Chapter XIV.

“FATHER! My father! The night wind is cold, the moon is at its height. Do you see the waving shadows of the trees, the dark rocks there over the precipice, and the vast moonlit plain beyond? Oh, how silvery and shining everything looks!”

It was Kamala who was talking to her sick father as he reclined on the pial outside. He was better but still very weak. Kamala’s mother-in-law had returned to Sivagunga, and the old dame was busy inside preparing gruel. Kamala was alone with her father. Her heart was full; it was so like the old days. The familiar murmur of the stream, the silent waving trees in front, and the rush and roar of the wind, all combined to recall the charm of those old days which were so precious to her. As she rested her head on her father’s shoulder Kamala felt young again. “Oh, father! How much I have had to learn and how little I knew of the world when I left you! Why, father, why are you so different from the people in the city? You did not tell me half of what I ought to have known. I like the old life, I like it very much. Father! Father! keep me near you here always, and there will be no heart-achings over what people think and what they say. Oh! why should one’s own people be against one? I am so afraid of offending and I do so offend everybody I come across. I don’t think I have succeeded in pleasing anyone. There is my father-in-law, for instance. How I wish to love and please him, but I have done something wrong, and he does not care for me in the least. I fell at his feet before I came away, and said:— Bless me Baba! I am going home,’ and expected that he would have said one kind word at least. But he was as hard as a stone, for after a time he calmly looked at me and turning his face aside said: “Why do you fall at my feet? Go! wish me well to the saniyasi.’ There was such a look on his face that I drew my saree over my head and felt as if I must cry. He must have been greatly disappointed with me, for I could see from the expression of pain and contempt in his face that I had done something to displease him. Oh, father! he was not like this before. He was so different.” Having said this, Kamala looked into her father’s eyes and was silent. Her father’s thoughts were evidently wandering, and he had not heard her. Just then a cloud covered the moon, and she felt a great hush in her soul as she also bowed her head in silent thought. It was some time before the silence was broken. Then Kamala spoke excitedly. “Oh, look there,” she said, “the moon is peeping through the clouds and how wonderful and bright everything looks.” “Do you know, father,” she added after a little while, “that whenever I look over those silent moonlit plains, my thoughts wander far? I seem to see scenes similar to these, but I cannot make out what they are. The pictures are dim and blurred. I seem to be journeying on and on and I feel some one near me soothing me with soft melodious words. It is not you, father, it must be someone else. Do you think it is mother; my mother? Oh, why do I not know anything of her? Tell me, father. The thought has crossed my mind that she may not have been what I should wish her to have been, and that is why you have been so silent about her to me. But now I cannot rest; tell me all, good or bad, she is my mother. Oh! how it hurts me to hear people speak about her.”

The old man seemed unconscious of all this. He was seeing visions. Kamala recognised the old look in his eyes and was frightened. At last he spoke:—“Your mother! your mother! child. Ah, how shall I tell you about your mother? It breaks my heart strings to bring her back to my mind again. But I must tell you all, for I feel guilty in having kept her story from you so long. Shall I tell you how and where I first saw her? Can you imagine a fortress on a little hill. Think that the same silver moon yonder is shining on it, bathing its terraces and ramparts in glory and making the rounded temple tops in the centre shine like burnished gold. All round the fortress are huge spreading ancient trees, dark and solemn-looking in the soft pale light. Such a place was your mother’s home, and I saw it for the first time on a night like this. High on the terrace wall in the deep midnight I saw some one walking. I thought it was the guardian deity of the sleeping fortress, for tall and stately, clear in the moonlight, appeared a woman’s form on the terrace. The round full face seemed to catch the moonbeams as it was lifted up for a moment to the heavens, and then a rounded arm waved to some one below, and the figure disappeared. This I saw from a distance, and when I hurried up to the village at the foot of the hill, I heard stories of a lovely grown-up girl immured in the fortress with her old decrepit father who had built a temple there himself and had surrounded himself with plundering devotees, and ignorant and superstitious priests. The old man had himself turned an ascetic after having given the affairs of his jaghirdari into the hands of his youngest brother and the bringing up of this girl to her aunt. This aunt I found out afterwards to be an aunt of mine too—my mother’s step-sister, so here was a relationship, and I made up my mind to stay with her. None had seen the girl, for she had apartments and walks allotted to herself. I was not aware of the sacredness of the enclosures, and the next day when I went to see Droupadibai, my aunt, it was evening. As I got up the steps they directed me to the right, and there in front of me was a small temple. The air was still and heavy with the smell of flowers that grew thick around the temple. The trees were tender leaved as if newly budding, and they seemed to catch and retain in their golden crowns the rays of the setting sun. In front of the temple I saw a sight which made my heart throb with excitement. It was the sight of a lovely girl standing by the side of a gray old priest, who was bending over a tray of incense and ringing the soft bells ranged around it. The girl was startled, her heavy laced saree had fallen from her shoulders, and she looked like a wild deer frightened in its haunts. “Is Droupadibai, my aunt, here?’ I asked.

“The girl lowered her gaze in an instant, and in modest silvery tones said: ‘Droupadibai your aunt? She is mine too.’

“And who are you?’ I asked. “I am Dakli Bai’ (the young lady), and then correcting herself, said, ‘Lakshmi.’

“Frightened at her boldness in talking to a young man, she threw her cloth over her head and ran in. This was my first meeting with your mother. I cannot tell you, Kamala, what I felt. Droupadibai came out and the young girl came too. She had heard of her kind aunt’s home at Sinhagud, and she lingered near to hear all the home news. The girl was unmarried, her ascetic father having thoughtlessly neglected to find her a husband. Droupadibai, good old soul, thought the matter out for us, and kept me with her as long as she could; and when I expressed a wish to marry her beautiful niece she gladly agreed to the proposal, and, quite against all rules, allowed me to talk to the girl. I found her one day sitting on the stone steps of the fortress wall, and there I spoke to her of my love, timidly at first. She blushed an innocent blush and withdrew, with her saree on her face. This she invariably did when I talked to her. She would not dare to lift her eyes to my face. But one day I was determined to make her talk. They want us to be married secretly. Will you be happy?’ I said. She grasped the trunk of a tree for support and I boldly told her of my love. I told her that my home was far away, but that my love was great. * Trust me. Trust me,’ I said eagerly to her; and then she looked up, and said with such a look: ‘I trust you.’

“Droupadibai insisted on the marriage ceremony being performed at once. All was done secretly, for they were afraid of the old father and thought of telling him afterwards and making it all right with him. But it proved to be a sad mistake. Droupadibai was in too great a hurry, and it caused us great misery afterwards. The very day after the marriage the old father came to see Droupadibai and told her that she was to prepare for the marriage of the girl. The girl was in great consternation, and Droupadibai and her husband did not know what to do. A very powerful neighbouring jaghirdar had asked for the girl. The only way out of the difficulty seemed to be for us to run away and then to tell the old man the whole story. It was thought that the marriage with a cousin would pacify him. Your mother thought otherwise, but her uncle and aunt insisted on her falling in with their own plan and she was brave.

“I remember distinctly the night when she came down through the temple corridors, over the echoing stone pavements, with her old uncle by her side. She looked more a princess, stately and firm, than one who was stealing away from her father’s home, and her uncle was bending towards her with courtly deference, speaking to her of the arrangements made to convey her to her husband’s home. When she descended the last step, leaving the fortress behind, I saw her stagger. For a moment her breath seemed taken away, for there, in front of her, lay a boundless plain, a wide expanse of earth and sky, with the silence, it seemed, of eternity resting on it. She had never seen this side of the fortress before. At her feet lay the great tapa tank, and a pimpul tree, huge, grey, and weather-beaten, stood near it. She held the tree and gazed for a moment as if lost in thought, and then with a sigh beckoned to her uncle to bring the palanquin. I was near her, but she gave me no look. Only when she was entering the palanquin she laid her small hand in mine trustfully, willingly, and I felt grateful to her, Then her uncle got on his horse and the aunt muttered her blessing on my wife and laid a casket of jewels in my hand, saying: “Never part with this. It is an heirloom from Lakshmi’s mother. Promise me solemnly. Many a long dreary mile the uncle came with us, and he left us only on the borders of the Ghauts. My home was on the other side of the Ghauts near the seaside, where the waves beat round our rude walls.

“It took us some days to pass through the hills, and when I went home and proudly showed my bride, I found misfortune had preceded us, for my mother showed no joy at seeing us, and my sisters grumbled at the girl whom I had brought home. But your mother bravely bore their ill-natured taunts and jeers. It was only when they accused her of bringing misfortune with her that she cried and pined in secret, for, strange to tell, just about the time of our coming home, my father, who was once rich, fell into money difficulties. He had squandered his wealth in various ways, and when we went home we found him completely in the hands of scheming priests and astrologers, who got round the simple old man and helped him to spend what was remaining in feasts and charities to Brahmans and offerings to temples. The bare ancestral land alone was left to us. All this misfortune was ascribed to the coming of your mother, the white-footed girl, as they called her. They were jealous of the rich jewels she possessed but which I had promised her aunt solemnly that I would never part with. And I became tired of their open enmity, of their constant hankering after the jewels, till one day disgusted I left the home of my father’s to go on a pilgrimage. Your mother, of course, accompanied me, and my sister’s son, Ramchander, who was very fond of us also, came with us. He was learning the Shastras with me and I managed to instil into him, young as he was, some of the grand truths of our ancient books. We started for Kashi and visited many places on our way. Once your mother became very ill. This was when you were born. She called you Kamala, the lotus-eyed, because of your eyes. We spent two years in solitary places and were supremely happy.

“Oh, my Kamala! How can I give you a glimpse of those happy days? It falls not to the lot of many mortals to enjoy happiness such as we had. We lived in rude leafy huts, drank of the cool limpid streams; we rose with the birds, roamed through the echoing valleys and over far distant hills—hills where the soft white clouds lingered in the deep blue of the heavens. Your mother would walk by my side in the beautiful glow of morning and evening light, and as sunshine and shade played round her she looked like the goddess of the hills. We had our goats that came to us, our pet birds that came through the dark, tangled woods round our hut to receive their food from our very hands. A stream flowed past our hut and the giant pallas tree waved overhead. Your mother’s only servant, who followed us all the way from her father’s house, prepared our meals-boiled roots, sweet potatoes, rice, dhal, with home-made ghee, and simple cakes, and we were happy, supremely happy. Your mother read with me, with bewildered eyes, books that are never put into women’s hands, and she was delighted when difficult portions were explained. Nothing came between her and me, and as her understanding unfolded, her love for me increased. It was a love too deep for words. Is it any wonder, then, that I love the mountains and the woods? They were kinder to us than human beings. But ah! our happiness was soon over. Before I realized how much your mother was to me, she was taken away from me. The look of pity and overflowing love in her eyes as she was passing away haunts me still. You know, my Kamala, you are very much like her. The resemblance struck me unexpectedly once, and that was at Dudhasthal last year. I was so overcome with emotion that I could not stop.”

“Yes, father! yes!” said Kamala eagerly. “What about Dudhasthal?”

“What about it, child, what do you want to know?”

“Father! was I ever there before? It seemed so familiar. I heard your voice there and felt a strange feeling as if I have dropt into the cold rushing water and some one had rescued me. It was a woman’s arm with bracelets on-I saw it drag me out. Everything was so plain, I thought I had seen it all once before. I rushed into the crowd as I thought I heard your voice.”

“Did you, child?” And he drew her near himself and looked into her eyes as he used to do in days of old. “You have a strange memory. But don’t you remember the face?”

“No, father, I saw only an arm.”

“You had fallen into the deep pool, and it was your mother that pulled you out. You gave us a great fright then. It was on our way to the Krishna Kshetra and on the evening of that very day on the lonely road that your mother was attacked by the dreadful disease that carried her off. When she was very ill she said:—’Oh! what if you had lost your only child too? Don’t be disheartened.’ I remember it all. There was no one to help us. The owls hooted in the dark trees above us, the foxes cried in the dreary wastes around us, and the sound of other wild animals was heard in the distance. Your mother had a dream before she died. The yellow blazing palanquin that comes only for the saints came for her, and by it stood, she said, the Yama god, the dreadful Yama. She looked frightened and said that she was going. It was night, and the stars shone brightly and the winds moaned over the long, long wastes. The dogs that had gathered round us for the remains of our food barked as they rushed far over the hillocks. I knew she was no more. She had left me, but there was the happiness of the swarga depicted on her face. I looked at it and went through the last rites as one mad. After that I left the place with you, my only comfort.”