‘Innumerable times, I have craved for just one glimpse of my beloved child. But how could I dare to hope that you don’t hate me even after being witness to my flawed character in such a heartbreakingly stark manner?’
Anandi spoke with damp eyes, ‘You are being grossly unfair to me by thinking like this, Swami. I’m not so immature that I would taint your reputation for the sake of my own satisfaction and comfort. I regard you as my God. It is my dearest wish that you grant me your presence here every day at this time.’
Gopinath felt ashamed at this childlike innocence and was overcome by a desire to defy the meaningless restrictions of marriage and custom and sink this hollow institution into the river of oblivion. He would build a home and Anandi would be its Goddess. The baby would play happily within its confines. With the sunshine of the child’s face, he would light up his dark life. But this surge of personal honour disappeared in a moment and the fear of loss of face engulfed him again. Philosophy bowed its head once again before meanness of action.
Fifteen years have passed since that day but you can still find Lala Gopinath sitting privately in Anandi’s room every night. He’s willing to die for false appearances, and Anandi can give her life for love. They both suffer disrepute. However, people view Anandi with sympathy, while Gopinath has lost all favour in their eyes. Agreed, some of his close friends still respect him and are willing to excuse him for this human failing, but the general public is not half as tolerant.
Translated from the Urdu by Baran Farooqi
The Bridal Sari1
It’s wrong to say that for marital happiness the temperaments of a man and a woman ought to match. Mrs Gaura and Mr Kunwar Ratansingh had absolutely nothing in common. Gaura was generous, Ratansingh held fast to every last penny. She was cheerful, he a worrier. She would have laid down her life for family honour, Ratansingh thought this mere ostentation. There were grave differences in their social conduct and outlook, too. Here it was Ratansingh’s turn to be liberal. Gaura objected to communal eating, was disgusted at the idea of widow remarriage, and opposed the cause of the untouchables. Ratansingh supported all these systems.
In matters of politics the differences between them were even more complicated. Gaura regarded the present circumstances as fixed, eternal and inevitable, which is why she was indifferent to the moderates, Congress, Swaraj, and Home Rule. ‘What can they do, this handful of educated men?’ she’d say. ‘Can faith move mountains?’ Ratansingh was a true optimist, the occupier of the front row at political rallies, the first to step into the field of action, a passionate patriot and a complete votary of boycott. Despite all these differences, their married life was happy. They quarrelled occasionally, of course, but these were breezes that gently ruffle still water, not squalls that make the sea revolt. A little goodwill would dispel all the discord and differences.2
Bonfires were being made of foreign clothes. Bands of volunteers stood like beggars at people’s doors, asking for the alms of Western clothes, and there was hardly a door from which they were turned away. The days of homespun cloth had returned. Nainsukh no longer pleased the eyes, muslin felt dirty, and tanzeb pricked the skin.
Ratansingh came to Gaura and said, ‘Get me all the foreign clothes from your trunk.’
Gaura said, ‘Arré, is this very minute auspicious? Give them away some other time.’
‘Wah, there are people in an uproar by the door and you say give them away some other time?’
‘Here are the keys, take them out and hand them over. But these are all boys’ games. Swaraj has never been attained by burning down the house and it never will be.’
Ratan said, ‘Just yesterday we spent hours debating this subject and you agreed with me. Now you’re raising the same doubts?’
‘I went quiet from the fear of displeasing you.’
‘Okay, you can bring up your questions another time. Right now just do what has to be done.’
‘But you won’t take my clothes, will you?’
‘You’ll have to give me everything; leaving even a thread of British cloth in the house will destroy my vow.’
Just then Ramtehel, the syce, called from outside, ‘Master, people are getting impatient; they say there are several localities left to cover. And if you have a piece of coarse cloth might I get it, I’ve handed over all my clothes too.’
Kesar, the maid, was seen carrying out a bundle of clothes.
Ratansingh asked, ‘Are you also giving away your clothes?’
Kesar said shyly, ‘Yes, when the country is no longer wearing them, how can I wear them?’
Ratansingh looked at Gaura meaningfully. She couldn’t put it off any more. Her head bent with shame, she opened a trunk and started taking the clothes out. When one trunk emptied, she opened a second. Right on top was a lovely suit of silk which Ratansingh had had stitched in some English workshop.
Gaura asked, ‘Should I take out the suit too?’
‘Yes, of course. What will you save it for?’
‘If I’d known that the wind would change direction so quickly I’d have never let you get this suit made. It was money squandered.’
Ratansingh made no reply. Then Gaura opened her own trunk and in a frenzied rage began flinging out all the clothes, Indian and foreign. She had many
