One day she had a dream that Amarnath stood at the door, crying, bareheaded and barefoot. She was horrified and raced to the door. All was calm there; she felt a little better. She woke up the manager and sent a telegram to Amarnath.
But there was no reply. The entire day passed but no reply came. Another night passed. Manorama lay in her room, without food or water, like someone unconscious. She could only think about one thing. She could only talk about one thing. Whoever came to her room, she asked over and over again, ‘Have you got a reply?’
All kinds of fears haunted her. She would ask the maidservants to interpret her dreams. She read a pile of tracts on the interpretation of dreams but her own remained a mystery. The maidservants tried to reassure her, saying, ‘Kunwarji is fine. If you see someone barefoot in a dream it means that he’s gone for a horse ride. No need to worry.’ But Manorama was not pacified by these words. She harped on the fact of the reply to the telegram; after all, four days had gone by.
The arrival of a juggler to the neighbourhood is an event for the young folk. The sound of his drum is even more attractive than the tempting calls of the food hawkers. The coming of an astrologer is equally eventful. The news spreads like wildfire. Mothers-in-law land up with their daughters-in-law, mothers come with their luckless daughters. Depending on the situation, the astrologer makes his predictions. His forecasts are difficult to decipher. His constructions of fate are even more complicated and unfathomable than the lines of fate on the palm. Modern intellectuals may have devalued astrology but the power of the astrologer remains undiminished. Even those who don’t believe in him want to hear him out. Every word of his has the power to inspire hope or fear, especially his lethal predictions which fall like bolts of lightning set ablaze.
It had been five days since the telegram was sent when an astrologer turned up at Amarnath’s doorstep. At once the neighbourhood women assembled there. The astrologer made pronouncements; his readings of fate made some cry and others laugh. Manorama got wind of it. She immediately invited him in and asked him the meaning of her nightmare.
The astrologer looked all around as if for an answer. He leafed through volumes, made calculations on his fingers. But not finding an answer, he said, ‘Is this your ladyship’s dream?’
‘No, a friend’s. In my opinion, the dream is a bad omen. She says it is auspicious. What do you have to say?’
The astrologer was again at a loss. He had no clue about Amarnath’s journey. Usually he had some idea of what had happened; this he would couple with speculation and transform into invaluable astrology. His audience bought it. Now, even the answer to his question had been vague. Disappointed with his performance, he thought it advisable to support Manorama. He said, ‘What our lady says is true. This dream is a bad omen.’
Standing there, Manorama began to tremble like the strings of a sitar. Building on the ill omen, the astrologer said, ‘A terrible misfortune will befall her husband. His house will be destroyed and he will wander across many lands in distress.’
Manorama felt limp. She leaned against the wall, asked God for help and fell to the floor unconscious.
The astrologer awoke to the difficulty of the situation. He realized that he was in a mess. He reassured her, told her that she should not worry at all. He would ward off the crisis. And his fees need be given only when good news arrived. He asked for a goat, some cloves and coarse thread. ‘It’s a difficult project, but with God’s grace, it’s not impossible. See, Madam, what fabulous recommendations I have got from British officials. Deputy Sahib’s daughter was not well just the other day. The doctors had given up. When she wore my special amulet, she recovered in no time. Only yesterday a bagful of cash went missing from Seth Chandulal’s house. No one had a clue where to begin the search. I made my calculations—the thief was caught. It was the work of his manager. The bag reappeared in the same way that it went.’
The astrologer was holding forth on his magical powers while Manorama lay unconscious.
Suddenly, she sat up, called the manager, and said, ‘Prepare for the journey, I’m going to take the evening train to Bundelkhand.’
On reaching the station, Manorama sent Amarnath a telegram: I’m coming. His last letter said he was in Kabrai, so she booked a ticket for Kabrai. But she had been sleepless for many days. The moment she sat on the train, she fell asleep, and as soon as she fell asleep, unwanted fears took the form of nightmares.
She saw a vast expanse of sea in which a wrecked boat bobbed up and down on the stormy waters. A boat without a sailor or sails or oars. The waves would sometimes toss the boat around. But then suddenly Manorama could see a man on it. The man was none other than Amarnath, bareheaded, barefoot, crying. Manorama trembled like a leaf. The boat would capsize any minute. She woke up with a loud scream, her body drenched in sweat, her heart pounding. She immediately got up, splashed her face with water and decided to fight sleep. What a terrible sight! Great God—you are my sole refuge. Look after him!
She craned her neck out of the window. The stars were streaming across the sky. Her watch showed that it was noon. She was surprised that she had had such a long sleep, even though she felt at that moment that she hadn’t slept a wink!
She picked up a
