Divya, page 12
He looked again at his son, but Prithusen still said nothing. He continued to sit as before, his hand on his chin. His father had pushed him into the waves of ambition and aspirations and had left him there. He felt bewildered at finding himself in that vast expanse. The force of the current was proving too strong for his willpower. He had difficulty in just keeping his head up and catching his breath.
Resting his elbow on the cushion, the magnate turned aside. Prithusen thought that his father was about to leave. Fearing that his silence might be misconstrued as agreement, with his head still bowed, he made a bold attempt to speak his mind, ‘But Father, I have given my word to Divya. I have already accepted her as my wife. That would be a violation of trust.’
The old man’s brow darkened, his eyebrows dropped lower over his eyes, and the ironical smile deepened on his lips and in his eyes. ‘Son, this is no violation of trust. After some time, if you so desire, you can even marry the great-granddaughter of the Chief Justice. A man in authority has a need for many women and many marriages. But not at this stage. You did not give your word in order to betray her. The situation was different then. If the situation changes after a pledge is given, then the pledge loses its validity. At that time, marriage with Dev Sharma’s great-granddaughter would have been the right thing to do. Now a better course has opened before you. Your future lies in marrying the granddaughter of the President of the Republic.’
Thinking that Prithusen’s bowed head meant a refusal, the magnate said in a voice touched with self-pity, ‘Son, do you want to throw overboard my efforts of a lifetime and the future of our family, for your infatuation with a girl? The great sage, Chanakya has said, “Always protect yourself with your wife and your wealth.” Son, a woman is for man’s enjoyment. It is only when he is blinded by his emotions that he begins to sacrifice his whole life for the sake of a girl. My boy, it is in situations like this that the sages have termed women as the door to ruin, both for the man who aspires to rise high and for the man who wants to attain the other world.’
Prithusen remained silent as before.
‘Son, I am confident that you will save my honour and your own future prospects,’ said Prestha, after a moment’s reflection. ‘On the night of the last full moon during Mallika’s performance, the Chief Justice enquired after your health and made mention of the feelings that existed between you and Divya. At that time I told him that in view of my race and family, it would be very thoughtless of me to seek a wife for my son in the family of twice-born Brahmins; that having been a slave, I could not risk inviting on myself the wrath of the entire Brahmin community of Madra. I also told him about the tender feelings that Seero, the President’s granddaughter, had for you my son, and that caste was no obstacle there. I told him that I was an applicant for the hand of the President’s granddaughter in marriage with my son.’
Prithusen’s head bowed even lower. Without looking at his father, he turned aside and laid his head on the pillow.
It did not take Prithusen long to recover his health completely, but his mind was still troubled. He would sit in the visitors’ hall staring vacantly into thin air, at other times in the interior of the palace, looking sad and disconsolate. He showed no particular enthusiasm when Seero came to him. Seero found Prithusen’s solemn bearing even more attractive. On her insistence he went out with her in a palanquin, once to Mallika’s palace and another time to the palace of the President. There was only one question weighing on his mind: Would he be able to have Divya even after marrying Seero?
He brooded long and hard over the question and then, with a resolve in mind, began to show interest in Seero and pay attention to her. One day, in an emotional outburst, he took Seero into his arms and begged her to accept Divya as a co-wife.
Seero gave a hiss like a startled snake. She wriggled out of his arms and stepped away from him. Her full red lips curled and twisted; hot tears of rage welled from her eyes.
Later on, clinging to Prithusen’s shoulder, her face streaked with the tears and kohl from her eyelashes, Seero expressed her contempt for the custom that permitted the Aryans of Jambu Dweep to have more than one wife, ‘Among the Aryans, a woman is only a slave and an object of enjoyment. I cannot share my beloved with anyone else. I want to be the only queen of the heart of my beloved and the sole mistress of my household.’
Prithusen recalled his father’s arguments and brooded long over the question. He began to regard all women with indifference, as unpleasant intrusions into the serious business of life. He was steeling his mind for the struggle ahead, and his father’s advice appeared to be a sound guideline, reflecting intelligence, foresight and much experience.
He felt that he was a mere pawn in Seero’s love game, and love, all of a sudden, seemed to be nothing more than a charade. He compared his own situation with that of the helpless and beautiful slave-girls in the households of rich nobles, who were treated merely as instruments for the satisfaction of their lust.
Divya had left Prithusen’s side in a mood of utter despair. Neither had she had a good look at him, nor exchanged a single word. ‘It will take another two or three months for him to recover,’ she said to herself, numb with apprehension. ‘What will become of me?’ Ever since Prithusen’s triumphant return, the subject of Divya’s marriage was being broached in the Chief Justice’s house as an unpleasant but unavoidable topic. Chhaya would bring her news of this. In the chambers of Pandit Vishnu Sharma and her uncle, Prabuddha Sharma, Prithusen’s family background would be discussed; her other grand-uncle, Bhrigu Sharma, adopted an attitude of cold neutrality. Mahadevi was indifferent, though she kept quiet because of the grandsire’s approval. Divya was only too willing to accept all the opposition and ill will and regard it as a blessing, but little could be done while Prithusen was on his sick bed.
Without being joined to him in wedlock with the proper ceremony, how could she protect from hostile eyes that part of Prithusen that she carried within her? What had been the grandest and sweetest thing in her life was now turning into a matter of shame and ignominy. How proud and happy she had felt to shelter and receive the agitated and restless Prithusen! That pride had now turned into a dark abyss, which was about to swallow her up. ‘Only a miracle can save me now,’ she told herself. ‘I want to be married to Prithusen, to bear his children. Then why has the prospect become so terrible now?’
Divya kept to her bed most of the time, listless and depressed. Mahadevi again grew anxious about her health. She appointed Dhata to look after her, and every now and then enquired about her. Knowing that the situation would arouse suspicion and make her face perilous consequences, Chhaya and Dhata, out of love for Divya, would tell Mahadevi and others that Divya was merely indisposed.
Chhaya’s lover, Bahul, had been killed in the battle of Darva. Having lost her lover, Chhaya had become all the more attached to her mistress suffering the pangs of separation. She had literally become Divya’s shadow. At night, unsure if Divya was asleep or brooding over her plight, Chhaya would keep a watch on her mistress, and doze off leaning against the bedpost.
Every day, under Mahadevi’s instructions, Assa, another maidservant, would go to the temple of Prajapati and to the Buddhist monastery to make offerings for Divya’s health. On her return she brought all sorts of news, which Chhaya passed on to Divya. Assa once said, ‘Just as offerings are being made for Divya, they are also being made for Prithusen’s health, and at the same temples and monasteries. And do you know where the offerings are being sent from? From Prestha’s palace and from the palace of the President.’
Then one day Chhaya said excitedly, ‘Arya Prithusen has recovered completely.’
Divya could not share Chhaya’s enthusiasm. Her thoughts had turned in a different direction ever since she had learned that offerings for Prithusen’s recovery were being sent from the palace of the President. She recalled how possessively Seero had sat by Prithusen’s bed, as though she was the mistress of the house.
Chhaya also brought another piece of news from Assa—Prithusen and the granddaughter of the President had been seen going together in a palanquin to the palace of Mallika, to lake Pushkarni and also to the palace of the President. Divya fell into a fit of deep despondency. ‘What is the matter with him?’ she said to herself. ‘He used to be so sensitive and so strong, a victor in battle, one who would set his life at naught for the sake of honour. For him, life without me had no meaning; he went smiling to face death on the battlefield in the assurance that I would be his. Was his declaration of love and passion mere deception and duplicity? Has he forgotten me altogether? Where shall I seek refuge now? If only the earth could open and hide me in her fold! I was not destined to have abiding love, otherwise why should my mother, who gave me birth, have vanished from this earth? The one person whom I regarded as my very own—the only one in the whole world—has turned his back upon me. And Rudradhir? He was banished by my own great-grandfather and has gone far far away.’
At midday, finding Divya lying on the mattress with her eyes closed and thinking her to be asleep, Chhaya went away to Mahadevi’s chambers to spend some time with her mother. But there she heard some news that made her rush back to Divya. Divya lay motionless with her face towards the wall. Chhaya could not contain herself. How could she let her mistress remain ignorant of the terrible news she carried?
In order to get over her mental agitation, Chhaya busied herself in tidying up the room. While doing so, her foot struck the metal lamp-holder, which fell and the whole room rang with the noise. Divya sat up startled and looked at her. Humbly apologizing for the disturbance, Chhaya faced her mistress and said in a tremulous voice, ‘An invitation has come, to attend the ceremony of Arya Prithusen’s betrothal with the granddaughter of the President. Both the grandsire and Mahadevi are terribly worried. There was a heated argument between Arya Dhriti Sharma and Vinay Sharma …’
Divya lay motionless on her bed, staring at the ceiling. For a long time she lay still. Stifling the cries that rose in her throat, Chhaya silently wiped the tears from her eyes and gazed at her mistress.
Late that evening, Chhaya helped her mistress prepare for bed. Despite the winter cold, Divya had not thought of covering herself warmly. Chhaya covered her with a quilt and a shawl, and sat down on the floor beside the bed, her chin resting on the bedstead.
Divya’s eyes were dry, but Chhaya’s were red and swollen.
‘Chhaya,’ Divya said looking at her without raising her head from the pillow. Chhaya looked up eagerly. ‘I would like just once to meet the Arya,’ said Divya in a feeble but determined voice.
‘Mistress,’ said Chhaya in a hushed tone, drawing close to Divya, ‘the President’s granddaughter has bewitched the Arya by some tantric spell. There is no doubt about it. If you will permit me, I shall go to Baikunth, the tantrik, and get a mantra from him to undo the spell cast by her. I will also get a magic charm to put the Arya in your power.’
‘Do whatever you like,’ said Divya, in a faint despairing voice. ‘God knows what has come over him. Even if he is so attracted to Seero, why is he turning away from me? I would willingly live with Seero as a co-wife. In every noble family of the Aryas there are several wives. Can’t Seero accept other women as wives of the Arya? Many a creature finds rest in the shade of a single tree. The king elephant has many wives. Surely, both of us could live together in the shelter of the arms of the Arya.’
Divya had begun to feel uncomfortably warm under the quilt and the shawl. She suddenly threw them aside. ‘There’s a cold wind blowing, Mistress,’ Chhaya said, as she drew up the shawl again, leaving only the feet uncovered. ‘You could catch a chill.’
Still feeling uncomfortable, Divya let down her hair, spread it on the pillow and said, ‘There are dozens of maidservants in his palace. Can’t there be a place for me?’
Chhaya could no longer hold back her sobs. It was impossible for her to answer. Muffling her mouth with a corner of her shawl, and covering her face, she huddled up on the floor against Divya’s bed, feeling as if her heart would burst. She remained for long in that position. Fearing that her sobs and cries might add to her mistress’s grief, she did not look into her face to see if she was asleep or awake. At last she dozed off. The cold wind blowing through the vents, made her clasp her arms round her knees, and like a dog attached to its master through bonds of love, lay down on the floor by her mistress’s bed.
When she woke up, it was already broad daylight. Ashamed of having slept so long, she sat up. The bright, cheering rays of a frosty winter sun lit up Divya’s pale face. She was in a deep sleep, breathing evenly. Careful lest she should wake her up, Chhaya tiptoed out of the room and made for Dhriti Sharma’s quarters across the lawns to tell her mother of Divya’s anguish.
Dhriti Sharma’s young wife, Moksha, was passing through the travail of her first childbirth and, therefore, Dhata, the experienced midwife, was in constant attendance. In the fresh light of the early morning, drops of dew glistened on the grass and the arbours. To the depressed Chhaya it seemed as though, like her mistress and herself, nature too had been shedding tears all night.
Moksha’s condition was serious. Mahadevi and the other ladies of the household, Amita, Tara and Uma, had gathered in the chambers of Dhriti Sharma. Outside, Dhriti Sharma was anxiously discussing something with Vinay Sharma. Dhata was holding Moksha in her arms, attempting to comfort her as each convulsion of pain gripped her. Wrapped in a silken shawl, Mahadevi sat on a low stool nearby. The young matrons, unconcerned with Moksha’s pain, were deeply engrossed in conversation, as though glad to use this occasion to exchange gossip.
‘And what have you to say about Divya’s so-called indisposition? All the symptoms point to pregnancy,’ Chhaya heard Amita say, in a secretive tone, yet loud enough to be heard easily.
Chhaya had bowed her head to touch the floor in salutation to Mahadevi, when these words fell on her ears like a thunderbolt. She raised her eyes, and saw that Mahadevi had forgotten to acknowledge her salutations and was staring hard at Amita’s face with her old lustreless eyes, her mouth agape.
Holding her breath, Chhaya quickly returned to Divya’s room. Her mistress lay peacefully asleep as before, her rounded bosom rising and falling with her quiet breathing. In her agitation, Chhaya went round Divya’s bed and stared at her face. She had no heart to awaken her. Yet how could she keep from her this terrible news?
Chhaya went out of the room, but came back after a few seconds and again stood looking at her mistress’s face. She sat down, holding her head between her hands, leaning against the bed. Unable to control her agitation she again left the room reentering it after a few seconds. She brought with her a jug of water, with basin and towel, and put them near her mistress’s bed. Divya was still fast asleep. Every fibre in Chhaya’s body was trembling with anxiety and foreboding.
At last Divya opened her eyes. Chhaya wanted to tell her about the disaster, but words failed her. What should she say? How should she say it? Instead of pouring out water for her to wash her face, Chhaya handed her the towel. As she stood silently, tears streamed down her cheeks.
When Divya asked why she was crying, Chhaya almost broke down. Fearing that the water jug might fall from her hands, she put it on the floor, and covering her tear-stained face with her shawl, sat down beside the bed. Divya had to ask her several times before Chhaya could answer in a voice choked with tears.
‘In Lady Moksha’s apartment, Lady Amita said in front of Mahadevi and for all the other ladies to hear, “What have you to say about Divya’s indisposition? All the signs point to pregnancy.”’
Divya’s eyes remained wide open and motionless as though carved in wood. Her face became extremely pale and expressionless. Suddenly, there was a sound of something falling. Chhaya looked up to find that Divya had fallen back on the bed in a dead faint. Greatly alarmed, she tried to lift up her mistress.
In her distress, Chhaya had stopped crying. She sprinkled water on Divya’s face to bring her round, fanning her with a piece of cloth and rubbing the soles of her feet. It was some time before Divya opened her eyes. Moistening her dry lips with her tongue, she asked for water.
Keeping herself well under control Chhaya tried to divert Divya’s attention, lest she should faint again. For the rest of the morning her mistress lay inert, her eyes gazing unseeingly at the ceiling, the walls and the garden outside the window.
At about midday, Assa, the maidservant, appeared with food. After intense pleadings from Chhaya, Divya swallowed a morsel or two. When Assa was about to return, Chhaya told her that Divya wanted Dhata to be sent to her immediately.
In the afternoon the whole palace began to ring with the sound of music, played upon the shehnai and the mridang. Trying to smile, Chhaya said, ‘A child has been born to Lady Moksha.’
Divya merely heaved a deep sigh. She thought to herself, ‘Moksha’s child is an occasion for rejoicing for the whole family, whereas my pregnancy is an occasion for ignominy. This is because my child has no father. I shall take my child to his father. Had I been in the palace of Prestha, would my pregnancy have been regarded as a source of disgrace? I belong there, with the father of my child.’
‘Call Amma,’ she said, turning to Chhaya, ‘I am going to the palace of Prestha.’
Though the palace resounded with joy and excitement, the Chief Justice and Mahadevi had shut themselves up in their rooms, lost in anxious and dreadful thoughts. In the confusion caused by rejoicing on one side and anxiety and apprehension on the other, Divya, without informing anyone, covered the shame of her condition under a silken shawl and taking Dhata with her, set out in a palanquin for the palace of Prestha. Preparing herself for the worst, she prayed silently to the gods that Seero should not be present in the palace when she arrived. If this prayer was granted, she was ready to wash Seero’s feet for the rest of her life, like a common slave.
