Gaura said firmly, ‘If you don’t take it, I’ll go give it myself.’
Ratansingh was helpless. He took the sari and went out.4
Since that day there was a weight on Gaura’s heart. She tried different remedies to distract herself: took part in meetings, went on outings, read entertaining books and even, contrary to the norm, went to the theatre—all so that she could somehow stop imagining bad omens. Yet these apprehensions continued clouding her heart.
When a whole month had passed and her mental suffering increased by the day, Ratansingh decided to take her to his country estate for a few days. In her mind she constantly reproached him for his idealism. He’d often go to the countryside to spread the word. But now he didn’t go further than the villages on the lands he managed, and if he did he’d return by evening. His delay by a single day, his ordinary headaches and colds would agitate her. She often had nightmares. She was sunk in the darkness of imagined misfortunes.
Sitting in the countryside she became a slave to her forebodings, while her bridal sari, burnt on the altar of patriotism, had turned to the benediction of sacred ash.
At the end of the second month, Ratansingh brought her back.5
It had been three or four days since Gaura’s return but she was so busy managing the house and keeping her mind focused, that she hadn’t been able to go out. The reason was that Kesar, the maid, had left the household just after Gaura’s departure and they hadn’t been able to find a good replacement. Ramtehel had also left. The poor coachman was doing the work of a syce, too.
It was evening. Gaura was in the veranda, staring fixedly at the sky, the only recourse for worried souls. Ratansingh appeared suddenly and said, ‘Come, let’s take you to the local produce bazaar. I’d proposed it myself, but it’s been four days since we came back and we haven’t had a chance to go.’
Gaura said, ‘I don’t feel like going. Let’s sit here and talk a while.’
‘No, let’s go have a look. We can be back in an hour.’
Eventually, Gaura agreed. She hadn’t been out for a month. Everything around her seemed strangely enchanting. The market had never seemed so lively. When she reached the bazaar she saw the Muslim and Hindu weavers sitting in their decked-up shops. Suddenly, an old weaver came up and greeted Ratansingh. Ratansingh was startled and said, ‘Ramtehel, where are you these days?’
Ramtehel looked happy. His whole being gave off the glow of self-respect. His eyes shone with pride. Ratansingh had never noticed that old Ramtehel, cleaner of stables, was such a dignified, gracious man.
He said, ‘Master, I run my own business now. Since I left your service, I’ve been my own boss. You looked out for us poor people, so we’re making do, otherwise you know very well the state I was in. I’m a weaver by caste but to feed my sinful stomach I’d become a servant.’ Ratansingh said, ‘So sweeten our mouths then. Setting up this market was my idea, the sales must be good.’
‘Yes, master! The sales are excellent these days. The goods are flying off the shelves. I’ve been sitting here only for a month, but thanks to your mercy people are spending with abandon the little money they have. I’m also able to get two rough and ready meals a day by the grace of God. What else do I want? As soon as the mistress’s wedding sari was put to flame, the market took off. People said, such a big man and he did not care for this auspicious thing, so why should we hold on to foreign clothes? The master went to his estate a couple of days before the bonfire was lit. Even before that for many days the master hardly ever came out of the house. I’d say this is the magic of that bridal sari.’
Meanwhile, a middle-aged woman came and stood before Gaura, saying, ‘Mistress, I hope you haven’t forgotten me.’
When Gaura looked up she saw Kesar, the maid. She wore a beautiful sari, even some simple jewellery on her hands and feet, and her face was aglow. The pride of an independent life was evident in each of her expressions.
Gaura said, ‘How can I forget so quickly? Where are you now? You didn’t let us return, you took off before that.’
‘What to do, mistress? Seeing my own line of work going well, I couldn’t hold back. While my livelihood was down, I was wretched. For the stomach’s sake, I slaved for others, took up any job good or bad. Now, because of your goodwill, our time has returned, so it’s hard to do any other work. If the market stays this way, it’ll keep us going. All this is the wonder of your sari. Thanks to it so many livelihoods have been restored. A month ago none of these shopkeepers had any guarantee about where they would get their bread from. Some were syces, some played drums, some even worked as sweepers. Many begged. And now everyone’s back at their own trades. If you ask me, your bridal sari has made us all brides, while earlier even as brides we were widows. I tell you it’s true, hundreds of young people are constantly praying that your marriage lasts forever—you who has given our widowed community the gift of wifehood.’
Ratansingh sat at a shop and looked over some clothes. Gaura was ecstatic. All her forebodings started to dissolve like dreams. Her own eyes became moist as the Goddess of the wedded stood before those tearful eyes with her sari spread out, handing out blessings.
She looked at Ratansingh devotedly and said, ‘Get me a sari too.’6
By the
