The Happy Life (continued)
"Babu-ji, did your bicycle have a puncture?"
I had glasses on, and then a layer of dust, and on top of that the sweat dripping from my brow; the vexation of the heat, and the road as long as blackest night—I hadn't even glanced at what was on either side. Upon hearing those words I lifted my head and saw a girl, about sixteen or seventeen, standing at the side of the road.
"Yes, the air's gone out, and the tire's punctured as well. I don't have my pump with me. But Kalanagar's not very far at all; I'll be there soon." This last assertion was sheer bravado: deep inside I knew that the five miles now seemed more like five hundred.
"Judging from your condition—why stop at Kalanagar, you could reach Calcutta! Come inside for a bit, have a drink of water. Your tongue must be dry and sticking to your mouth. Chacha-ji has a bicycle pump, and our servant Gobind even knows how to fix a puncture."
"No, no—"
"What do you mean no no—yes yes!"
And she grabbed the handlebars from me and wheeled the bicycle along the road. I followed her. Soon I saw a garden enclosed by a barbed-wire fence, and in the middle of the garden sat a bungalow. This must be where her "Chacha-ji" lived, but what kind of girl was this—
I wiped my glasses with my handkerchief and looked at her. Under her pink, Parsi-style sari, shiny black hair framed her glowing face, and her eyes looked at me with an expression part pity, part laughter, part astonishment. Reader: that was it! I had never seen eyes like hers. As if they had dissolved my heart and swallowed it. A wondrously gentle, peaceful glow came from them. Have you ever heard of being struck dead with one arrow? Ever read of giving up your heart to one glance? Ever seen the phrases "love at first sight" or "a marriage written in the stars"? It took me only a moment's thought to decide that not in the three worlds could there be other eyes such as these, and that if I were ever to look into a woman's eyes with true love, it must be these eyes.
"You've come from Sitarpur. Can I ask your name?"
"I'm Jayadev Sharan Verma. Your Chacha-ji—"
"Oh, Babu Jayadev Sharan Verma, B.A., who wrote The Happy Life! I'm very lucky to have met you! I've read your book, and Chacha-ji, of course, doesn't let a day go by without praising it to the skies. He'll be delighted to meet you; he'll insist you stay for lunch, and then he'll spend at least two hours describing to you how reading your book has multiplied our family's happiness."
To your wife, praise her relatives; to a writer, praise his books—that's the unfailing recipe for endearing yourself. The year I passed my B.A., an enthusiasm for writing had gripped me for a while. During my first year at the Law College, I disregarded all Sections and Codes to finish my book, The Happy Life. The critics had treated it with exquisite sarcasm, and in its first year the book had sold seventeen copies. Now someone had praised the book; at last I felt appreciated.
We reached the verandah, where a middle-aged gentleman with a Punjabi-style beard and a cap with ear-flaps was sitting in a chair, reading a book.
The girl said: "Chacha-ji, today I've brought with me your Babu Jayadev Sharan Verma, B.A. His bicycle is out of order. Don't thank Kamla for letting you meet your favorite writer, thank the fact that he forgot his bicycle pump!"
The elderly gentleman quickly removed his glasses and stepped forward to meet me with both hands outstretched.
"Kamla, go and call your mother here. Come, Babu-saheb, come. I've been very eager to meet you. My name is Gulab Rai Verma. Earlier, I was Head Clerk at the Commissariat. Now I live in this lonely place on my pension with my family and my two cows, and I teach Kamla and her brother Prabodh. I belong to the Brahmo Samaj; the women are not behind purda here. Kamla has passed her Hindi Middle exams. Our time is spent in studying the scriptures. My good wife cooks and does the sewing; I read the commentaries on the Upanishads and the YogVasisht. Boys at school often go astray, so I educate Prabodh at home."
Having provided this introduction, he stopped to draw a breath. I learnt this much: Kamla's father was of my caste. I didn't give my ear to the other things he said; my ears were turned to where Kamla was returning with her mother.
"Your book is indeed excellent," Verma-ji went on, "worth more than a lakh of rupees for whoever seeks a happy conjugal life. You deserve great blessings! How to keep your wife cheerful, how not to let strife enter your household, how to raise children of good character—anyone who follows your advice on these matters will find paradise right here on earth. Earlier on, Kamla's mother and I would quarrel once in a while—her values are still somewhat old-fashioned. But ever since I started reading your book aloud to her, every day for half an hour after meals, our life together has gone smoothly, happy as a child rocking in its cradle."
I felt great pity for Kamla's mother, who had to listen to such rubbish every day. I thought, why couldn't this old fellow have been a Hindi magazine editor? I'd be famous by now.
"You have so much experience of the domestic life! You know everything! Indeed, can such knowledge ever be found in books? Kamla's mother said you were just a bookworm, you were repeating age-old formulas. I kept insisting that the writer of such a book must have personal experience of family life. Blessed is your wife and helpmeet! Your life together must be a truly happy one! And your children—they are lucky indeed to have the benefit of your teaching, to have you for an example."
It's said that a prostitute tries to understate her age, an ascetic to exaggerate his. Well, which of these is closer to a writer's situation? The thought crossed my mind of declaring that I was now in my twenty-fifth year: what experience, whose wife, where family? Then I realized that if I revealed that, I would fall in the old gentleman's estimation, and Kamla's mother would be proven true, that an inexperienced lad had dashed off a book about conjugal duties and obligations. So I smiled and contrived an expression that convinced the gentleman that certainly I had thrown myself into the ocean of worldly domesticity and plumbed its depths.