CHAPTER VII
Ananda stood at the open door of the little room looking out at the view. The earth was smiling under the tropical sun. Birds and flowers responded to its tempered heat; and song and sweet odours were lavishly spent upon the soft air. An oleander bush with its willow foliage tossed trusses of almond-scented, pink blossom, at the entrance of the yard. The luxuriant vine of a gourd spread its thick leafage over a part of the ground enclosed. Just outside a rose bush, laden with clusters of blossoms and buds, threw its thorny branches over the warm, sunbaked, mud wall. A pair of tawny fritillary butterflies fluttered over the petals of the rose, and a blue roller bird flew across the sky, a living streak of brilliant azure upon the ethereal blue haze. Crested hoopoes ran along the base of the wall seeking ants and cooing softly in their contentment.
Above foliage, flower and building rose the noble mountain mass in the distance, with its sholahs of virgin forest, its glades and slopes of green grass and peaks of bare grey rock. Ananda's spirit stirred within him as his eye followed the familiar outline of the beautiful spur of the Western Ghats. How often he had watched it under its different aspects and learned to love it, whether it was shrouding itself in a grey mantle of rain-laden vapour, or shining through a transparent haze of blue.
He recalled the expeditions of his youth when his father had taken him to the hill for the day and he had returned with the spoil of the forest; ferns and orchids and long supple bamboos, strange leaves and flowers that could not be made to grow in his own garden. He remembered a tiger, caught and speared by the natives, which was brought in by exulting herdsmen to be shown to his father. A hyæna was also carried in in like manner slung upon a green bamboo cut from the forest. He remembered how tightly he had clung to his father's hand in his fear of the big beasts with their strong jaws hanging open and the formidable teeth visible; and how his father reassured him each time, bidding him be brave and behave like a man. Ananda sighed; ah, he would show his own son the same sights, and teach him to be a man!
The thought of the child changed the current of his musings. Where was the boy at the present moment? Where was the boy's mother? Only a wall or two separated them. Why did they not come and greet him? It was perfectly feasible. There was no fear of contamination in the open air. An interview might take place in the little yard or in the compound beyond without detriment to caste.
He listened for the sound of voices. The house was very silent. The room apportioned to his use was remote from the kitchen and women's quarters; but with that large family there were usually people moving in all parts of the building.
Nearly an hour passed and he began to grow impatient. He went to the entrance of the yard and stood at the open gateway. A man ran hastily round the corner of the house, his body bent under the load he was carrying. It was one of Ananda's portmanteaux. He approached the gateway and stopped in front of it. Ananda looked him up and down and recognised him as a pariah employed as a sweeper outside the house.
"What are you doing with my luggage?" he demanded angrily.
The man put down his load and prostrated himself, touching the ground with his forehead.
"The master ordered me to bring the two leather boxes belonging to your honour."
"It is not for men such as you are to touch anything belonging to a son of the house."
The pariah put his hands together palm to palm in abject apology and deprecation.
"This lump of mud, this poor worm had no choice but to do the master's bidding. He held his stick over my unprotected body, and threatened to beat me if I did not bring the boxes."
He scrambled to his feet and ran off thankful to escape punishment from the owner of the trunks, and reappeared with the second. Ananda directed him to leave them at the gateway. When the man had gone he carried them into the room himself. The dust flew in clouds as he set them down one after the other against the wall. The neat dark suit he wore was stained and his fingers soiled. Involuntarily he glanced round for the English washstand for means to rid himself of the offending dust. He smiled at his own ridiculous expectations and turned to the fresh air outside, sweet and pure and refreshing, and cleansed his hands as well as he could on the coarse grass.
A figure approached and he recognised his uncle, Sooba Iyer. His face cleared and he advanced with outstretched hand.
"It is good to see you again, my little father. You are the first to greet me. Where are the rest?"
His uncle drew himself up with a gathering together of his muslin garments and lifted his hand with a warning gesture to arrest further advance. Ananda knew the gesture well. He had seen it often; aye, and practised it himself in days gone by, when accident had brought him near a pariah. No reply was vouchsafed to his question, and he soon discovered the reason for the visit. In abject humility the sweeper appeared, broom in hand.
"Sweep out the room, contemptible one!" said Sooba.
The pariah set to work at once to perform his task to the best of his ability, and wielded his broom till the air was thick, and a large heap of rubbish was accumulated. The elder man stood silently in the enclosure, holding himself ready to avoid contamination by touch or shadow. If there was relaxation at all it was towards the sweeper rather than his nephew.
"I don't know why I should be treated in this way," protested Ananda. "Broken caste is broken caste. I am in no worse case as a Christian than I was as a Hindu with my broken caste. The only difference is that one state is temporary; the other is permanent. Surely my mother has some better accommodation to give me than this."
The last words were said with a touch of indignation; but they had no more effect in producing a reply than what had gone before. The sweeper finished his work with the broom and was directed to fetch the things set apart for Ananda's use. A couple of chairs, an old camp table, a cot laced with rope and furnished with coarse bedding. These and a few other trifles were placed in the room by willing but awkward hands. The pariah had had no experience in dealing with bedroom furniture.
Two or three times Ananda addressed himself to his uncle but his remarks were received in stolid silence. His relative might have been deaf. Neither by look nor speech was there any sign of reply. By this time the noon was passed, and although Ananda was too much disturbed in his mind to feel hungry he was conscious of thirst. As his uncle was about to leave after having completed the arrangement of the room, he said—
"It is some time since I had anything to drink. I am thirsty. Let the waterman bring me a pot of water and a cup."
A few minutes later the sweeper returned bearing an earthen pot of water and a tin mug. He approached the door with manifest reluctance, well aware of the gross insult he was offering. His touch was pollution, unspeakable pollution. Sooner would a caste man allow his drinking vessel to come into contact with a plague-stricken corpse than have it touched by a pariah.
"My lord! this is not my doing. With heavy blows has this slave been driven here——"
He was not permitted to finish the apology. Furiously angry, Ananda yielded to the instinct implanted by generations of caste ancestors. He rushed at him, knocked the earthen vessel out of his hands and with a blow sent him backwards into the foliage of the gourd. The pot broke and the mug rolled aside.
"How dare a loathsome pariah like this son of a jackal offer me such an insult! Go! get out of my sight! Don't let me see your face again."
The unfortunate sweeper fled; and the outraged man sank upon a chair. He leaned his arms upon the ricketty table and bowed his head. His lips trembled and the fingers of both hands slowly clenched over his palms in his effort to control himself; for the last act had unnerved and shaken him. What had he done to merit such unnecessary and gratuitous insult? The caste waterman of the establishment might have brought the water pot and mug. He could have entered the room without detriment to his own caste. In fact, all the duties recently performed by the sweeper could have been done without any difficulty by the servants of the house, and would have been performed by them if the intentional degradation had not been designed expressly for his humiliation.
Ananda suffered keenly, as much from the unkindness and cruelty shown as from the insult. It could not have happened without the consent of his parents. A feeling of resentment at its injustice roused his indignation, and he lifted his head in angry pride. He would not submit without protest. His anger served as a tonic to his wounded spirit and pricked his courage. The shining eyes hardened and the mouth grew firm.
The day wore on without incident. As no one appeared he determined to seek an interview with his father or mother or some other member of the family, and remonstrate against the outrageous treatment he was receiving.
Memory served him well; he had forgotten nothing of the geography of the place and he found nothing altered. Walking slowly round to the front of the house he arrived at the stone steps that led up to the verandah. Three or four men were seated on the masonry bench; they were talking together; but as soon as they caught sight of him they became silent.
Ananda recognised two of them as relatives and he greeted them by name as he mounted the steps.
"I wish to see my father," he said with a new dignity and authority. "Will one of you go and say that his son awaits him in the verandah."
The request called forth no reply. They stared at him and rose one by one, retiring through the big door which stood open. He was alone, standing on the top step, not daring to enter the house. Too well he knew all that would be involved by such an action. The inner courtyard was exposed to view. His eager eyes searched every corner for a sight of the figure he longed to see. A child toddled out from the women's quarters. The boy's curiosity was roused. With the delightful absence of shyness and self-consciousness peculiar to Indian children the little fellow began to run towards him fearlessly, limping slightly.
It needed no words to tell the eager father who it was. Ananda's heart leaped within him, flooded with a warm wave of paternal love. That beautiful boy with his rounded limbs, his smooth olive skin, his regular features could be none other than his son. Pride, tenderness, joy rose at the thought, and he opened his arms. Swiftly the child approached with growing confidence. Swifter still followed a form that caused Ananda's heart to beat quicker and the blood to race through his veins.
It was his wife. If the boy was beautiful what was she in the first flush of her womanhood? From his lips fell the one word that no other man had a right to call her. "Wife!"
Did she hear him? He felt that she must have caught the word. A pair of startled eyes met his as she snatched away the child. The great door slammed in his face, and the vision was gone. Was it her hand that struck the cruel blow? Or had some member of the family crept up unseen and swung the door into its socket.
Again the first sensation was a sense of injury and unmerited wrong; but the weakness passed more quickly this time, and it was followed by a just wrath. The family had no right to treat him in this insulting manner, he said to himself indignantly. He was being condemned unheard. They were inhuman as well as unjust. He felt sure that this treatment was not meted out with his parents' consent. It was the work of his uncle, who was too fond of playing the master of the house. He must see his father and have some explanation. When his parents had heard the reason for the step he had taken, they would understand; they would become interested; and when they learned the beautiful doctrines of Christianity regarding the future life, they might possibly incline towards the new faith themselves and find comfort in the hope it taught. In their ignorance of the fundamental teaching of Christianity his parents believed that there was an immeasurable gulf between the two creeds. If they would only listen they would realise that in Christ was to be found the ideal and perfect manifestation of God. His teaching brought hope and comfort and a sure promise of progressive happiness; whereas the creed of the Hindu presented nothing but a stagnant circle of painful rebirths. At best it could only end in loss of personality, which was nothing more nor less than a hideous spiritual and intellectual death, more horrible to contemplate than the physical death.
Ananda had not been received into the English Church without due instruction. The duties of his adopted faith had been carefully inculcated. He had been warned that if he met with any persecution he would have to bear it in a Christ-like spirit, meekly and with patience.
As he stood before the closed door meekness and patience were conspicuous by their absence. The old Adam boiled within him in the full strength of oriental passion. In furious wrath he beat at the closed door with his walking-stick. He called his father by name, and other male relatives. He tried to wrench open the wooden shutters of the windows; but door and windows alike resisted his efforts and left him exhausted. No one answered his angry calls and impatient knocks. He listened but could not hear a sound. He was opposed by a colossal silence that did more to crush and subdue the chafing spirit than torrents of abuse.
Tired out, and his wrath partly spent, he gave up the attempt to summon a member of the household and went dejectedly down the steps, turning his back upon the inhospitable door of his old home. He glanced up and down the road. What should he do with himself during the remaining hours of daylight? To the south-east the town clustered round the old fort. He knew it well with its thronged streets and busy bazaars. To the north-west stood the mountains purpling into rich shades as the sun approached the horizon. A refreshing breeze blew in from the north. It cooled his heated face and drew him in the direction of the open country with a kindly welcome.
He walked towards the silent hills until the sun and its afterglow had disappeared. Then he retraced his steps, his peace of mind somewhat restored. He became conscious of a healthy appetite and of an insistent thirst for a cup of tea or coffee or a glass of milk.
He regained his room. It was in darkness except for a small oil lamp, too dim to be of any use for reading purposes, that stood upon the camp table. In a corner near the door was another waterpot with a tin mug. He did not know if the mug was the same that the pariah had defiled by his touch; he preferred to think that the waterman had brought both the pot and the mug, and under this persuasion he took a long drink.
Apparently his return was observed by the household. Ten minutes later the same man, who had swept his room, appeared carrying a tray on which were dishes of curry with chutney and rice. All were of the best and most tempting quality. The mere smell whetted Ananda's appetite till he was well nigh ravenous; but he turned resolutely away whilst the pariah, not daring to enter the room, set the tray down on the threshold and vanished before Ananda could throw him thanks or abuse. If the truth must be told it was the latter that was on the tip of his tongue; but something arrested the torrent of curses and made him pause.
He did not attempt to analyse the feeling. The just anger of an injured man was still dominant; but something from outside, something altogether new was working underneath his caste instincts. He stood at the open door looking out at the starlit night, the much needed food at his feet. A strange sense of detachment, of calm isolation, came over him, bringing an unexpected stilling of the emotional storm; it was almost peace. The quiet beauty of the night stirred the memory of St. Paul's cathedral. He seemed to hear the wonderful cadences of the organ echoing round him, pouring balm upon the senses and endowing the wounded spirit with strength to rise to better things above the passions of the soul. By the aid of that memory he climbed out of the slough of despair into which he had been plunged; and a half articulate prayer went up to the living God for pity and help.
The crescent moon following the sun to its setting shone in the luminous grey-green sky. That same moon faintly silvered the big grey dome of St. Paul's where the organ pealed and the choir sang the daily evensong. He calculated the time. It was about the hour for the service to begin. In spirit he was back again kneeling among the quiet worshippers, unnoticed but not despised, repeating the wonderful prayer to "Our Father" that all lips can utter no matter what the creed of the worshipper may be.
How long he remained standing at the door he did not know. The smell of the savoury curry reached his nostrils, and appealed to a part of his nature that could not be ignored. There was no doubt but that he was desperately hungry; and the curry was food he had not tasted for some time past. It was one of the pleasures to which he was looking forward on his return home, as the Englishman thinks of the beefsteak. His mother prided herself on the excellence of her chutneys. In the dim light he could see that they had been dealt out with a liberal hand.
Suddenly he remembered who had brought the food. It was the despised pariah. With a shudder he turned away as a European might have turned from carrion. He understood why the food had been prepared so carefully. It was not love but a refined cruelty that had prompted the serving up of such a curry.
He flung himself into a chair and passed his hand over his eyes. The mud walls, unrelieved by whitewash looked black and murky. The tiled roof was open and without a ceiling. A fusty uncleanly scent of bats and squirrels offended him; and the rough wooden cot with its coarse black blankets was uninviting even to a weary man who longed for repose.
His portmanteaux and suit case remained untouched where he had thrown them; he had not the heart to unpack and pull out the various little luxuries which from long use in England were a necessity in his daily routine. There was no dressing-table where brushes, combs, collar and stud boxes could lie; no washstand with spotless towel and pretty crockery to hold his sponge and soap. If he took off his coat, no wardrobe nor chest of drawers was provided for its reception. It must hang over the back of a chair until it was required again.
The food, hot and steaming when it was brought, grew cold and less inviting. He could not leave it there all night; it must be moved if only to allow of the door being closed when he slept. Once more he went to the doorway, and this time called softly. Immediately the same man appeared.
"Excellency! this slave is here."
"Take away the food. It has been defiled by the hand of a sweeper and I cannot eat it."
The man obeyed without a word. He returned and fell to the ground before Ananda.
"The great one knows that this is not the doing of this worm. The big mistress commanded it, and this slave could not do otherwise. The master's brother himself held the stick over my shoulders, and when I protested he let it fall. See, even by the dim light of the lamp how my skin is striped."
Ananda strode out past him into the night.
"Follow me; I have something to say."
He walked away from the building, keeping, however, within the compound, which was walled in and private. When they were at a sufficient distance to be secure from eavesdropping and observation Ananda spoke.
"Tell me! who is it that gives orders? Is it my father?"
"The honourable master gives no orders. He sits silent in the front room without speaking."
"It is my mother, then?"
The pariah wagged his head in assent.
"It is the big mistress aided by the excellency's brother. He tells her what to say and she repeats his words to one of the kitchen women who delivers the orders to me. I said to the kitchen woman that this was not my work. I am paid to sweep round the house and carry away the refuse. His honour's brother heard me and came towards me with his stick raised. I was frightened and obeyed."
"Did you tell them that I broke the waterpot?"
The pariah again made a sign in the affirmative.
"What did they say?"
"The kitchen woman told me that the small master laughed, and the big mistress said 'It is well.'"
"And his excellency? How did he receive the news?"
"He bowed his head and hid his face in his hands. 'It is hard on the boy,' she heard him say, 'and there is no necessity.' My lord, I have orders to go to-morrow morning early for the coffee and rice cakes apportioned to your honour. What can I do? My lord must eat or he will be sick. I am but a slave with no choice but to obey."
He put his hands together as though he prayed forgiveness. Ananda paused before replying.
"Do as you are told," he said at last; and he spoke more gently to the unfortunate outcaste than he had done before. "I can give the food to the crows. They are not troubled with caste scruples," he added bitterly.
"But the young master must not starve," said the pariah, with real concern. "My lord must forgive his worthless servant for speaking. This worm has a plan by which the master shall not starve. To-morrow before it is light I will bring a herdsman with his cow and he shall draw the milk and deliver it into your honour's hand. There are shops in the town where food may be bought in tins. It is well known that people of all castes eat European biscuits in peace without defilement if they open the tins themselves. The master shall buy and open for himself. I will bring charcoal so that the milk may be warmed by your excellency and all will be well."
"Good; let it be so," replied Ananda.
He gave the man no thanks, but there was a softness in his voice that satisfied him. Ananda turned back towards the little room that was to serve as bedroom and sitting-room for the present, a den in which even a dog would have moped and pined. A sound reached his ears causing him to stop. It was a wail of grief such as the women raised on the death of a member of the family. He called to the pariah.
"Who weeps in the house?"
"The big mistress and her women."
"Is any one of the family dead?"
"They weep because your excellency is not with them."
"It is enough; go."
It was indeed enough! At intervals during the night he heard the wail as he lay on his uncomfortable bed. It spoke volumes. He was dead to them from henceforth and worse than dead. He was an outcaste sunk to the lowest depths of degradation, ranked with the "untouchables," and regarded with loathing as unclean and abominable.
CHAPTER VIII
Pantulu rose the following day as usual and performed his ceremonial ablutions. Later in the morning when the family had dispersed he laid himself down in the shade of the verandah of the inner court. His wife had been watching him with some anxiety. He was too quiet, too wordless to satisfy her. She would have been better pleased if he had broken out into loud cursings and lamentations; if he had exhibited irritation and temper to the rest of the household. It would have been excusable if he had stormed at herself for some trifle; or dealt out correction to some of the younger members of the family.
She and her women had obtained relief in the wailing and tears of the previous night. By the small hours of the morning every one was tired out and ready for sleep. They all awoke satisfied that the atmosphere was clearer and their balance of mind restored. Each went her way to perform her duty feeling that there was no need to waste more time in regret.
Ananda's father had taken the misfortune differently. So far he had found no outlet for his grief. Throughout the long absence of his son he had daily and hourly looked forward to the boy's return. Sometimes he had been assailed by a haunting fear lest something should happen, lest Ananda should die in that distant land as Coomara had done and never come back; lest he himself should die. Then hope would revive and he would spend his idle hours picturing the home-coming and all its delights. Never in any of his visions did the evil enter that had actually overtaken the family; and now that it had come he could not face it. It hung about him like a dark shadow the depths of which he dared not fathom.
His wife leaned over him where he lay on a mat against the wall. This feeble surrender to grief was not at all to her mind, and she had no intention of allowing him to take his trouble meekly.
"Husband, you are not well. The kitchen woman shall make you a hot drink that will warm your heart."
"My heart is already too hot! I have swallowed the red-hot balls that Yama prepares for the cursed after death. I want for nothing but relief from my pain; and who can give that?"
"Lying here with a broken spirit will not bring relief. It is a mistake to grieve while there is hope, unless it be for an hour or two as I and my women lamented last night. This morning I rise refreshed and ready to do battle with the evil. The struggle has begun and it has begun well. The boy broke the waterpot, struck the sweeper and commanded him to get out of his sight. He also refused his food last night. It must have tempted him sorely for I superintended the preparation of it myself; and I have not forgotten his tastes."
She sat down by the recumbent figure and passed her long soft hands over his limbs with a soothing touch.
"My boy went starving to bed?"
"As an ill-behaved son should!"
"He ate very little in the train, saying that he would the better enjoy his mother's curry. Eiheu!" he drew in his breath and breathed it out in a sigh. "He must have suffered in his hunger!"
Gunga's eyes flashed angrily, the lids closing quickly with an ominous snapping movement.
"Let him suffer! His troubles and his hunger have only just begun. They are nothing to what will follow if he remains obstinate," she said vindictively. "With your brother's help we shall bring down his pride in time."
Pantulu moved his hand as if in protestation. "Is it necessary? Can we not try other means first?"
The thought of cruelties practised upon his son was unbearable.
"Get up and speak to him yourself. Perhaps he will listen and then there will be no need for punishment. Point out how he has sinned, not only against us, his parents, but against your dead father, your grandfather and his father. The shraddah ceremonies have been faithfully performed by you. Through your good offices the spirits of your ancestors rest in peace; but when you die, who is to perform the rites by which your spirit will find happiness? Your great-great-grandfather will not suffer; your ceremonies have released him; but if your son cannot and will not perform the necessary rites, you and three generations behind you will remain in the power of Yama to be plagued as the god of death wills. What does that mean but rebirths innumerable to a life of suffering and degradation? Is the peace of four departed members of the family to be imperilled because a wilful son refuses to do his duty? He must be forced to abandon his strange opinions. He must be obliged by some means or other to perform the rites for the restitution of his caste; and he must and shall be the chief mourner at the death of his father whenever that may be."
The last words rang out clearly so that they could be heard by the whole household. They carried conviction to every listener. No one doubted that the mother would prevail in the end. Even Pantulu himself with all his weakness born of his intense love for his son admitted that she was right; that at all costs Ananda must be made to renounce his new faith.
If no son were at hand to perform the funeral rites at his cremation and afterwards on the anniversary of his death, he must assuredly be born again as an unhappy beast of burden; or as some loathsome creature whose very existence was misery and against whom every man's hand was turned. As Pantulu continued silent Gunga took up her parable again.
"When the horse is wilful it is beaten; when the bullock is obstinate it is goaded. When a son is disobedient his parents use the means provided by the gods to bring him into subjection. What I have done thus far is nothing! nothing! but before proceeding further I will leave my husband to exercise his authority. Rise! be a man! be a father worthy of the name! Rise and speak to him. Show him clearly all that is involved in his foolish action. Argue with him. Aye! if it pleases you beg of him to consider, to have pity on his father, to have mercy on his mother. If he remains obstinate have him beaten and starved and brought low with pain and hunger——"
"Woman! he is my son! my beloved child! I hurt him once when I struck him in my surprise and anger. I cannot hurt him again!"
The tears welled in the haggard eyes and ran unchecked down the old cheeks. She uttered an exclamation of contemptuous impatience.
"You are weak, too weak to lead a headstrong boy. However, no good can come of lying here. Get up and try what the tongue can do."
Pantulu raised himself from the mat, shook out the crumpled folds of his muslin garments. His heart ached for his son, and he was conscious of only one desire—to put his arms about his neck and thank the gods that his boy was safe home again. His anger had evaporated in the ebullition with which the announcement was greeted. Already he was secretly repenting that he had cursed him; and he would have recalled his maledictions if he could have done so without raising the ire of his wife.
"Where is he?" he asked dispiritedly.
"He walks at the further end of the compound."
Pantulu moved away towards the back of the house and passed through the garden. He entered the grassy compound by the doorway in the mud wall that enclosed the garden. At the further end from the road he caught sight of a figure. With his hands behind his back Ananda stood looking at the mountain. His thoughts were in the past when he and his father started out for the forest. By some instinct he turned at the approach of the older man and fixed on him a startled gaze. For the first time he noticed how Pantulu had aged. He stooped as he walked, and dragged his legs listlessly. Ananda strode forward and fell at Pantulu's feet as the pariah had prostrated himself the day before.
"Excellent and honourable father! at last my prayer is granted, and I am permitted to see and speak with you."
"Rise, my son; I am sorry you have had to wait. Since my return I have not felt well."
The watching woman looking through the Venetians saw the meeting and the son's obeisance. "Now, if he will press the boy whilst his heart melts within him, he may bring him to reason," she said to herself. She called to her brother-in-law. "See! my husband brings his son to the house. They will come into the verandah. Quick! hide beneath the window that is behind the bench where he usually sits. Listen to all that is said and bear it in mind. I must know every word that passes between them."
As Pantulu and Ananda moved towards the house the former asked if the other had breakfasted.
"I had some biscuits," replied Ananda. He thought it wiser not to mention the milk lest he should get the pariah into trouble and stop the supply. "I cannot eat food sent by the hand of the sweeper."
"It is impossible!" murmured Pantulu with a shudder. "Ah! I am glad that my boy has not been obliged to defile himself in that way. For drink, what have you done? Have you found means to satisfy your thirst without defilement?"
"That also I have accomplished."
"Your mother must not know."
"It is by my mother's orders that I am thus treated?"
"It is done by the consent of the whole family, not by the mother alone," said Pantulu, unwilling to hurt Ananda's feelings.
"You are ruler in your own house, excellency. Order one of the women servants to attend upon me. It hurts the caste of no one to carry food to the outcaste."
"Inside the house your mother rules, as is the custom among families like ours. I cannot interfere; but I can speak to her and ask her to give the order. If I can take good news she may listen."
"Good news; what does that mean?" asked Ananda.
"That you will give up your strange madness and allow the caste restoration ceremonies to take place."
Ananda did not reply. His father's eyes searched his face with undisguised anxiety for sign of a favourable response. He only saw a tightening of the lower lip and slight protruding of the jaw with an unconscious toss of the head. He remembered the trick of old and all that it implied. The deep underlying obstinacy that had ever been the one fault of the boy was still there ready to uphold new beliefs, prematurely formed in his father's opinion and without sufficient consideration. His heart sank within him and he was silent during the rest of the way.
They arrived at the house and mounted the steps that led up to the front door. The door was closed and the verandah was empty. Pantulu took his seat upon a broad bench and drew his feet up beneath him. It was as Gunga had said, just under a window. He signed to his son to sit on the same bench by his side.
"No harm will have been done by your having called yourself a Christian in a foreign land," continued Pantulu, resolutely looking away from his companion's face, that he might not be discouraged by what was so manifest there. "The ceremonies will be of a character to restore you even if you have sinned greatly. I have money enough to satisfy the purohits. There are worse offences than the one you have committed. You have not killed a Brahman, for instance."
"I told you, oh excellent father, that having taken this step there is no going back," said Ananda, at last, in a low voice.
"I say there is; there must be a going back. Your deeds can be undone, expiated. Listen!" Pantulu controlled his excitement and continued more quietly. "Listen, my son. Let me put before you all that it means if you refuse to come back to us. Who is to perform the funeral rites at my death if you cannot be chief mourner? Are they to be left unperformed? Is my spirit to wander as a wretched ghost and be born again as an unhappy contemptible pariah or beast because my son refuses to fulfil his duties?"
"You will never be born again on this earth, my father; you will never become a man or a beast again," cried Ananda, his eyes aglow with enthusiasm. "The man-God of the Christians came to open men's eyes to better things, to assure the world of immediate pardon for sin, and to promise a happiness after death far exceeding any earthly happiness. Think what a glorious future He offers to us in place of the hopeless cycles of rebirths."
Pantulu shook his head in perplexity, not without fear at the blasphemy against Hinduism that fell upon his startled ears.
"Our faith was ancient before ever the man-God of the Christians was born. Were the millions, who lived and died before His time, living and dying in error?"
"They lived and died according to the light given to them by God. When Christ was born, a new light came into the world. It is by following the new light that I have found my hope in a glorious future, an existence of joy and happiness surpassing even the Nirvana itself; for we shall retain our personality and consciousness which is denied to those who look for absorption in the Hindu Deity. Try and realise the joy that you and I, my beloved father, will feel when we meet in that golden future. At Coomara's death I was in despair. Every time I heard a dog shriek or saw a horse overloaded and beaten, I thought of my friend suffering similar pains; and all for no fault of his! It was intolerable in its injustice; I could not bear it. Then I met the family of an Englishman who was killed suddenly; and I wondered at their peace, their resignation, their perfect faith in his happiness and their belief in a future meeting. When I found that the secret lay in their religion what could I conclude but that their religion must be better and more advanced than mine?"
Pantulu had listened unwillingly at first and with prejudice; gradually his curiosity was aroused; he wanted to learn what it was that had attracted Ananda and taken so strong a hold upon him. Moreover the charm of hearing his son's voice once more exercised a kind of hypnotic influence, causing him almost to forget the vital issues of their conversation and their variance of opinion. There was comfort also in proximity. The poor old man found delight in the mere touch of his boy's hand. Nothing could kill the paternal love that had filled Pantulu's life.
In the distance he heard his wife speaking sharply to one of her women in the kitchen. The sound made him start guiltily. What had he been doing? Listening to rank heresy instead of preaching orthodoxy. He pulled himself together with an effort.
"My son, the Christian faith may be all very well for Christians. We are Hindus, born, by a fate over which we have no control, in the Hindu faith. The faith is bound up with our social and political laws and cannot be separated. Let me point out to you how important it is that you should make no change. If by remaining an outcaste you cannot fulfil the part of chief mourner at my death, the law of caste—and it is upheld by our country's law—disinherits you, You cannot inherit any of my wealth, my lands, my houses, my looms, my silk farms, my jewels and hoard of silver. Not a single rupee will be yours if another hand drops the rice and butter into the fire before my dead body immediately after death; if another bears the pot of fire in my funeral procession; if another lights the funeral pile. Would you wish to lose your birthright, the riches that should be yours, the honour as head of one of the oldest and most respected families of Chirakul? Would you deliberately make yourself a pauper, an outcaste, despised even by the pariahs? Consider well all that you propose to sacrifice."
Once more Pantulu gazed anxiously into his boy's face for a sign that he relented, that his pleading had prevailed; and his heart sank within him as he noted the tightening of the lower lip and the obstinate tilt of the chin. Again he spoke, repeating the old arguments, enumerating the property that should one day belong to his son; but without avail. At length Ananda made a kind of response in putting a question.
"If I do not take upon myself the duties of chief mourner, on whom do they fall?" he asked.
"On your son."
"And the child will inherit your fortune?"
"Everything; and as soon as he comes of age he will take my place in the family councils and you will be as one that has died in a foreign land."
Ananda rose to his feet intimating that as far as he was concerned the interview was at an end.
"Your answer, my son! your answer! what news am I to carry to your mother?" cried Pantulu, in sudden dismay, as he realised two facts—his son was leaving him, and he had failed miserably in his attempt to win him back.
"I have nothing to say that has not been already said." Ananda spoke with evident pain. It grieved him to wound his father by refusing to comply with his wishes. He knew of what vital importance it was to a Hindu to have the assurance that the funeral rites would be duly performed by a fitting and proper member of the family; and he found the greatest difficulty in maintaining his honesty of speech. The temptation to temporise was strong. "It is impossible, even if I desired it, to re-establish my faith in the Hindu teaching concerning the future life. It is a miserable groping in the dark, a wilful blinding of the eyes; the whole thing is a relic of the ancestor worship of a barbarous people not worthy of our nation with its present civilisation. I must have something better——"
"My son! my son!" interrupted his father in an agony of disappointment and grief. "It is killing me! Have mercy on me! My life is bound up in yours! I cannot live without you! Keep your beliefs secretly if you will, but I beg, I pray you conform outwardly to the faith of your ancestors. In their names I command you to come back and do your duty——"
The door of the house opened and Gunga came out confronting her son for the first time since his return. Ananda put the palms of his hands together and repeated his greeting mechanically.
"May the gods protect you, most excellent and beloved mother!"
She received the salutations with an exclamation of contempt.
"Call me not mother! Unhappy woman that I am to have given birth to such a breaker of our most sacred laws. Go! get out of the house which you have dishonoured! See!" she pointed to Pantulu, who had drooped where he sat till he seemed to crouch in abject misery. "See how he is stricken! It is the hand of a wicked son who has dealt the blow. May that hand be accursed! May its owner be condemned to cycles of wretched rebirths!"
She poured out a string of curses upon him and he fled. Obstinate yet strangely craven, he clung desperately to the new faith which alone held out a promise of salvation from the awful fate invoked by his mother. Her very maledictions drove him to his new leader Christ. His father's entreaties only placed before him anew the tenets that had filled him with such horror. Already he had had experience of the persecution he was likely to meet with if he persisted in his adherence to Christianity. He shrank from physical pain with the timidity of a child; but for all that he preferred to face the ills of this life to the terrors of the Hindu life to come.
With his heart thumping like a hammer he regained his room and sat down to collect the thoughts scattered by the sudden and unexpected onslaught made by his mother. His spirit rose in a wordless prayer; it seemed to steep itself in the new light, and again he was sensible of a blessed peace that soothed and calmed his disordered mind. His courage returned, and he deliberately set himself to recall his father's words. What was it that he had said about disinheritance? He must have made a mistake. The solution of the difficulty would be found in the making of a will. His father must have a proper will drawn up by which his son was named as his heir. He must have another interview. On second thoughts perhaps it would be better to write his request.
Taking out his writing case he set to work at once. The time slipped by without his knowledge. He looked at his watch; it was three o'clock. The sweeper did not appear and no food was sent. The omission did not trouble him. Again he satisfied his hunger with biscuits and tried to forget his thirst.
The sun set and the tropical night approached. He listened for the step of the despised pariah, but the man did not come to perform any of his duties. The excitement of the journey and return home had worn off, and Ananda was conscious of an oppressive dullness. He lighted the dim oil lamp and a little later lay down on his cot.
He was in a sound sleep when he was awakened by the falling of some little stones near the cot. A whisper reached his ears.
"Excellency! the cow is here. Come for your milk."
Ananda rose at once and crept out of his room in silence. He followed the pariah to the wall that divided the compound from the road. A herdsman of his own caste handed him a bottle of milk over the wall, just drawn from the cow for which he paid him the current price with a small sum in addition for his trouble in bringing the cow at such an hour. The man went away immediately.
"Excellency, no food was sent to-day by my hand," said the sweeper. "It did not matter since your honour could not eat it; but the meaning of such treatment must be understood. The big mistress hopes to starve your excellency into obedience. This she can only do when there is no more money left in your honour's moneybag. Be careful of your rupees. I can bring the cow but I cannot bring rupees and the cow will not come without the rupees."
The man mounted the wall with the intention of returning to his home.
"Why did you not come to-day to sweep the yard?" asked Ananda.
"I was forbidden by the big mistress. The order has been given that no one is to speak with your honour or approach your room. To-morrow night I will come and bring the herdsman with his cow."
The following morning Ananda wrote another letter which he posted himself in the town. It was addressed to Dr. Wenaston, Principal of the College of Chirapore; and the long epistle he had prepared for his father remained in his writing case undelivered.