Chapter XVI

The house of Pantulu Iyer was neither cheerful nor happy. The master himself had aged visibly since the arrival of his son. The signs were to be seen in the stooping figure and listless gait. He had grown thinner, and his appetite was failing. No matter how carefully the food was prepared he refused to eat, complaining sometimes that it was not palatable; at other times he asked with a querulousness that was not habitual, how they could expect him to eat when he knew that his dearly loved son was starving.

All day long he sat and moped either in the verandah of the inner courtyard, or in the front room that opened by the big door on the carriage drive. The door was kept shut and he seldom passed beyond it. If a friend came to call he refused to see him; and if any member of the family with the best intentions of amusing him attempted to talk to him, he dismissed him curtly.

His gloom had a depressing effect on his wife; and for the sake of the household as well as her own she begged him to rouse himself. She suggested visits to his looms in the town and to his silk farms in the suburbs. The office books were brought, and at her direction his younger brother read aloud the carefully-kept accounts, showing how the business had increased and how the prosperity of his ventures was assured; but these and all other devices failed to rouse his interest. With the aptitude for fostering misery, a peculiarity of fatalism, he resigned himself to his circumstances and refused to make any struggle against what he believed to be the inevitable.

In addition to the anxiety caused by her husband's melancholia, Gunga was further disturbed by the state of her grandson's health. At the time when Dorama let him fall from her unconscious arms he had not shown any sign of having sustained any injury. Beyond a few bruises no serious harm was apparent. At the end of a week the child complained of pains in his back and hip. He lost his activity and his good spirits; was disinclined to move and was always craving to be nursed by his mother or one of the women of the house.

A prompt examination of the hip and spine by a skilled surgeon might have discovered the mischief and given relief; but skilled surgery was not obtainable from the native apothecary nor from the native doctor. A vaityan--as the Hindu medical man is called, a person without any scientific knowledge--was summoned, and he prescribed for fever. As the medicine failed to have any beneficial effect, he declared that the child was suffering from the effects of the glance of an evil eye. He must have come under its influence in some way unknown to his mother. Where had she carried him or led him?

There was a searching back into memory for occasions when an evil eye might have rested upon him. Some one recalled the events of the day following Ananda's arrival home, how he appeared on the verandah in front of the open door and how the child ran towards him. It was also noted how the father of the boy had fixed his eye upon him with a great eagerness of possession.

The vaityan was more than satisfied that in the incident they had found a solution of the mystery. The unconscious longing awakened in the father at the sight of his child had given birth to a natural curse of the disappointment of his desire. If he could not have the child himself no one should have him. The baneful influence of the thought in the man's mind was working for evil in the boy's body.

This pronouncement did not tend to allay the irritation felt throughout the family against the son who had brought the shadow of sorrow upon his father's house.

The vaityan prescribed different medicine, and in addition recommended the performance of certain rites that were supposed to have the power of warding off spells. He solemnly tied an amulet specially prepared on the child's arm. The floor of the room where the boy slept was to be strewn with margosa leaves gathered fresh every day; and he was to drink the milk of a black goat that had not a single white hair.

The execution of these numerous orders served to occupy the time and attention of the women; at the same time they kept alive the irritation against Ananda for being the cause of the trouble.

In the midst of it all the guru appeared accompanied by his disciple. He had come unexpectedly and without invitation to learn why the restitution rites were not performed. Reasonable delay he was prepared to permit; but if there was a wilful deferring of the ceremonies it was his duty to exhort and persuade into speedy amendment.

The grave countenance of the swami struck terror into the hearts of the little company that hastily assembled to do him honour. Pantulu fell at his feet in a humble prostration; and Gunga followed his example. As neither offered any explanation Pantulu's brother took upon himself the office of spokesman. He described all that had happened; Ananda's conversion to Christianity in England; the punishments that had been inflicted when it was found that he not only refused to recant, but also declined to take any part in the restitution ceremonies. The guru was told how he was lodged and served; of the attempts that had been made to degrade him and starve him; and how he had not been permitted to see either wife or child.

The great man listened in silence; and when the story was ended the more timid ones of the little company trembled in apprehension of an outburst of anathema and general condemnation. It did not come. The expression on his face was severe but the words that fell from his lips sounded strangely mild and gentle.

"We must look into this matter and see what can be done. Let the child be brought; I am told that he is not well."

Every one from Pantulu downwards was sensible of relief. The anxiety that weighed so heavily was lifted and placed temporarily upon stronger shoulders. Where they had failed in their methods the swami might succeed, and the heir of the house be restored to them. What a rejoicing and feasting there would be! was the thought that ran through the minds of many of the women. The only person who differed in this attitude was Pantulu's brother. Slowly and insidiously he was stepping into the position rendered vacant by Ananda's apostacy to the faith of his fathers. The little Royan would inherit his grandfather's wealth, and during the long minority his great uncle would be practically master of the house and guardian of the person of the minor; but in the event of the child's death Sooba would be the heir.

The drooping child with pathetic signs of pain in his pinched features was brought to the guru who examined him closely and confirmed the opinion of the vaityan. The boy, he said, was placed under the displeasure of the gods and was suffering for his father's sins. If he died--he shook his head solemnly, not thinking of the inheritance but of the future state. The company did not require to be told the fate of a child dying under such circumstances.

Then Pantulu in a trembling voice described his own bodily failings, loss of appetite and sleep, weakness of limbs and an ebbing away of vitality that could only mean the approach of death.

Again the oracle assumed a severe expression. What could be expected but the withering and drooping of the parent when the son was so inhumanly wicked as to break away from his ancestral faith? He would consider what was best to be done, and consult with the brother of the sick man. Then the family offered up thanks and adoration, each member prostrating him or herself before the guru as he withdrew to the room assigned for his use. Sooba followed and the door was closed on the two men.

The interview lasted some time and advice was given that was virtually a command. Sooba would not divulge what it was until the moment arrived for action. Only to Gunga did he give a hint of what the great man intended to do; and she expressed her full approval.

"And if this should fail?" she asked with a sinking heart for she knew the strength of her son's obstinacy.

Her brother-in-law lowered his voice and replied in a whisper. Her head was bent and she made no reply; but her lips closed firmly.

"You will not speak to my husband on this matter. He is too weak, too feeble to deal with it," she said later.

"It will be best to keep him in ignorance--until the orders of the swami have been carried out," answered Sooba. "I have your consent to act?"

"There is no other way of bringing him to reason; and who am I to contradict and oppose one who speaks with the authority of the gods?" replied Gunga, sadly.

On the following morning, after Ananda had risen from his hard, uncomfortable bed and breakfasted on some hot milk and biscuits, he was surprised at receiving a visit from his uncle. The cup that had contained the milk had been replaced in the tiffin basket with the tin of biscuits, and no trace was discernible to the sharp eyes of the visitor of the simple morning meal.

In a more courteous tone than had been adopted by any member of the family hitherto, he asked Ananda to accompany him into the house. At first there was a very natural hesitation to obey such an unexpected summons; but on second thoughts Ananda deemed it wiser to go than to refuse. For all he could tell it might be the first sign of relenting.

He closed the book he was reading, placed it upon the table, and without a word followed his uncle through the compound to the front of the house. Side by side they mounted the steps that led into the verandah. The big door stood open, and they passed through it into the entrance-room. Bidding him stay there his uncle left him for a few minutes.

The door leading into the centre courtyard was wide open, and through it he caught sight of some of the women of the household, as they moved in and out of the kitchen and its offices in the execution of their domestic duties. His eye sought eagerly for the familiar figure of his wife or child, but no trace of them or of his parents was visible.

As he gazed into the sunlit yard memories crowded back upon him thickly. The place was full of associations connected with his childish games, the idle chatter of his boyhood, the visit of the guru and the purohit when they came to perform ceremonies that once were so full of awe and mystery; and that now by the light of the new teaching seemed so futile and childish.

In the midst of his reverie his uncle reappeared, and leading him to a room signed to him to enter. He heard the door close behind him and knew that his companion had not followed.

Ananda scarcely dared to believe his eyes. In front of him stood Dorama, not a sad tearful repellent Dorama; but a loving, expectant wife, happy and confident.

She was dressed as a bride in a rich silk saree. Her neck, arms and hair gleamed with gold and precious stones. Jasmine blossom peeped from the strands of her glossy hair. Her complexion was heightened by the subtle use of saffron, and there was an alluring scent of sandal wood in the air.

He strode towards her impetuously; gathered her into his arms pressing passionate kisses upon her unresisting mouth. The thirst of his heart was not easily assuaged. He lost count of time; his eyes were blind to everything but the beautiful woman who nestled against his breast with inarticulate murmurs of contentment. His pulses leaped as he realised that his kisses were returned. She loved him! She was his! How the clouds parted and rolled aside at the assurance!

A hand was laid upon his shoulder with no light touch, and they were forced apart. Ananda turned angrily upon the intruder who dared to interpose and found himself face to face with the guru. Yielding in his surprise to the old instinctive habit of his youth he placed his hands together palm to palm.

"Pardon, swami; I did not know that you were present," he said. "I thought I was alone with my wife."

For all his humility and deference there was a note of pride in his tone that jarred on the ear of the man who arrogated to himself the attributes of a god. The words seemed to imply that the third person present at such a meeting, whoever he might be, was an intruder; and that the sooner he departed the better pleased the husband would be.

As for Dorama her head sank upon her breast in what appeared to be an overwhelming fit of outraged modesty. Inwardly she was glowing under that ardent embrace, tingling to her finger tips, every nerve thrilled by his possessive touch. She had been well tutored beforehand as to her conduct, how she was to do all in her power to attract her errant husband and draw him back to her; how she was to appeal to him by words and tears and pray him to return. The programme thus mapped out for her did not include the unexpected greeting, and she felt confused. Ananda had begun at the wrong end and cut the ground on which she was to base her pleading from beneath her feet. She drew aside leaving the swami to speak.

"I have arranged for you to see your wife and speak with her. She is also to hear what I have to say to you. I understand that you have refused the rites that should restore your caste----"

"I have become a Christian and I have received the Christian rite of baptism. Under those circumstances the Hindu rites are unnecessary," interrupted Ananda, careful to preserve the courtesy rendered instinctively by a man of good caste to an equal.

"It matters not what you call yourself," replied his former spiritual teacher with a lowering glance; "nor does it signify in the least what strange ceremonies you may have seen fit to go through in England. They can all be cast aside like the blanket clothing you were obliged to adopt when the frost and snow came. The delayed rites must be performed, and I am here to see that they are properly carried out."

The guru restrained himself with difficulty. Ananda's independent attitude and simple courage roused his anger. The great man could not fail to observe that he had very little hold on the attention of his hearers. Already Ananda was turning impatiently to the woman as though he had disposed of the intruder and swept him off his horizon by the announcement of his change of faith.

"Wife, where is the child, our child? My eyes ache for a sight of him!"

"He is not well."

"Not well? How is that?" he asked with parental concern that sounded sweet to her unaccustomed ears.

"He pines for his father," she replied falteringly.

"Tell him how he has laid a curse not only on the child but also on his parents," broke in the swami unable to keep silence. "The curse will extend to his wife as well, if she fails to draw him back from his evil ways."

She looked from one to the other, trembling under the stern eye of the swami.

"Husband will you not return to us? The big father pines for a sight of his son. The old eyes are blind through tears. The child----!" she stopped unable to command her voice. "Husband!" she continued. "Your wife more than all pines also. The day is long and weary without you. The night is unbearable in its misery. Will you not come to us, our lord and master?"

She held out her arms, and again he would have clasped her to himself; but in accordance with instructions given by no less a person than the swami himself she drew back; and the guru by a slight movement glided in between them.

"The reward is ready and waits with impatience," said the swami, his lips parting for a moment and showing the white teeth in a smile that was not born of kindness or pity. "But you are not ready for the reward."

Ananda ignored the speech and continued to address Dorama with increasing emotion.

"Come? Will I not come? Beloved, I will come! I am ready; I have been waiting till my heart was sick with longing. Wife!" he cried passionately, "I claim you as my own unconditionally. I command you to join me. Come willingly if you can; but willing or unwilling I shall not cease trying to regain my rights."

"You have no rights!" cried the guru, a definite challenge in his voice.

"That remains to be seen," replied Ananda shortly, as though he grudged the precious moments wasted in speech with any one but his wife. He turned to her again. "Beloved! There is no reason why you should not come to me now."

Hot words of desperate pleading fell from his lips. He had no more regard for the presence of the swami than for a yellow lizard on the wall. Dorama listened with charmed ears, her lips apart in a smile that set her husband's pulses throbbing. She too under the magical influence of long deferred love was unconscious of the presence that overshadowed them.

She had promised faithfully to plead the cause of Hinduism, but religion was forgotten. Love and love alone was paramount. Nothing else mattered. Her eyes shone with a light that spoke volumes to both men, bringing joy and hope to Ananda but misgiving to the guru. He had not calculated on the turn events had taken. The warm impulsive greeting between husband and wife had been out of his reckoning. The magical effect of touch had been undreamed of.

Another factor that had not been considered was Ananda's matured manhood. The timid boy whom the guru had instructed in the old days with fatherly authority was gone, and in his place stood an individual of strong character developed in the hard school of persecution. It was not easy for the guru to obtain a hearing. He seized upon a pause when the husband having made his appeal waited for his wife's reply.

"Woman!" he cried, in a rough overbearing voice. "Tell your husband under what conditions you will consent to join him."

Dorama gave the swami a frightened glance, and began in a faltering voice as though she were repeating a half-learned lesson.

"If my lord will consent to the rites being performed----"

"Beloved wife! light of my eyes! joy of my heart! the ceremonies that made me your husband were long ago performed. They need not be repeated!"

"She means----" began the guru in a still louder voice than he had addressed Dorama.

Ananda took a step forward and in tones that echoed round the room, said--

"Silence, swami, silence! Let the husband plead with his wife. All the world over the rule holds good that the wife shall listen to her husband; aye, and obey him!"

"Outcaste, and cursed of the gods! She is no wife of yours!"

"Christian or Hindu, we are one, she and I whatever you may say!" Again he turned to Dorama. "My lotus bud, my pearl! Do not listen to his words. Believe me you are mine for ever. Do you remember our marriage, not the mere ceremonies that made you mine; but the after rites when they gave you into my arms? We were so young then! We were like children half grown and only half awake. Now, now, loved one! my own little wife! we are awake, yes, awake and waiting and longing! Come, beloved! We have waited too long!"

The words poured from his lips in an irresistible torrent, and the guru was powerless to stop them. At their conclusion Ananda moved towards his wife who stood with hands clasped, her face turned to his.

"Back, back!" cried the guru in threatening accents.

"Come, come, beloved!"

With a swift decisive movement Ananda thrust aside the intervening body of the guru; and Dorama half sobbing, half laughing, and wholly sweet and yielding, was once again in his strong embrace; once, again in spite of the terrible presence of the swami, she felt his lips upon hers and dared--yes, dared to give back kiss for kiss. Then she felt herself put away with the same purposeful force.

"Go, little one, go before the swami curse you," he said in her ear. Dropping his voice to a whisper he continued rapidly. "You know where to find me. If your heart is brave enough to seek your husband, come by day or in the dead of night, beloved, and you will find your place in these arms. Now go, light of my eyes, my priceless jewel!"

As he spoke he gently pushed her to the door and, opening it, thrust her out, closing it after her. He returned to the middle of the room and looked the guru squarely in the face.

"Now, swami," he said temperately; "speak out! Say what you have to say as man to man. I am ready to listen. Curse me if you like by all your gods. Your curses cannot hurt."

The unflinching gaze that accompanied this speech told the guru more plainly than words that as far as Ananda was concerned his authority was called in question, his influence was gone and his godhead denied. "As man to man," Ananda had said. There was no recognition of twice-born infallibility in that sentence. The guru ground his teeth in his rage. He knew what it meant; it was the attitude of the cursed Christian towards the Brahman. The Brahman and Christian met as man to man on a common human platform; and the man without caste, the follower of a strange faith that denied the Hindu deities claimed to be equal with the divinely born exponent of the Vedas, the being of exalted caste who was immune from sin. He, the guru, the swami, in whose body resided the mantric essence, the soul of the deity, he who was sinless, was thrust from his pedestal by one whom he had instructed in his youth!

Words failed him and he was speechless; he had lost command of his tongue and he could neither curse nor upbraid. Not only had Ananda spoken to him as an equal, but when he would have interposed between husband and wife, the apostate had laid a vigorous hand on him full of strength and determination and had put him aside. Never before had he been addressed in that manner, and never had such a thing been heard of as to touch the sacred person of a swami with a sacrilegious hand.

The warm shades of his skin yellowed and he gasped as he made for the door. With a strange courtesy learned in England Ananda passed before him, lifted the latch and held the door open. The guru strode from the room transported with a rage that knew no bounds; and Ananda even as he rejoiced in his triumph wondered vaguely in what form the man's vengeance would fall. God grant that it might be directed against himself, and not against the beautiful woman who had so lately nestled in his arms.