Ranjini

The bride’s father and brother stood on the platform, while the bride and groom sat shyly, side by side, within the railway carriage. She was crying, as befitted a bride, and her mother-in-law tried to comfort her, as best she could, being a stranger. It was nearly time for the train to start. Satyanarayan, the bride’s father, stepped to the edge of the platform and stood by the window. It was time for him to say his parting words.

“Remember, daughter, you are no longer of our house. From now on you belong to your husband’s household. The ties that bound us together are henceforth severed and you must forge new ones. Do us honour by being a model wife and daughter-in-law. Let there be no disgrace brought on our house at your hands. Farewell, the train is about to start.” He turned away to hide his emotion.

Ranjini was Satyanarayan’s favourite child. At this moment it broke his heart to be parted from his sixteen-year old daughter. Yet, he felt that it was only with harsh words that he could break this bond between them. From now on he would be helpless. It would no longer be for him to heal her wounds or rejoice with her as of old. He had to make it clear to her that it would be no use appealing to him.

Ranjini’s heart felt heavy, and her tears fell faster, splashing on to her wedding ornaments. Through her tears she looked at her father’s beloved face and tried to reassemble his blurred features. He had been both mother and father to her since her mother’s death six years ago. She felt miserably forlorn as the train started to move.

Within the week after her arrival at her husband’s house an old aunt died. The house was plunged into mourning. Many friends and relatives whispered among themselves that the bride’s footsteps in the house had brought ill-luck. Her mother-in-law was jealous of her. She loved her only son deeply and could not tolerate the thought of having a rival in his affections. She took every opportunity she could find to poison his mind.

“Mind you, I am not saying this,” she would casually remark, “but people say that your bride has brought us ill-luck. Only a week in our house, and a death already.”

Her son would listen to her without comment.

One day it was decided that the young couple should pay a visit to a famous temple. Ranjini was dressed in a beautiful blue sari with a wide gold border. Her mother-in-law accompanied the pair. After they had said their prayers and received prasad, they came down the temple steps. Under a large banyan tree, a sadhu was seated in apparent meditation. Near him sat a disciple, also in saffron robes. Wishing to receive the blessings of the holy man, the little group stood respectfully in front of him.

After a minute or two the Swamiji opened his eyes. He looked at the gaunt face of the young man and at the bride’s youthfully round one. Then he turned to Ranjini’s husband.

“You are destined to be a great worker among the poor, young man. You will live a hard life and practise many austerities. You must not let anything come in the way of your work. The pleasures of this world are not for you. This is what I see written on your forehead. Go, my son. My blessings be with you.” He then closed his eyes and relapsed into meditation.
Vishnu, the young husband, put his hand in his pocket for money, but the disciple stopped him.

“Guruji will never take money,” he said. “Bring him fruit or milk or sweets, if you wish, but not money.”

Vishnu felt abashed, and the little group moved away. “Next time we must bring something for the Swamiji,” he muttered to his mother.

His mother was much impressed. To think that her son would be a great man one day. She looked at his broad, smooth brow with admiration. It is a pity that his wife is so fond of the worldly things of life, she thought.

After her husband’s death, Vishnu’s mother renounced all the pleasures of the world, and devoted herself to God and her son. She felt the young bride in the house almost frivolous. Always looking at herself in the mirror and putting flowers in her hair. Using scented hair oil and soap. She compared herself, as she was now, with the young blossoming girl. My son will never be carried away by all this, she said to herself, and her jealous heart gloated.

Ranjini felt depressed in her new home. The smell of incense pervaded the atmosphere. Even to look happy seemed a crime. Her husband took very little notice of her, as her mother-in-law took care of most of his wants. Gradually she too became morose. Her mother-in-law ruled the house, and Ranjini soon saw that in her she had a formidable rival. Her husband seldom spoke to her, and only laughed at his mother’s trivial remarks. She worked in the kitchen, helping her mother-in-law, and her husband’s aunt, in the cooking and washing and cleaning.

About three months after her marriage, Vishnu, who was always silent and rarely spoke, said to her in passing, “Ranjini, I wish to have a talk with you to-night, so I have asked mother to let you come to our room earlier, instead of cleaning the kitchen after dinner.” He said it without a smile, and yet not unkindly. Ranjini mutely nodded her head and passed on quickly. Her heart was beating with a strange mixture of joy and fear, for she hardly knew what to think.

That night she waited in their room for him to come. She had put fresh flowers in her hair and powdered her face. The vermilion spot on her forehead glowed like a ruby in the half-light. He came in quietly and sat down on the bed. Then he beckoned to her to come nearer. She stood before him with downcast eyes, waiting for him to speak.

“I have decided to go to an Ashram where they are devoted to social work. This is something I have long wanted to do. I expect that you will wish to accompany me there, but I can only take you on the condition that you will also devote yourself to rural uplift and live with me as a sister. You will have to learn to live without luxuries. Eating only to live and not for pleasure. Dressing only to be clothed and not for adornment. Thinking only of how you can serve our country. If you do not wish to lead this life, then you may stay with my mother in this house. Which would you prefer?”

She stood silent for a moment. Then she remembered her father’s parting words, and she whispered, “I will go with you.”

Vishnu’s mother was not happy at her son’s decision. He had passed his M. Sc. with distinction, and she had hoped that he would secure a post in the Science Department in a local college. But what displeased her most was his decision to take his wife with him. Who could tell how much that minx might not steal of his love, which until now had been only hers. And yet, had not the Swamiji said that he was destined to be a great social worker? Why should she try to stand in his way?

Ranjini’s husband rebuked her frequently. Why did she waste so much time dressing? Why did she use all these scents and soaps? Must she put flowers in her hair? Must she use powder? Why did she look so fat? Everyone knew that fat people could not work hard. At first she was flattered that he paid her so much attention, but gradually she began to realize that he was really dissatisfied with her. She obeyed every whim of his uncomplainingly, in the hope that when they were together, away from his mother, she would gain a little of his appreciation and love.

Life in the Ashram was not unpleasant. She toiled in the communal kitchen, while her husband conducted literacy classes and taught the villagers how to live hygienically. He worked with a fanatic zeal, but was no happier, and grew thinner. He spent much time in meditation and prayers, and ate frugally once a day. The fresh country air and the regular life suited Ranjini, but she felt uneasy. Her husband hardly spoke to her, except to criticise her. He made her join classes and supervised her studies. The most she would receive in return was a commendation on her work, but never a word which indicated any deeper feeling. He was highly critical of the Ashram’s inmates, and often decried them for their frivolous behaviour in their leisure hours. He allowed himself no recreation and studied far into the night, always rising before dawn. Often she found him muttering to himself. Sometimes she found him gesticulating. She did not know what to think. She became wan with anxiety, afraid to disclose his strange behaviour to anyone.

About six months after they had joined the ashram, she was awakened one night by a strange sound. She looked up in amazement to see her husband tearing his shirt and laughing loudly. He seemed unaware of her and went on with his strange occupation, now muttering, now laughing. He looked wildly about him and gnashed his teeth in rage. Again he would become quiet and then laugh and chuckle. When he seemed most preoccupied, Ranjini cautiously edged her way to the door. The oil tablelamp threw only a limited circle of light and left the rest of the room in darkness. Once outside the door she ran in search of someone who could help her. She knocked on the door of the next hut, and while she was waiting, the silence of the scented rural night hung about her like a cloak, almost smothering her with its strangeness. When at last the inmates awoke and became conscious of her knocking, she was very near fainting with fright.

They went with her through the Ashram garden. All was still and dark. Only the squeek of their sandals and the tap of their sticks broke the awe-inspiring silence. No one spoke and she cried to herself. The hurricane lanterns which they carried threw strange shadows, and here and there a rustle indicated that a creature had been disturbed. The door of Ranjini’s hut stood wide open and the light still burned. On the floor lay a shirt torn to shreds, but Vishnu was nowhere. They searched and called all the rest of that night, but only the sound of the rushing river nearby broke the stillness.

Next day Ranjini was moved into another hut with other women workers. “Don’t be afraid,” they said kindly. “He will return.

A month slipped by, and there was no sign of Vishnu. He had not gone home to his mother, and the police found no trace of him. Ranjini received a letter from her mother-in-law, asking her to return home. The people at the Ashram also felt that it would be best for her to go. She made the lonely journey by herself. Vishnu’s uncle met her at the station and took her home. Vishnu’s mother had still not overcome her grief and anxiety. She blamed Ranjini for the misfortune.

“What did you do to my son?” she would ask. “What have you gained by driving him mad? Tell me, tell me. They were right. You have brought nothing but misfortune to this house. I should have taken the warning when they said you were the cause of Aunt Girja’s death. Oh, why hadn’t I taken heed? Why did I keep you here, you creature of ill omen?” and she would beat her head on the floor and give way to extravagant grief. She repressed the memory of that time, some years ago when her son had lost his reason temporarily. It was the shock of his father’s death, they had said then.

Time moved on relentlessly, and soon a year had passed. Ranjini swallowed her grief, the ill-treatment and the accusations. To whom could she turn? Had not her father said that the bond was broken? She grew thin and pale. Nobody in the house bothered much about her, except to make her work. Her mother-in-law would remark, as if to herself: “I wonder that she can eat so heartily. Anyone else in her position would have gone on fasts and done penance for their past sins. Yet look at her, eating as if nothing has happened,” she would end, casting a disdainful glance at the meagre portion of Ranjini’s plate.

Ranjini started to cough in a queer apologetic way. Still no one took any notice of her. Only Vishnu’s uncle spoke kindly to her. But how could he know what her life was like in that world of women? In the night she would lie awake, and her body would burn with fever. But she dared not complain. One day Vishnu’s uncle noticed her cough, and asked his wife, “Has Ranjini seen a doctor? The girl has become so thin and she coughs such a lot. You must ask my sister to take her.”

“These modern girls,” said his wife, “are all sickly. What should be wrong with her? After all, if she suffers it is only because of her sins. Why do you worry about such a one as she?” When he saw his wife’s attitude he was shocked, but he thought it wiser to appear unconcerned. Therefore he put it to her differently.

“If that girl has T. B., she could very easily infect us all,” he said, sternly.

His wife was aghast. “Do you think that is what she has?” she asked. “It would just be like one of her kind to bring more trouble to this house.”

She took the very first opportunity of telling her sister-in-law, what her husband suspected.

“This very day I shall take her,” said Ranjini’s mother-in-law, “and if it is so, she must leave this house immediately. How we have had to suffer because of this girl. Even now it will mean such an expense.”

The doctor confirmed what Vishnu’s uncle had suspected, and arrangements were made for her in a sanatorium in the hills. She no longer cared very much what was to become of her. She wished that her people would come and take her home. But she knew that her poor old father lived in her brother’s house, with the brother’s family. The latter hardly earned enough for the wants of his own family, and would not welcome a sick sister who was neither a widow nor a wife. She wrote formal postcards home in which she told them as little as possible of her life. Their replies were equally formal.

The sanatorium was situated on a hill. Apart from the main building there were a number of cottages. They were one-storey structures with red tiled roofs. Ranjini stepped out of the train at the small wayside station. Vishnu’s uncle followed her and pulled her painted tin trunk and bedding-rollout on to the platform. The station was actually little more than a tin shed, with a few green painted benches on its two platforms. It was deserted, except for a cow lazily munching at one end, and at the other, a stray dog snapping at flies.

“Tickets, please,” said the ticket collector. Vishnu’s uncle fumbled in the inner pocket of his coat, and after a slight pause handed them over. A little boy carried her trunk and bedding-roll on his head. The ticket collector gave her a curious glance. ‘Another inmate,’ he thought to himself as he watched them picking their way up the path which led to the sanatorium. Ranjini turned to look at the departing train, but it was long since out of sight.

After all the formalities were over, and she had been admitted, Vishnu’s uncle turned to her before leaving.

“Ranjini, I am sure they will take good care of you. Eat well, my child, and grow strong again. We will all be waiting for your return. I will write to you from time to time and tell you all the news. I will pray for Vishnu’s and your safe return.”

She smiled wanly, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye with the end of her sari. Ranjini knew that what he said was untrue. Who needed her? Who would await her return? She watched his receding figure until it turned at the bottom of the hill and was lost to view.

Ranjini had no wish to get well. She was lethargic, and the sight of the ravages of the disease all round her did not give her courage. She declined rapidly, and spent long listless hours watching a withered tree some distance from the window next to her bed. On this tree a large group of vultures would sit, for not far from there was the burning ground and cemetery. When a train passed they would rise in the air flapping their heavy wings, before settling on a new perch with raucous cries. They were ugly birds with naked necks. They sat and waited patiently for their dinner, hunched up in gruesome, solitary meditation. ‘One of these days they will pick my charred bones clean,’ Ranjini reflected.

She turned her face to the wall, and in a flood of self-pity pictured the scattered ash and bones that would be left to represent all her girlish dreams and hopes. At that moment, a flicker of hope burned brightly and she felt a strange sense of elation. Why should she die? She would live, she was young, and for an instant she felt confident. But as it came, so it went, like a flame extinguished, and again she relapsed into melancholy, as she thought of her position. What had she to live for? With this thought her strength ebbed away.