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‘None at all, none at all,’ said Aunt, with considerably more conviction than she really had. She hoped fervently that all her propaganda directed towards her unsuspecting niece was having sufficient effect to ensure an affirmative answer when the time came.
As she became further committed, the horrid thought of how other women of the family would snigger behind their hands at her, if she failed, began to haunt her – they might even suggest that she was, with advancing years, losing her skill, and that would be hard to bear. She put these thoughts firmly behind her; dear Anasuyabehn should have a wonderful marriage – and all through her aunt’s sagacity.
CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_9cb67b80-d0cb-5f2a-843a-15a4ae4a489a)
The day on which Mahadev would make a formal visit to his prospective bride’s family drew near. Unfortunately, his aunt had to return to Baroda to nurse a sick son, so it was understood that Mahadev would be accompanied by his brother and sister-in-law.
That morning, Anasuyabehn’s aunt hinted to her that her father had a well-to-do and charming suitor in mind for her. Anasuyabehn, who had done little else but dream about the new, unmarried Professor of Zoology, ever since she had seen him from the roof of her father’s bungalow, asked with interest, ‘Who is he?’
‘Ah-ha,’ responded Aunt, all cheerful coyness. ‘Your father will tell you in due course.’
Anasuyabehn could not think of any particularly eligible man who had swung into their orbit recently, other than Tilak, and she smiled happily.
Aunt had informed her brother that all was now arranged. The first gifts had been exchanged, and Aunt explained, ‘I locked them in the almira, so that they will be a nice surprise for Anasuyabehn, when you tell her that the final arrangements have been made.’
The Dean smiled. He liked the idea of giving his daughter a pleasant surprise. He had been extremely busy, because the enrolment in his Faculty had increased markedly that term, and he had hardly exchanged a word with his daughter for weeks. He felt that he really must now talk to her about her marriage, though his sister, he was sure, would already have discussed everything with her. He opened his study door, and called, ‘Daughter, come here.’
‘Well,’ he greeted her, as she entered a little apprehensively. ‘This is a happy day for us, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, father,’ she answered submissively, masking a tumult of anxiety in her heart.
Aunt shuffled in behind her and sank on to the couch.
Dean Mehta sat down in his desk chair and took his daughter’s hand. ‘Well, now, are we quite happy at the idea of leaving our old father and going to a fine, young husband?’
Anasuyabehn did not know how to reply, and raised her heavily kohled eyes to her father.
Finally she said, ‘I don’t want to leave you, father – but I know it is time I was married.’
‘Good, good. You won’t be going far from me, anyway.’
He contemplated his daughter benignly. A placid, obedient girl, educated and yet without the flighty ideas of some of the women students on the campus. He beamed at her with satisfaction, while she waited with as much patience as she could muster. Then she said, in reply to his remark, ‘That will be nice, father.’ After all, Tilak would probably remain for years at this university.
Dean Mehta dug his key chain out of his pocket and selected a key, which he handed to his sister, while he nodded his bald head in amiable agreement.
‘Get the parcels out of the cupboard,’ he instructed her, and Aunt creaked to her feet to do so. Anasuyabehn watched her with pleasant anticipation, willing to go along with their desire to tease her gently.
‘The Desais have sent some beautiful gifts,’ said her father, as he watched his sister bring out a number of bundles.
‘The Desais?’ Anasuyabehn looked at him with blank incomprehension.
Dean Mehta glanced quickly at her, startled by the surprise in her voice. She was looking at him as if she had suddenly discovered a corpse.
‘Yes – Mahadev,’ he said.
Anasuyabehn sank into the visitor’s chair by her father’s desk, dazed by the shock. Far away, she could hear her father’s voice, but the only word she really heard was Mahadev. She was so aghast that it seemed to her that she never would take breath again; however, her aunt evidently turned the fan towards her, because she felt the breeze on her face. Gradually, the world took shape again. Out of the mist loomed her father’s face, full of anxiety, and his voice boomed into her ears.
‘Dear child,’ he said, full of self-reproach. ‘I kept you standing too long on this hot day. Let Aunt give you some water.’
Aunt had already poured a glassful from his carafe, and she held it to the girl’s lips. For once, the old woman could not think of anything to say.
Anasuyabehn sipped obediently, and life flooded furiously back into her. All her aunt’s gossip of the previous few weeks came back to her and fell neatly into place.
‘Marry a moneylender?’ she gasped scornfully. ‘Oh, no, father. No!’ The last word came out in a wail.
Dean Mehta looked at her in some astonishment.
‘He’s hardly a moneylender, child. He’s a big financier. Desai Sahib and his associates put up no less than half the money for the new chemical works at Baroda. Anyway, I thought you wanted to marry Mahadev.’
‘Why should I think of marrying him?’ Anasuyabehn asked, through angry tears.
‘Your aunt assured me that you wanted to.’
‘When I spoke of him,’ interposed her aunt hastily, ‘you agreed what a nice family they were. You made no criticism whatever.’
‘I never thought of marrying one of them,’ retorted the girl. She dabbed her eyes with the end of her sari.
Dean Mehta looked at his sister, and demanded sharply, ‘What’ve you been doing? Didn’t you ask her?’ He seemed suddenly fierce.
Aunt looked uncomfortable. Her mouth opened and shut, as she searched for a reply. She had not expected serious opposition from Anasuyabehn, once her father was committed to the match. She thought the girl would accept fairly contentedly the prospect of such a fine, rich bridegroom.
Anasuyabehn’s faintness had passed and she glared at the old woman, whose white widow’s sari served only to remind her of the troubles of early widowhood, the likely result if one married a man much older than oneself. Only a lifetime of training stopped her from screaming with rage at her aunt.
Aunt mustered her forces. She said indignantly, ‘I’ve talked of little else for weeks. I told her all about the family and about the return of their eldest son. I was sure she understood.’
‘Marriage never occurred to me,’ Anasuyabehn defended herself, through gritted teeth. ‘They’re not the same caste. I just thought you were telling me the news – gossiping!’ The last word came out loaded with rage.
‘Sister!’ Dean Mehta’s voice was full of reproach. ‘Now we are committed. You stupid woman!’ Mentally he reviled himself for leaving so important a matter to her.
‘It’s a good match,’ said Aunt defensively. ‘Mahadev could marry anyone he chooses round these parts – and he chose Anasuyabehn.’
‘Chose me?’ exclaimed Anasuyabehn. Since she had never even spoken to Mahadev she had assumed that his father was arranging the marriage.
‘Yes,’ replied Aunt quickly. ‘He’s admired you for years. However, you were betrothed. But now he finds you are free, and dearly wants to marry you.’
‘Oh,’ said Anasuyabehn, surprise for a moment overcoming her anger.
The Dean, thoroughly exasperated by his sister, nevertheless saw his chance, and said to his bewildered daughter, who was agitatedly running her fingers through her hair, ‘My daughter, your aunt is right. It is a good match in these troubled times.’ He pursed his lips, and then went on, ‘Certainly she should have talked it over thoroughly with you – I regret not asking you myself, but I’ve had so much on my mind lately – however, here we are committed to it, and before we do anything more, I want you to consider it carefully.’
Anasuyabehn looked at him helplessly. She felt, as her father pressed Mahadev’s suit, that her last Court of Appeal was being closed to her, and she sat like a silent ghost while her father extolled Mahadev’s virtues. When he produced an exquisite sari which had been brought, as a token of the engagement, by one of the ladies concerned in the negotiations, she sat with it half opened in her lap, and hardly heard his voice.
‘Child, it was sad that your betrothed should die – I know you liked him. And, unfortunately, it made you look a little unlucky in the eyes of parents …’ He tailed off.
‘Mahadev is a handsome man,’ put in the old woman, her voice almost wistful, only to be crushed by an icy look from Anasuyabehn.
‘And a generous and thoughtful one,’ added her father, cheering up a little, as he picked up a small box from his desk.
Mahadev had often been impressed by Anasuyabehn’s quiet and dignified demeanour when he had watched her in the streets; she walked with the perfect foot placement and timing of an elephant, he had many times told himself. Older and wiser than most bridegrooms, he greatly desired to win the favour of his wife-to-be. He had, therefore, insisted that the traditional bags of white and brown sugar be sent to her home, burying in them, instead of the usual two rupees, a small silver box with which to surprise her. It was this box which her father now handed to her.
Though she was very dejected, Anasuyabehn’s curiosity was aroused by the unexpected token. She took the box from her father and opened it.
On a fluffy bed of cotton reposed a small nose ring consisting of a single diamond set in gold. Exquisitely cut, it flashed in the sunlight with a delicate blue radiance, a beautiful ornament which spoke, with fabulously expensive eloquence, of its donor’s wealth, and of his interest in her as a person. With an odd quirk of humour, Anasuyabehn saw the mental agony with which a close-fisted, traditional moneylender must have parted with such a valuable gem. He must be in love to the point of insanity, she thought grimly.
Fascinated, she lifted the ornament out and laid it on the palm of her hand, a hand that began to tremble with a deep fear of the unknown. Here was proof positive that her suitor would not take a negative answer easily. The gift was really valuable and quite unnecessary at such a time.
Until her father had handed her the little box, she had taken it for granted that, somehow, she would be able to escape from the marriage agreement. But now fear seemed to creep out from the blue stone and wind itself round her heart. A man who loved passionately was not going to be fobbed off so easily – nor was his powerful family, who seemed to be bent on rising socially as a caste. She knew what it was to be in love, she admitted, in love with a strange Maratha from Bombay, and, as she met Tilak on various social occasions, she had begun to feel the white heat of it. What might a powerful man like Mahadev do, if he felt the same?
And deep down inside her was a little worm of added fear, nesting in her Gujerati respect for money, that, because of Mahadev’s undisputed wealth, she might be tempted to be unfaithful to the new unnourished love which possessed her – though Tilak was not a bad match; a professor had everyone’s respect and a steady, if not large, income.
She could feel fresh grief rising in her, in belated mourning for her original betrothed. If he had lived, she would have had a family by now and would never have lifted her eyes to Tilak – and Mahadev would have looked elsewhere for a wife. She had not cried at the time of her fiancé’s death – one rarely does about someone seen only once; but now she wished deeply that his thin, tuberculosis-ridden body lay between her and the fires of passion and fear now consuming her.
I’ll object, she thought, and her inward sense of weakness made her outwardly more belligerent. She gritted her teeth and glared furiously through her tears at her aunt.
Her father took her silence for reluctant acceptance, and said quite cheerfully, before her defiance could be expressed verbally, ‘Well, daughter, now you can see how highly Mahadev thinks of you. I think well of him myself and I believe you would learn to, too. Come, let us make him happy and give him a marriage date.’
Toothless and shrivelled as a dry orange skin, her aunt squatted on the floor, nodding her head and smiling amiably.
‘An astrologer should arrange it,’ she said, taking out her betal box and scraping round in it for a suitable piece of nut to chew. ‘Though first there should be some parties, so that my niece may meet her future husband.’
‘I don’t want to be married,’ said Anasuyabehn in a small tight voice.
‘Tut, tut,’ said her aunt, grinning as she chewed.
‘I’d rather be a nun.’
‘You’ll change your tune when you have a small son in your arms,’ said the old lady, waving one scrawny arm to hitch her sari further over her shoulder.
‘Father,’ implored Anasuyabehn, tears pouring down her face. ‘Must I?’
The Dean scratched his head in embarrassed silence. Finally, he said, ‘Daughter, I have loved you too well and kept you by me too long. It will not be easy to find anyone else as well-to-do, so healthy or so influential.’
‘I don’t like him, Papa. I don’t care about him being rich.’ She sniffed back her tears. ‘He’s not the only man in the world.’
‘Come, come, daughter,’ he said. ‘You have not yet even met your future husband. We’ll have all the usual tea parties, as if you were just a young girl, and you may speak with him. Don’t cry, child. I am sure you’ll be a patient and dutiful wife and will be amply rewarded.’
Her aunt sniffed and looked at the ceiling; her own rewards in marriage had been few. It was unnatural, however, for a woman not to be married; and this is what came of leaving girls single too long – they became stubborn.
Anasuyabehn covered her face with her sari and, under its comforting darkness, she saw for a moment a dark, thin face looking up at her as if enchanted. The new Zoology man was a fine man to look upon. She gave a little, shivering sigh.
‘Father, could you try for somebody else?’
‘Who?’
‘Perhaps someone in the University.’
‘They’re all married.’
Anasuyabehn tried to bring herself to the point of saying that the Professor of Zoology was not, but her courage failed her and she whispered, ‘Not all of them.’
‘Who isn’t?’ asked the Dean, his ire against his sister again beginning to rise.
Aunt cackled. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen you with the other girls, making sheep’s eyes.’
‘Well, who?’ queried the Dean again.
‘The Zoology Professor!’ laughed Aunt.
The Dean digested this information slowly. He had honestly not considered this young man, but the suggestion did not meet with much approval. Marathas were not popular in the Gujerat; thin, taut, warrior-descended, mentally agile, they were the very antithesis of Gujeratis; and this particular Maratha, with his demands for journals, for more lecture time, for a greater water supply, for a laboratory assistant, was already proving a bane to the worthy, but slow-moving Dean.
Meanwhile, Anasuyabehn stared unbelievingly at her aunt, marvelling at her powers of observation; she tended to think of her as part of the furniture, a necessary encumbrance, without life in herself.
Her fears redoubled.
Very quickly, Aunt loosed the deadliest shaft she possessed.
‘A man who kills and cuts up animals,’ she said.
Dean Mehta stared at her, horrified, his worst fears realized.
‘No!’ he exclaimed.
‘Oh, yes. The mother of one of his students told me.’
‘I must see him about it,’ he muttered.
Making a great effort to be calm and firm, he turned to Anasuyabehn. ‘A young man about whom we know so little would not be suitable, child. I would prefer you to marry a Gujerati, at least.’
Anasuyabehn nearly burst with rage at her aunt, and was about to explode verbally, when her little servant boy slid into the room.
‘The young Desai Sahib is here,’ he said to Dean Mehta. ‘He’s sitting on the front veranda.’
Anasuyabehn’s rage gave way to panic; she sprang to her feet as if to fly.
Her father and aunt got up immediately, and her father said kindly, ‘Don’t be afraid, child. Would you like to see him?’
‘No!’ said Anasuyabehn fervently, while her aunt exploded, ‘Tush, what are things coming to?’
‘All right,’ said the Dean a little testily, and, turning to the servant, he told him to bring Mahadev into the living-room.
Anasuyabehn fled to the kitchen veranda, picked up a basket tray full of millet which she had been cleaning earlier, and began feverishly to pick the small bits of stone and the insects out of it. When she was sure all the insects were out and carefully deposited over the side of the veranda, she tossed the grain up and down on the tray to bring to the edge any other impurities. She picked these out and then emptied the millet into a shopping bag.
‘Bhai,’ she called to the servant, ‘take this to the miller.’ Her voice still shook, but she had gained some comfort from her domestic task.
The boy shouted that he was making tea for the Sahib, and she waited quietly until he had finished and had taken the tea to the study.
He came slowly back to her, his bare feet dragging, and took the bag from her. He did not leave her at once. He stood first on one foot and then on the other, his grubby face as woebegone as Anasuyabehn’s. In the moment or two he had been in the study his world had crumbled; from the conversation he knew that Anasuyabehn, whom he loved as much as his mother, far away in his native village, was going to marry the terrifying Mahadev Desai. He was only ten, and he could not visualize life in a house which held only a tart, old lady and an absent-minded old gentleman.
‘Well?’ asked Anasuyabehn.
