looked up to him as the leader and representative. He was always referred to as the Sahukar (the rich man); calling him by name would have been unseemly familiarity. His house was a big square building, solidly timbered, and finished with glistening lime, till the walls shone like marble. There was a great open yard, in front, lined with outhouses for cattle and carts, and a garage where a Ford car carefully covered up with a tarpaulin was the wonder of the village, and its pride. On the rare occasions when it was used, the starting of the engine by pushing was an event of the first magnitude, which afforded the village as much perspiring exhilaration as a car-festival. In the outhouses, reposing after a life of decrepitude and decay, were palanquins, bullock coaches, victorias, and dog-carts, which indicated that the family had been wealthy for generations and Sivabasava Devaru was reckoned very wealthy, though there were people who shook their heads and talked of speculations and mortgages.

Sivabasava Devaru was on the jagali ³looking into some papers when Rudra entered the yard. His eyes gleamed with pleasure behind his glasses, but his face retained dignified composure when his son touched his feet and asked for his blessing.

“Siva’s blessing be on you. Go in. Your mother is expecting you.”

It cost him an effort to keep himself from getting up and following his son inside, but he successfully maintained the pompous dignity which the village expected of its magnate.

Rudra found his mother and his cousin waiting eagerly for him in the hazara or hall; and lined up, at a distance behind them, the domestics and one or two poor relatives who happened to be there. Parvatamma, Rudra’s mother, was a woman of forty-five inclining to stoutness in her middle age, still handsome, but with large eyes, full lips, and a look of lazy, condescending good nature. She wore a fine silk sari of the best, and her face softened into real beauty as her son prostrated himself at her feet, and she put her hand on his head in blessing. The other member of the family greeted Rudra with a shy smile.

“Why, mother, Shanta has become quite a big woman! And she gives herself airs, and won’t speak to me!”

Parvatamma glanced at Shanta with a smile, then glanced quickly a second time, still with a smile, but with a curious look of doubt in her eyes. Shanta flushed and she laughed a little unsteadily as she said–

“You always laugh at me, and now that you have become a Bombay doctor, it is natural that you should find our rustic ways somewhat entertaining.”

Shanta was the daughter of the Sahukar’s only sister, now dead some years, who after a brief married life with a poor relation in a neighbouring village had been widowed, and had come with her only child to live with her brother. Parvatamma, who had never approved of the marriage, was not surprised at this termination of it. She received her bereaved sister-in-law kindly enough, but with a degree of condescension that must have been very oppressive to the poor lady. When a woman enters her paternal or fraternal roof under circumstances of this kind, unless she is possessed of superior wealth or influential connections, she soon becomes a household drudge. Such was the position of Shanta’s mother when she died a few years later, leaving Shanta a child of eight behind her in a world in which herself had found so little happiness. Parvatamma, for all her superiority, had a kind heart and she was far kinder to little Shanta than she had ever been to her mother. It is said–whether truly or not, only women can say–that mother-love, to attain perfection, requires a daughter, and Siva had denied her that blessing.

Perhaps the wistful timid ways of the helpless orphan touched some responsive chord in her being. She mothered little Shanta, and brought her up like her own child.

But one thing she had quite made up her mind about,–that there should be no nonsense about Shanta ever becoming Rudra’s wife. No doubt Shanta was a good girl, quite a pretty girl,–anybody could see that,–and deserved a good husband; the Sahukar would see to it that one was found for her whatever it cost. But Rudra–no. The boy belonged to a bigger brighter world. He should take a wife from the greatest of his caste in the world for which he was destined,–a princess would not be too good for him. There were merchant princes among the Lingayats in Bombay and Madras. Rudra would be carefully brought up and educated for a sphere very different from the little village round.

So, when her visitors talked, as is their wont, of Rudra and Shanta making a fine pair, Parvatamma frowned, said it was inconceivable, bade them not talk nonsense likely to put ideas into a poor girl’s head, and so on. The Sahukar said nothing but he was clearly of his wife’s mind.

Shanta was now a girl of fifteen, tall for her age, slender and graceful, with delicate features, pleasing rather than regular.

The most striking thing in her face was large expressive eyes. Their habitual expression was plaintive. The result perhaps of the circumstances of her life working on a sensitive nature, but they could at a change of mood brim over with laughter or flash in anger. She had grown up side by side with Rudra who was come five years her senior in age, and it was no wonder if the prince of the household, so brave, so strong, so clever, and born to such a high destiny, became her hero. She never dared to think that such as she could be a wife to him; she longed to be his humble foot-maid. She entirely agreed with her aunt in her suppression of match-making gossip–but latterly, she was, she knew not they, rather prone to burst into tears when she was alone.

 

II

“Don’t you think, my dear, it is time we found a husband for our Shanta? She is quite grown up, and you don’t want people to say that we have neglected our duty by her. I wish to celebrate the marriage while yet Rudrasami is here, for, of course, there cannot be a family festival without him.”

“You are always wise, and I have never differed from you”, replied Parvatamma to her lord, with a fond smile, in apparent forgetfulness of the fact that it had taken about a dozen curtain lectures, each terminated by the snores of the audience, to bring the masculine mind to a due appreciation of the urgency of the marriage. Shanta was certainly beautiful and an undesirable attachment might spring up between the cousins, or people might talk,–they would be sure to, unless Shanta was married,–Rudrasami bad been looking a little too frequently and a little too intently at Shanta; apart from all things else, an attractive girl of marriageable age should, in her own interests, not remain unwed. What would people say if the Sahukar, who should be an exemplar, neglected the marriage of his own niece, etc., etc?

So it was settled. The Sahukar sent round letters of enquiry to his relatives and correspondents for a proper groom, very much as he might have done for a good horse or a proper bull, and these in turn busied themselves and furnished the Sahukar with particulars of eligible men, young, rich, poor, educated, illiterate. Finally the choice was made. It fell on a widower of thirty, a man of some property and no children, and with a reputation for piety and uprightness. He lived in Mysore, where he owned house property which brought him an income of a hundred or a hundred and fifty rupees a month.

In due course, this worthy man whose name was Basappa paid a formal visit to Sivapura to see his intended bride. He was a portly fellow with an honest face, and won golden opinions all round. Of course, it was impossible to discover what Shanta thought, for she always turned away and some times burst into tears when questioned, as modest maidens often do; but the Sahukar, and his wife, and Rudra himself approved of him. Basappa himself approved of the girl, and fell in love with her, and spoke to Rudra of his feelings in a way which amused that superior young man, and furnished him with matter for a sly joke or two at his cousin.

So the marriage was arranged and came off, and in due course Shanta was sent off to Mysore to live with her husband.

“Shanta has been well disposed of. What I mean is that she has a good husband, reasonably well to do, honourable, not too old, who will always cherish her. She will never, in any event, be like her mother.”

Thus said Parvatamma to her husband as the taxi which bore away Shanta and her husband to Mysore disappeared in distance and dust.

On his way to Bombay, Rudra spent a day with Shanta and her husband at Mysore. He was glad to see how happy Shanta was in her new home, and how devoted her husband seemed to be to her. It perhaps hurt him a little to feel that he no longer was the centre of her life, that she had ceased to belong to the system of which he was the Sun. Basappa was an admirable host, and obviously was very proud of his brilliant relation.

Rudra went to Bombay to his studies, which had then entered on a stage, which required his most strenuous application. He was a good student, and as he was also an open-hearted and generous fellow with great social gifts, he had a large circle of friends. His most intimate friend was one Lingappa Halabhavi, the eldest son of Dewan Bahadur Halabhavi, a well-known figure in Bombay commercial circles and in the share market. Young Halabhavi was a brilliant student, and with his prospects and social position, a leader in college society. The young men were much together and Rudra, was a frequent and welcome guest at the Halabhavis’ mansion on Malabar Hill, where he made the acquaintance of his friend’s sister Sarojini, an undergraduate who was studying for her degree. She was an accomplished young lady, and could not only sing sweetly and play divinely on the violin, but had considerable taste and knowledge in English and Sanskrit literature. She had that rare and fascinating blend of Indian and European culture which seems to retain the best in each and manifests itself in a combination of the delicacy of the East with the joyous freedom of the West. She received Rudra with the frank kindness of a sister, and he for his part fell deeply in love with her. He was so full of thoughts of her that he could not keep from mentioning her in his letters to his father, a circumstance which made the old gentleman wonder uneasily whether he ought not to have attended to Rudra’s marriage before sending him to Bombay.

Meanwhile, the old home at Sivapura seemed to have lost all its brightness, now that even Shanta had gone away. Sivabasava Devaru, never, very communicative or gay, seemed to get more taciturn every day, and poor Parvatamma was none too cheerful herself to have any cheerfulness to spare for others. Then came bad news from Mysore. Shanta’s husband Basappa took his bed with a carbuncle, and the doctors declared that he had been ill for a long time without knowing it. Sivabasava Devaru hastened to Mysore but was only in time to see Basappa die, and to administer his affairs. His houses went to his brothers, and poor Shanta was left with her jewels and about ten thousand rupees. She felt crushed by the blow, but resolute refused to return to Sivapura, preferring to live in a small rented house in Mysore, in the front part of which she set up a modest grocery store.

III

In the loneliness of the old house in Sivapura the thoughts of Sivabasava Devaru and his wife turned to the urgent need of seeing Rudra married The marriage of a son is, to a Hindu, next only in importance to the birth a son, and all his hopes of happiness both in this world and hereafter centre round this event. Not to provide for the continuance of one’s race is to leave unpaid a sacred debt to one’s ancestors, and the feelings of a childless man are well Rut by Kalidasa in the words of the childless Dilipa: -

“Knowing well that after me there will be no more libations of water, my ancestors drink my offerings hot and bitter with their reproachful tears.”

How lonely the old house was, and how long it seemed since last it had heard the prattle and laughter of children! Looking at children going to school, making the narrow street ring with their joyous noise, or seeing them at their boisterous games in the temple tope, the elderly couple felt the gloom of their joyless house grip their very hearts, and realised that they were getting old.

So Sivabasava Devaru set about finding a maiden who should be worthy his son. Not wholly worthy, for perfection was not to be found except in that paragon, his son, but as nearly worthy as possible. He made many journeys, saw many girls and their parents, and was in his turn visited and interviewed by parents with marriageable daughters. Shanta in Mysore was very useful to him in his quest, and it was chiefly through her assistance that he fixed upon the fair daughter of a distinguished judge, whose high official position and influence promised to be of service to Rudra’s prospects in life.

A Hindu marriage is usually settled by the parents of the parties, less usually now than formerly, but even now, very frequently the first open intimation a young man gets of his own wedding is the parental command to present himself for the ceremony. Sivabasava Devaru very nearly committed the mistake of accepting the judge’s daughter for his son,–but the Judge himself, more worldly wise, and better acquainted which the change in youthful outlook, counseled consulting the intended bridegroom and hinted that his own daughter would like to see him before the final decision.

So, Sivabasava Devaru wrote to Rudra, and asked him to run home for a couple of days to fix up the engagement. The marriage itself might take place during the next long vacation.

Rudra’s reply surprised and hurt him infinitely: -

“While I am deeply grateful for your anxiety to see me happily married, I am sorry I cannot consent to marry Judge Isvarappa’s daughter, though, I have no doubt, she is in every way a most excellent young lady. The reason is that my heart has been set on another. She is the sister of a class-mate of mine, and the daughter of Dewan Bahadur Halabhavi, one of Bombay’s foremost citizens. Her name is Sarojini. She is highly educated, and qualified in every way to be the help-mate of a man of culture, who wishes also to get on in life. The influence of her father will be of the highest value to me, for my ambition is to settle in Bombay, and make a name for myself. I may say that the Halabhavis are Lingayats who originally came from Durg, and are disciples of the Suragi Mutt.

“I have hopes that Sarojini is not indifferent to now. I would be grateful if you would write to Dewan Bahadur Halabhavi or, better, come here yourself. They live in style, and move in the highest circles; so, one has to be careful and avoid appearing too provincial. Give my affectionate namaskaram to mother. This letter is as much for her as for you

P. S. By the way, how is poor Shanta?”

Rudra had a perfect right to be ambitious, but why forsake his parents and Mysore? Could the Halabhavis possibly love him a thousandth part as much as his parents? What would the parents’ life be worth if once Rudra stepped out of it? Well, if Rudra left Mysore, they too would go and live with him, and be soothed to their last sleep by his affection,–but it was so hard to be torn from house and home and the occupations going to generations! And then, who could say what difference a rich and educated wife would make in Rudra’s heart? How would they, provincials, be regarded in the glittering world of Bombay?

Long and anxious and, on Parvatamma’s part, tearful, were the talks and consultations they had, and finally Sivabasava Devaru decided to go to Bombay.

Rudra received his father on the Victoria Terminus platform and took him to his room in the Empire Hotel. The day of arrival at Bombay was spent in purchasing equipment to mask the rusticity of Sivabasava Devaru; such as dhotis, silk shirts, and a Kashmir shawl. They refrained, by mutual consent, from discussing the match, but that evening young Halabhavi was introduced to the old gentleman, and they went round seeing the sights of the city. The next day Sivabasava Devaru called on the elder Halabhavi, and was received with great cordiality and distinction. It was obvious that stories, probably overcharged, had reached Halabhavi about the Mysore man’s affluence; he must have made enquiries of his own correspondents and Sivabasava Devaru had the reputation of being rich.

When Sivabasava Devaru explained the object of his visit, Halabhav was not surprised, but careful. He received the proposal courteously; he knew Rudra well and liked him very much, nay, loved him as a son; but a marriage was a matter which required consideration. Sivabasava Devaru, he knew, was a rich man and was of a highly respected family; but he wanted to be sure that Rudra would be able to maintain his wife in the way to which she was accustomed. For one thing, life in a village was out of the question. As for city life, a doctor without European qualifications was no likely to have much of a chance. He had made up his mind to send his own son to England for training. Would Sivabasava Devaru do the same with Rudra? If that was possible, and if Sivabasava Devaru could satisfy Halabhavi that the young people could start life with adequate capital, he for his part would be only too happy to form the connection. Of course, it was essential that the young people should love one another, but this need be considered only after the other conditions were satisfied. He did not press for an answer; he knew that an answer required thought and a scrutiny of worldly affairs to assure oneself of financial ability. Halabhavi was a man of the world,–polished, kind, but extremely careful and prudent.

Sivabasava Devaru saw Sarojini and was charmed by her. Modest, respectful, but perfectly at her ease and very graceful in speech and manner, she seemed to him worthy to be Rudra’s wife. But he wondered if his own wife would be very comfortable with her: he felt rather abashed and gross in her presence himself. He unconsciously contrasted her with poor Shanta, so shy, so timid and loving, and so solicitous of pleasing everyone at home; and he sighed.

IV

Sivabasava Devaru found that his son had set his heart on going to England for completing his medical studies almost as passionately as on making Sarojini his wife; in fact, it was to him the only way of winning her. At Rudra’s age, and to one in his condition, making up one’s mind seems the one thing necessary for achievement,–such small matters as money, and the incidence of the proposed action on others, being mere negligible details. Sivabasava Devaru was so wrapped up in his son that it is to be feared that his own perspective was not dissimilar. Mr. Halabhavi was very clear that though, of course, he recognised a moral engagement, he could not agree to a marriage taking place before Rudra returned fully qualified and was in a position to set up practice in suitable style. That would also give Sarojini time to complete her studies.

Sivabasava Devaru returned from Bombay in pensive mood. The arrangement meant a good deal of money. Halabhavi had suggested the desirability of at once setting apart a reserve of twenty thousand rupees, invested in Government Bonds, as Rudra’s starting capital in life. The English post-graduate course was three years at the least and would cost, all told, about five thousand rupees a year. And then one had to provide also for passage, equipment, and such contingencies (God forfend!) as ill-health.

The scale wherewith the village measures opulence is very different from that employed in towns and cities. And what seems very large in the estimation of simple folk accustomed to penury may be nothing considerable in a world of wants and ambitions. Sivabasava Devaru had land and some money, which he was willing to lend cautiously on good security, and his income, though large on the Sivapura scale, was inadequate to the requirements of grandeur and foreign travel. He had had to borrow to find money for the shares he had taken in the new mill, and again and again he felt the strain of the premia he had to pay on a heavy life policy that the eloquence of an enterprising agent had over persuaded him to take. The regular remittances to Rudra at Bombay during the past five years were a drain which his finances felt in more than one direction. The recent agricultural depression and the drop in the prices of silk (Sivapura was in the heart of the mulberry country) had made his collections scanty, and some of his investments doubtful.

He studied his affairs anxiously. He could send Rudra to England only with great effort, and at considerable sacrifice. He would have to realise his shares in the mill and sell some land to find money for the Bonds. The suggestion about the Bonds had come from Halabhavi, and Sivabasava Devaru felt that it was a considered test of his financial ability, which had to be satisfied. He had many an anxious consultation with his wife. She saw all the difficulties but had no helpful suggestion to make, and invariably ended with tears and saying that they had but one son, and his happiness had to be assured. As a matter of fact, there was nothing to consider, as was a foregone conclusion that Rudra must go abroad.

Then, Rudra came from Bombay to await the result of the M.B.B.S. Degree examination. He was conscious of having done creditably; he had put forth his best, feeling that not merely professional success but happiness in life depended on his efforts. His father for the first time discussed family finances with him. Hitherto Rudra had been permitted to take the wherewithal of his education for granted. For the first time also, Sivabasava Devaru felt a vague antagonism arising from a difference in points of view, and relative values. The mother invariably took Rudra’s part.

Matters were clinched by a telegram from Halabhavi announcing Rudra’s brilliant success in the examination. This, by some unknown law of thought, seemed to dissolve all doubts based on arithmetic and prudent considerations, and it was decided that Rudra should proceed to England. Then followed a few weeks of busy correspondence, with British Academy and Medical authorities, the High Commissioner for India, and other high functionaries whose existence had never before been heard of in Sivapura. Rudra went to Mysore, saw foreign-educated doctors of the medical service received suggestions, hints, advice galore, and felt himself daily growing in interest and importance. At Mysore, he called on Shanta and discussed prospects with her. She was very glad–she repeated it several times–but tearful and rather alarmed at Rudra’s having to reside in a far land for years. When he called on her a second time, she was not to be found.

“I was put up with Gopalu, you know”, he said, relating to his father what happened at this second visit. “You know Gopalu, the Shanbhog’s son who has started lawyering in Mysore. He has a nice office, lined with swanky looking books, which might be carpenter- book-inder’s for all the use he makes of them. Nice, retired, restful kind of place, that office, for never a client comes there; Gopalu uses it mostly for smoking cigarettes which he dare not do at home. I was put up in the office, when I called on Shanta. I was told she was not at home but I was made welcome by that solemn old sister-in-law of hers, who gave me cakes and sweetmeats and coffee, all made in orthodox style,–that is, uneatable cakes, sticky sweets, and smoke flavoured coffee. She did not know when Shanta would be returning; so after waiting for half an hour, enlivened by authentic histories of Saivite saints, I took my leave. Would you believe it, Shanta was in the yard all the time, for I am sure I caught a glimpse of her head over the wall as I was turning the corner. Now, why should she do a thing like that? If she is too good to talk to me, well, I don’t think I care.”

All arrangements at London,–boarding, lodging, admission to college and hospitals,–had been fixed up by Dewan Bahadur Halabhavi on behalf of his son and Rudra. The great man’s influence, and knowledge of the right methods of exercising it, smoothed all difficulties and overcame all obstacles. Sivabasava Devaru raised money by selling his shares in the mill, a house in Mysore and several acres of land, and invested a part of the proceeds in Government Bonds, and deposited the rest in the Mysore Bank, with instructions to make regular remittances to Rudra at London. The Bonds were also deposited in the Bank to be held till Rudra’s return.

Then came the day when Sivabasava Devaru and his wife accompanied Rudra to Mysore, where Rudra was to take train for Bombay. They spent a couple of days at Mysore, days which to the parents were dark with the shadow of a great parting. They were the guests of Shanta, who tried to comfort them, with pitiful bravery and tearful hopefulness. Rudra was busy seeing friends and ‘big people’ and securing letters of introduction to useful people in London.

Sivabasava Devaru left his wife at Mysore with Shanta, and went to Bombay with his son to see him sail. The bustle of preparations and embarkation left Rudra very little time to attend to his father, and when, after a hurried adieu, he went up the gangway with Lingappa Halabhavi, and the good ship glided off and diminished and disappeared, poor Sivabasava Devaru stood on the pier staring into space with unseeing eyes and feeling all at once very old and lonely. He was awakened to the world by a touch on his arm, and found Halabhavi and Sarojini who had come to see Lingappa off. For moment a hot rage surged in Sivabasava Devaru as the thought came to him that there were the authors of his sorrow, but when he saw that Halabhavi’s face was wet with tears, and that Sarojini was weeping unashamed with the corner of her sari to her eyes, a great sob burst from him.

V

Day succeeded day in dull procession at Sivapura. To Sivabasava Devaru it looked as though some inner light, which had brightened the slow routine of village life and made it vital, had gone out, leaving the daily round a joyless grind. The silence of the big old house, in which poor Parvatamma flitted disconsolately thinking of her absent son; oppressed him. They made more than one attempt to induce Shanta to live with them, but the most they could get from her was a brief occasional visit, which seemed but to render visible the gloom of their daily life. The old jangam became a frequent and welcome visitor and his simple philosophy of life, and child like trust in God, were inexpressibly comforting. He had known Rudri from childhood, and could share in cherished memories.

Once a week came letters from Rudra, bearing strange stamps and post-marks, and full of cheerful prattle about his new life in the great city, the interesting people he met, his work and his amusements, and full also of hi love for his parents and friends. Those letters were read and re-read, in private and before interested friends who gathered for a glimpse of the great world beyond the waters, till not only the parents but most of their friends knew the contents by heart. In some respects a village is one big family and Rudra was in a sense the young hopeful of the whole village. Sometimes there was a wistful homesickness in the letters which brought tears to the eyes and a lump in the throat of the kind villagers. And sometimes a mail was missed, leaving the parents a prey to baseless forebodings till the arrival of the next letter. Every outgoing mail bore Sivabasava Devaru’s letters to England, in which the infinite love and longing and hope of the old man struggled with varying fortune against the stiffness of traditional epistolary forms, and the pains of unaccustomed composition.

It was about the middle of the second year of Rudra’s absence that the strain of remittances to England began to be seriously felt. Some of Sivabasava Devaru’s investments had gone wrong. His debtors could not meet their liabilities as they fell due, and a few broke and went under in the trade depression. His creditors became pressing, and in the midst of it all he has to face the steady and relentless need for remittance to England. He raised money on mortgages, and he also sold some more land. The gold ornaments of Parvatamma had first disappeared: she had insisted on offering them with the Indian woman’s immute joy in self-sacrifice for her beloved. Then, through sheer inability to meet the premium, Sivabasava Devaru surrender his life-policy for a few hundreds of rupees of immediate payment. He even thought of borrowing from Shanta, but refrained for very shame.

About this time Rudra’s letters became irregular in coming, and bore the impress of haste and pre-occupation. He was preparing for his first examination.

Then came a time which has burnt itself indelibly in the memories of people in the whole country. An epidemic of influenza of unprecedented severity, commencing first at a crowded national festival in Mysore, soon spread till it enveloped the whole country in a mist of terror and death. In the cities and towns not a house was spared, civic life was disorganized, the streets were deserted, and the grass grew on some of them. Business was at a stand-still, save for the crowds that struggled round hospitals and drug stores, shouting, bullying, begging for thymol and other drugs which had come to be regarded as specifics. Entire villages were stricken, till there were none to tend the sick or bury the dead, and the ripe corn, which there were no reapers to harvest, was trampled under the hooves of masterless cattle. It was an awful time, and people grown grey in piety railed against God by the death-bed of wife or child.

In Mysore, Shanta took the disease and at one time looked likely to die, but her young strength, and the devoted nursing of her sister-in-law slowly brought her to life and health. Then the sister-in-law took ill in her turn, and as she lacked the will to live, no care or treatment could avail her and she died.

One morning, as Shanta was sunning herself on the verandah, for she was still weak after her illness, the Kulvadi ⁴of Sivapura brought her a letter. It was in the clumsy hand-writing of the barely literate jangam, and Shanta had some difficulty in deciphering it: -

“These to my beloved disciple-daughter, with Siva’s blessings. The Sahukar and his wife have been both attacked with this new disease. The wife has been unconscious these two days. As all the jeetagaras are also down, I have been attending to my beloved disciples myself, but alas, I am weak and unskillful. Siva’s hand is heavy on this village. If you could come, dear daughter, being a good girl you might win the lives of your uncle and aunt from Siva.”

The world seemed to Shanta to reel out of sight in fold on fold of darkness as she read this letter. She must have fainted for a moment. She was still weak from her recent illness, and the shock of this news was too much for her strength. When she was sufficiently recovered to think, she saw her duty clearly and braved herself to it. She went to Mr. Gopalayya, the Advocate, who was of Sivapura, and was known to her from childhood, and with his help started for Sivapura in a taxi, taking with her a few hundred rupees, and a stock of the popular remedies against influenza.

Sivapura lay sick almost to death under the afternoon sun as, still passing over the bund of the pond, now deserted, and crossing the weed-grown grove of the unlit temple, she entered the silent street. Inside the house of her uncle it was so dark to eyes coming from the glare of the white high-road, that she could see nothing for a while, and the silence struck a chill at her heart with the thought she might be too late. Then, as her eyes got accustomed to the gloom, she saw her uncle and her aunt lying on their beds. So silent and still were they that not till she approached and noted the rise and fall of their breathing was she sure they were alive. While she stood there taking in the scene, and divesting herself of her bundle and little carpetbag, the jangam came in, and uttered a glad exclamation on seeing her. Unable to contain her feelings,–for memories came to her of her childhood and early youth, and of all that these two, who lay so still and helpless, had been to her,–she threw herself on the old priest’s feet and sobbed aloud.

The sound of her sobbing and the voice of the jangam, raised in kindly words of comfort, woke up Sivabasava Devaru from dream-infested sleep.

“It was not a dream then,” he said in a weak and broken voice, “it is really my little Shanta who was begging Yama for my life, as Savitri begged for Satyavan’s. Come, come close and sit near me, and hold me so that they might not get me again. If Rudra had been here,”–his voice broke–“but he is not here, and we are helpless in our old age. Don’t you, for Siva’s sake, go away also.” And the old man weak with suffering, broke down completely and hid his face in his hands.

Shanta took her uncle’s hand and laid it on her head, too overcome to speak. It was some time before her strength came to her and she was able to subdue all the wild emotions of her heart to the control of her practical good sense. She spoke tenderly, but her voice was steady and purposeful.

“Oh, my more than father and mother, I will never, never, leave you, so long as I serve you. I can never repay my debt to you even if I spend myself in your service. I have been proud and wicked not to come earlier. Oh, pardon me.”

VI

Sivabasava Devaru recovered after lying long between life and death but Parvatamma passed away, her last hours tended with loving care by Shanta. Parvatamma had first seemed unable to recognise Shanta, but a little before the end she called her by name, and blessed her, and then in low broken voice begged her pardon. “I have loved you like a daughter, but I have been unjust to you in one thing. Siva knows, and may He pardon me! It might have been better for all if you had been Rudra’s wife.”

Shanta wept silently, and closed the old lady’s eyes reverently when her sufferings ceased.

In due course, the epidemic passed, and the village resumed its normal life. Nothing, but a ruined house here and there which no one was left to tenant or repair, and the premature responsibility on young faces lately care-free, recalled the agony through which the village had passed.

A great responsibility devolved on Shanta. During her uncle’s long illness all his affairs had been neglected, and there was a great accumulation of work and correspondence. Letters lay piled up on the Sahukar’s desk, letters from England, letters from banks and bankers, letters from lawyers and tradesmen.

When she tried to draw Sivabasava Devaru to the business of his former life, she encountered a strange inertness and lack of comprehension. It was as though his mind and memory had suffered from his illness, and were more slow to recover than his body.

She tried to cope with the correspondence, and naturally started with Rudra’s letters from London. He was getting on well in health and in his studies, but had not received his remittances for the quarter. He had been maintaining himself on loans from friends,–he mentioned young Halabhavi. Shanta realised that her cousin must be in great difficulties for want of money. Why had the remittances failed? The Mysore Bank’s letters might perhaps explain, but they were in English, and she had not even her uncle’s scanty knowledge of it. And the great mass of correspondence also needed attention.

In her trouble, she sent for the Shanbhog and requested him to write to son, Mr. Gopalayya, to help her. Gopalayya took advantage of a week-end to visit Sivapura, and at Shanta’s request opened all the letters, and read explained them to her. When, at the end of the recital, he looked up at face, she was sallow as death, her lips were open and dry, and there drops of perspiration on her brow, Even to her, it was clear that her uncle was a ruined man. The remittances to London had stopped, because Bank held no money of his to make them. Death had been busy with debtors, and there was no prospect of his collecting any of his dues. His creditors had obtained decrees, and were proceeding to execution.

Gopalayya regarded her with a great pity in his eyes.

“There is no need to tell you, for you know the state of things as well as I. What do you propose to do? Shortly, your uncle may not have so much as this house to live in. As for Rudra, poor fellow, I am very sorry for him, for we have been as brothers,–but it is out of the question for him to continue his studies in London. Thank goodness, he has a medical degree on which he can fall for a living.”

She was silent for a while in thought, and when she spoke it was in a voice and manner which made Gopalayya look at her with a new respect.

“I am a mere girl, and do not understand many things, but I know my own mind and I know that you are our true friend. And that is enough. Two things, if it is Siva’s will, I am determined about. Rudra shall not give up his studies, and uncle shall not be turned out of his house. Oh, death would be better than that these things should happen to them. You are a clever man, and you know how to manage things. Suppose we put together all that remains to uncle, could we not payoff all that he owes and save the house and the twenty-thousand-rupee Bonds?”

“I have thought of that,” said Gopalayya. “We might meet the creditors and get a substantial reduction of claims by appealing to their good feelings, but they would expect to be paid. We would have to realise the Bonds, since we could not possibly sell our immovable properties in a hurry. Of course, some mortgagees might consent to accept sale deeds and even pay something for the right of redemption–but I expect it would be unwise to force sales. I am afraid the Bonds will have to go. But how on earth are we going to scrape means to maintain Rudra in London? If I had been rich man, I would have advanced him money, but”–with an embarrassed laugh–“I am just now one of the tribe of borrowers, not of lenders.”

“If with all that we could scrape together out of uncle’s estate, including the Bonds, we could satisfy uncle’s creditors and retain the old house, I–now what I am going to say is a sacred confidence, as you are a man honour–I shall find means to send remittances to Rudra during the year or so that he has to continue at London. I have about twelve thousand rupees lying idle with me. No, I am not going to trade; I have promised my uncle to live here and take care of him. I shall give you this money,–it is now mostly in Bonds and currency notes. Deposit it in the Mysore Bank in uncle’s name, with instructions to re-start remittances as before, commencing with payment of the ones in arrears. Rudra must still think his father is sending the money. Why do you look at me like that? You think me a fool. Remember that a minute you yourself said you would have send the money, if you had had it. Shall I not feel as much for a family whose blood I share, and who have cared for me when I was an orphan?”

Gopalayya rose, coughed, and furtively wiped his eyes.

“Fool? Why, young lady, you are, I think, a Goddess! I did not know that there were people like you these days. I shall devote myself to carrying out your wishes, and feel better for having known you.”

She laughed, but tears were not very far. “Now, I do think you are not so wise as I thought. Are Goddesses orphans and widows like me?”

So they parted.

A few days later came a pompous, crested envelope from Bombay. It contained a letter from Dewan Bahadur Halabhavi, and when she received it, translated into Kannada, from Gopalayya, she read (the opening complimentary flourishes are omitted):

“I regret to convey news which must be disagreeable to you. My daughter Sarojini, who was never very warmly attached to your son, excellent young man as he is, has recently told me quite definitely that she cannot be his wife, for she does not love him except in a sisterly way. She has, with my approval, become engaged to Mr. Mallanna I.C.S., who is Sub-Collector of Sea Customs. I have asked my son at London to break the news gently to Mr. Rudra.”

Mr. Halabhavi went on to prove that there was really no ground for complaint, as Sarojini had not been formally engaged to Rudra, that the latter’s proceeding to London was in his own independent interest, etc. etc. Gopalayya had scrawled in pencil in the margin ‘Good Riddance’.

Shantha smiled cynically as she said to herself that Halabhavi had, no doubt information about Sivabasava Devaru’s fortunes.

 

VIII

Rudra’s studies in London proceeded satisfactorily. He took his work seriously, and the favourable environment brought out in him an unsuspected capacity for original research. One or two papers contributed by him to medical journals met with a fovourable reception in professional circles, and he was regarded as a man who was destined to great things. Even doctors of European fame did not disdain to discuss professional matters with him.

During this period of intense work and intellectual blossoming, so to speak, thoughts of home and India came to him but rarely. This weekly letters from his father, which for lack of incident were merely replicas of one another, and an occasional letter from Gopalayya constituted practically all his correspondence. Sarojini never wrote to him, but made enquiries and sent kind wishes in her letters to her brother.

The remittance from home came with regularity, and there was nothing to prevent him from giving all his mind and heart to his work.

Then, for several months, the remittances ceased, and Rudra was saved from privation only by the kindness of friends who helped him, out of their slender resources. The letters from home ceased also. When he cable to the Mysore Bank for the reason of the stoppage of remittances, he received the reply that the Bank had not been placed in funds. This caused him serious alarm, because he felt that only some great calamity at home could have left him stranded in a far country. Then came a cable from Gopalayya, announcing his mother’s death and his father’s difficult recovery and this was followed by a remittance that put him out of his immediate difficulties. The remittances were resumed with their former regularity.

Rudra’s heart ached for his father, and he became more than ever anxious to complete his training with credit, and return to build up for his father a home where loving care would tend his declining years. His father’s letters, which had discontinued for several months, began to come again. They were in Shanta’s hand, and were signed by Sivabasava Devaru in a vague shaky scrawl that smote Rudra’s heart. The letters were cheerful, and indicated that his father was comfortable and well looked after. Rudra blessed Shanta in his heart.

A little before the final examination, he received from young Halabhavi the news of Sarojini’s defection. It hurt him, but not so deeply as he thought it would. Perhaps he had moved on some little way in mind and outlook during the years of strenuous work in London. Perhaps the thought of his mother’s death and of his father left desolate in his old age, with doubts as to whether Sarojini would provide a happy home for him, had reacted on his scale of values. He was disappointed and hurt, but not as utterly unhappy as he expected. He however acted the broken-hearted part expected of him by Halabhavi, and sent off a magnanimous letter to Sarojini wishing her and her future husband all happiness. This episode closed, he applied himself with redoubled vigour to his studies.

It surprised no one when Rudra came out brilliantly successful in his final examination, and was admitted to the Fellowship of the Royal College of Surgeons. Halabhavi was also successful and, in due course, the two friends returned to India. Rudra spent a day at Bombay, and called on to Halabhavis where he was introduced to Mr. Mallanna, I.C.S., whom he rather liked. Then he took train for Mysore and arrived there late in the evening. His heart leaped into his mouth as he saw the beautiful city bejeweled with its myriad lights, and watched over by its Guardian Deity from Her light-crowned hill, and felt his cheeks fanned by the breeze laden with the scent of a hundred gardens. When the train drew up at the platform, he gripped Gopalayya’s hand in silence,–he could not trust his voice,–and they drove to Gopalayya’s house in the perfumed half-light of Mysore streets.

From Gopalayya Rudra learnt for the first time the story of the misfortunes of his family, the crisis in his own life which, unknown to himself, had threatened to blast all his hopes, and the way in which a simple loving girl had saved the situation by finding in herself the strength and nobility of a Sita or Damayanti. As Gopalayya warmed to his theme, his voice broke, and tears of honest admiration flowed down his cheeks.

“This poor girl, this lady of sorrows, does not even suspect she is doing anything remarkable, she has no thought for herself at all. She is happy if the old man is comfortable and happy. She expects and indeed thinks of no reward from man or God. One feels a better man for breathing the same air with her.”

Rudra heard him silently. The tears rose to his eyes as he heard of the sufferings of his parents, and of how Shanta, herself but newly risen from sick-bed, had nursed them. Then a look of great seriousness came into his face. When Gopalayya had done speaking, Rudra was silent for a while, thinking very hard. At last he spoke very slowly, as though considering every word:

“I am afraid I cannot at once realise the full significance of what you have told me. I am overcome with admiration and gratitude–but don’t you see I am placed under a debt I can never repay? It humiliates me to think that I owe my professional education, which means everything in life to me, to a poor girl on whom I have no claim. If I had known about it in time, I might have refused to lay myself under such a life-long obligation. It would have been kinder, Gopalu, if you had written to me. There were some things I did not then quite understand and only understand now, the cessation of remittances, and their resumption, for instance–but I did not know–”

Gopalayya interrupted him impatiently.

“You ass, you perfect prig, have you no thought except for yourself? Can you not see that Shanta was acting true to her own nature in spending her all and herself for her uncle and you? That she considers herself the obliged party through your High Mightiness deigning to accept her worship and offering? O Lord, that such an eminent doctor should be such a fool! Can’t you see, man, that the girl loves you and has always loved you, and would think her life well-spent dying at your feet? What she sees in you, I cannot understand, but what I see in her I’ll tell you. Love, truth, courage, self-sacrifice,–Oh, I haven’t seen the man worthy of her.”

Rudra smiled wryly.

“You seem in love with her yourself.”

“Oh yes–but that I have a wife whom I adore, and three children whom I worship, and a fourth in expectation, whose welcome we are preparing, I should have offered my heart and hand to Shanta. Don’t you see, you silly scientist, that the only return you can make to Shanta is to devote your life to making her happy, and trying to emulate her example in dealing with your fellowmen? Any other return is an offence, and repayment of money, in full discharge of your debt to her, would be a vulgar insult. You can only repay her by giving her your life, your work, and your utmost love.”

“But surely, you cannot make a gift of her hand to me! She is entitled to a say in the matter, isn’t she? What makes you think she would consent to marry me? And she is a widow, and remarriages are not looked upon with favour in our community. You must remember that women are by nature conservative, and my father also is a gentleman of the old school.”

“Oh, I have thought of all that. Your father would die if deprived at the sight of his Shanta. While you were away doctoring in London and your poor mother was moldering in her grave, Shanta wrapped up the lonely old man in the warmth of her love, and brought to him what joy and hope his battered life was capable of. As for widow remarriages–I have taken the opinion of your Mutt authorities and social leaders. Such marriages are quite lawful, only your people sought distinction in imitating the bad conventions of Brahmins, and discouraged such marriages. Even now, in the villages, such unions are by no means uncommon. But why need you bother about that? A marriage under the Civil Act is a perfect equivalent in all its legal incidents to an orthodox marriage with chanting priests, etc. etc. And then about Shanta’s willingness, I know she has loved you from her childhood. I had suspected it all along, and when I went to see her during her attack of influenza, she said things in her delirium which made all clear to me. Her sister-in-law must have known it too, for she raises her tearful face to me as though to implore me to forget it. Well, I know she loves you; it is for you to find out. All I can say is that you don’t deserve your good fortune.”

“I fully agree with you”, said Rudra very humbly.

Conclusion

It was on a moon-lit night, some years after the events narrated in the last section, that Dr. Rudra, M.A., M.B.B.S., F.R.C.S., was sitting on the terrace of his house fronting the Marina at Madras. The moon’s soft radiance silvered the sands of the beach, and wove a coverlet of light love the bosom of the sea. Shanta brought him his after-dinner cup of milk on a silver plate, and sat down beside him. Jangam Siddappa, now very old and infirm, was also there looking pensively at the sea.

For a while they were silent, drinking in the beauty of the night. Then the jangam said suddenly: -

“Do you remember, son, that I could not understand the Ramayana couplet that the sky is like the sky and the sea is like the sea? Now I do, and I can add a line of my own–
And the heart of a good woman is like the heart of a good woman.”

¹ Incantation 
² A jeetha man was a serf when slavery was allowed; he is now legally a free man. He is born, brought up and lives in his master’s family, and works for him.
³ Covered verandah, generally raised on a basement.
⁴ Village servant of all work, usually an ‘untouchable’.