The Happy Life (continued)
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He did not let me leave that morning. Kamla's mother was affectionate as she served me lunch, and Kamla brought me a paan. No longer did I wish for Kalanagar's ice-cream, nor for the company of my eccentric friend. Seventy percent of Chacha-ji's conversation was devoted to singing the praises of my book and its Ram's-arrow benefits; listening to this, my ears had almost begun to ache. Another twenty-five percent of the time he spent extolling me and my qualities as ideal husband and father. Only the remaining twentieth part of his conversation was useful: I discovered that Kamla was not yet married, that she spent much time caring for her flower beds, that under the name of "A Companion" she wrote for the ladies' monthly magazine Mahila-Manohar.
In the evening I came out to walk in the garden. There I saw that under a clump of banana plants were beds of jasmine and tuberose, and Kamla was watering them. I decided that the time was right. Today I would live or die. The first sight of her had kindled the fire of love in my heart, and my staying there all day had fanned it to a blaze. In a few short hours, from a boy I had become a man. I tried to remember the scenes between lover and beloved that I'd read in the English classics, in romance novels, and in my classes on Sanskrit drama. I even rehearsed a few lines. But I could not decide how best to approach her on the strength of such a brief acquaintance. In the end, the English reader's brashness prevailed over the Hindu prince's modesty, and I—call it impulse, call it foolishness, call it insolence, call it insanity—ran and caught Kamla's hand. She flushed red and dropped her wateringcan.
I said in her ear, "I have something to tell you."
"What? What do you want to say here?"
"Since I saw you, ever since then—"
"Enough, be quiet. Such shamelessness!"
Now the stream of my speech overflowed its banks. I didn't know what I was doing. I babbled on: "Dear Kamla, you mean more to me than life itself; dear Kamla, Queen Bee, take me as your drone. Without you my life is a desert; fill it: be my Mandakini, my heavenly Ganga! Be the honeyed salve for my burning heart. After seeing you, I cannot control my thoughts. I cannot rest until the day you—"
Kamla shrieked and said, "Aren't you ashamed to say such things? Shame on all your learning, shame on your wisdom! You think it civilized to corner an unknown girl in a lonely place and make these hateful propositions? How can you be so bold? What do you think I am? The writer of The Happy Life, and such a hateful character! Go drown in shame, drown yourself in a handful of water! Don't show me your black face. I'm going to call Chacha-ji right now."
I kept listening. Was I dreaming? What sin had brought down this firestorm on my head? Still I didn't release her hand. I began again, "Listen to me, Kamla, if only you'd look kindly upon me, a happy life can be—"
"I've seen your happy life, you snake in the sleeve!" Chacha-ji had come up. Eyes red, shaking with rage, he yelled, "Sinner! I thought you were a literary man, a writer of high ideals, so I let you into my house, believed you, made you welcome. You hid your sins well, you hypocrite! Tom-cat! I heard everything you said! Shaitan! You came here to spread your net of deceit! Oh! I was deluded by your book. With your praise of the pure life you blacken ream upon ream of paper—and a soul like this! Charlatan! Cup of poison!—"
His stream of passion wouldn't end. Now Kamla's harsh words were one thing, Chacha-ji's quite another. I, too, lost my temper. "Babu-saheb, hold your tongue. You've educated your daughter, taught her manners; I've received an education and learnt some manners as well. You're a social reformer. If I'm attracted by her qualities and her beauty, why should I not reveal my pure love for her? Old-fashioned fathers were supposed to be stubborn and misguided. Why must you act the same way, why disgrace the name of social reform?"
"Don't talk to me about reform. You're a sinner! In spite of writing The Happy Life—"
"Damn The Happy Life! That's what's causing all this trouble! Did the writer of The Happy Life take a vow to remain celibate all his life? Isn't he allowed to feel love? Doesn't he have a heart?"
"What—celibate all his life?"
"What do you mean what? I was pleading with your daughter to grant me her hand in return for having stolen my heart—so that I might directly experience all the ideals of the "Happy Life" that I could only imagine until now. Afterwards we would both have come to seek your blessing. But before we could do that you flew into a rage, like a Durvasa."
"So you're not married? From your book it seems as if you have many years' experience of domestic life.—So Kamla's mother was right all along."
So much had been said, but somehow I had not dropped Kamla's hand. We'd debated the doctrines with such heat, but that hand—red with anger—I still held in mine. It was damp now; she was sweating from embarrassment; she had lowered her eyes. (Now that we're married, Kamla says, Who knows why I didn't snatch my hand away from yours—maybe it was fate.) I took both her hands in my cupped hand—and she didn't pull away!—and with our four hands together, I said to her father:
"Chacha-ji, don't speak of that useless book. Of course Kamla's mother is right. Women understand more clearly than men who speaks from experience and who's making up stories. With your permission, Kamla and I will begin a truly happy life together. The book I write ten years from now won't be rehashed from other books, it'll be written from experience."
The old man took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his glasses, then wiped his eyes. Whether his tears were of annoyance at his wife's being right, or of joy at finding a match for his daughter delivered right to his doorstep, only Ram could know.
Kamla's father smiled at her and said, "You two come with me. Kamla, it was your mother who was right." He began to walk towards the house. As soon as his back was turned, Kamla shut her eyes and laid her head on my shoulder.
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