An Educated Woman In Prostitution Page 4

  I was deeply saddened by this letter. My stepmother was a good person, who loved me but had never been able to express herself. She was not the kind of sly woman who resorted to subterfuge to win her husband’s heart; she was a simple soul who usually followed my father’s orders. I felt a pang of sadness for her, and of remorse for Nanda-dada, whose carelessness had allowed me to escape, for which my father must have chided him. That was probably why he had forsaken his studies and pledged to find me. I felt an occasional impulse to give myself up to honour his valour.

  From Bombay we travelled to Madras, via Nagpur. After spending some time there, we moved to Vishakhapatnam, followed by Waltair. Because I found the coastal area particularly pleasing, we stayed there for two months. After this we travelled to Puri and then to Kashi, where there were no small number of Bengalis. Going out inevitably meant running into them. I was constantly worried about meeting someone who knew me and being found out.

  One day I told Ramesh-dada, ‘Let’s go away from here. Bengalis everywhere, what if someone recognises you or me, we’ll be in trouble.’ Putting his legs up on the extended arms of his easy-chair and puffing at his cigar without a care in the world, he said, ‘This man is not guided by female reasoning. Did you know that the majority of Bengalis in Kashi are on your Ramesh-dada’s side? Some are here with wives of other men, some to arrange for abortions for widows, some for a change of air for their mistresses—and then there are some who have put their own relatives to sinful work. There are three places to which the scandals of Bengal escape—Nabadweep, Kashi and Vrindavan. Who are you afraid of? Who’s going to be your judge? They are competing with one another. A fallen woman humiliated by the masses had turned to Jesus Christ for protection. He told the people gathered there, let he amongst you who is without sin cast the first stone. No one stepped forward. It says so in the Bible, remember?’

  I said, ‘Yes, I do. You, of course, see a Kashi or a Vrindavan or a Nabadweep in your own image, why would you see the piety? Be that as it may, I still want to go. There is no need to stay here too long.’

  We visited Allahabad and Agra on our way to Mathura. At Prayag we bathed at the confluence of the Ganga and the Yamuna, and spent five days in Agra to view the Taj Mahal, the Agra Fort and Akbar’s tomb at Sikandra. After some five months of travel, we finally arrived at Mathura, early in the month of Ashadh, with the intention of staying there for a longer period. I did not realise then why Ramesh-dada had chosen Mathura of all the cities in India.

  We found a decent house at a reasonable rate in Swami Ghat, near the Yamuna.

  There was, in fact, a hotel in the European style near the cantonment, but Ramesh-dada did not appear willing to stay there. We were running out of money, such indulgences were no longer feasible. ‘In Mathura it’s best to live the Indian way.’ He abandoned his coat and trousers and tie and hat. I did not have Western garments, but I substituted my ankle-high shoes for nagrais. A cook was appointed, and so was a servant, for buying food, fetching water, and doing the dishes.

  One day I discovered that Ramesh-dada had shaved his moustache off. ‘What’s all this, Ramesh-dada,’ I said, ‘you’re not looking handsome anymore.’

  He said, ‘Don’t worry, it’ll grow back.’

  It could have ended as a joke, but it did not. Soon afterwards he sent for a barber and had his head shaved, leaving only a few tufts of hair. I began to suspect he was up to something. Then when he put lines of sandalwood paste on his forehead and nose, wrapped his dhoti around himself in a new way, and put on Madrasi shoes to turn into a Dravidian priest, it became obvious to me that Ramesh-dada was trying to hide his identity. I did not say anything explicitly, however, and we laughed it off.

  Ramesh-dada had learnt to speak in Tamil when in Rangoon; I was astonished when he conversed in that language with the priest at the Rangaji temple in Vrindavan. He used to get letters addressed to Ramswarup Iyer. We had, of course, stayed under assumed names in every city we had been to, but this time Ramesh-dada appeared to be employing even more caution than usual. He did not tell me anything at all about it.

  He had got into the practice of drinking with his friends in Calcutta, which I was not aware of. But in the European hotels we stayed in, his consumption of alcohol was not only obvious but also not moderate. Once he requested me to have a drink too, but I refused, saying, ‘Certainly not in my current state of health.’

  Ramesh-dada said, ‘But it is still six months away, why not enjoy yourself now? In any case, what do you suppose the vinum galicia that they give you after childbirth really is? Pure X No 1.’ Ramesh-dada would have a drink or two every day, a smell that I had become accustomed to. I even had to pour from the bottle for him sometimes.

  The great war was underway in Europe, and the Mathura cantonment was full of British soldiers. Arrangements had been made for their food and drink. Ramesh-dada said, ‘I’m going towards the cantonment, Maanu, let me see if I can get a bottle of fine liquor. You can’t get anything in this town, all they care about are bhang and shiddhi.’ Ramesh-dada went out, leaving me alone at home.

  The servant handed me a letter—it was from Kamala. I was thunderstruck on reading it. Ramesh-dada had embezzled three thousand rupees from his employers; he had lied about getting four months’ leave. The company had lodged a complaint with the police, and an arrest warrant had been issued. There was another complaint, of abducting me—not from my father, but from my uncle, Nanda-dada’s father. The police had already made enquiries at our house, Mukul-dada’s house, Kamala’s house, and Ramesh-dada’s boarding house and family home. They had got Ramesh-dada’s address in Bombay and Kashi from Kamala and Mukul-dada. The detective police was on his trail.

  I began to tremble with fear, after which I felt an inhuman rage and hatred for Ramesh-dada. He had taken advantage of my gullibility to deceive me. I had loved him with all my life. I had trusted him, and this was the vile way he had responded. I was silent with loathing.

  Ramesh-dada returned in the evening—his eyes made it evident he was inebriated. I said sternly, ‘You said you were on four months’ leave, Ramesh-dada, but one more month has gone by after that, and yet…’ Before I could finish Ramesh-dada said, his speech slurring, ‘Do I have to explain that to you? Are you my master?’

  I said, ‘I do not ask for an explanation, but you can tell me the reason.’

  Ramesh-dada said, ‘I have applied for three more months of leave. Does this dispel your suspicion?’

  I replied, ‘It’s not a question of suspicion, Ramesh-dada, you know we have run out of money. We will not survive another week. Even if you do not return to Calcutta, can you not send for your salary for this period of leave? That will amount to eight hundred rupees, at least.’

  Ramesh said, ‘You need not worry about that. Give me my cigarettes and matches.’

  Complying with his orders, I said, ‘Ramesh-dada, you can see the state I’m in. I’m afraid of not being in a proper city with good doctors or maternity homes. That will need money too.’

  Ramesh-dada staggered to the bed. Smoking, he said, ‘Money is not a problem, Maanu. You saw I had two and a half thousand.’ He began to cough and it seemed like he was about to vomit. Placing a bowl in front of him, I said, ‘Not two and a half, but three thousand.’ His eyes began to bulge, and his nausea disappeared.

  ‘I know how you got your three thousand, Ramesh-dada. I do not want a single paise of such income. If you can, make money honestly and keep me with you—don’t go astray on the path of theft and fraud, and don’t make me go astray either.’

  Ramesh-dada continued speaking in a drunken haze, ‘I have given up everything and everyone for you, Maanu, and now you’re calling me a thief? Whom did I steal for—whom did I leave my wife, my mother for? For whom am I halfway to gaol? Damn it, there’s not a single soul in this world who understands, who can value my love. Let me tell you, no one can be a lover without being a thief; Mathura is living proof of this. Very well, you can stay here as an hone
st woman, I’m off.’

  Swaying on his feet, Ramesh-dada stood up, and put on his clothes and shoes. What was happening? Was he really going? I ran up and threw myself at his feet. ‘Don’t leave me, Ramesh-dada, I was wrong, forgive me. Don’t cast me adrift this way.’

  Kicking me away, Ramesh-dada screamed in anger, ‘Shut up you she-devil, not another word from you. You can remain here with your morals.’ He was on the verge of tumbling to the floor in drunkenness; quickly I guided him into bed and fanned him.

  A little later he began to vomit, soaking the bed and floor. The room filled with a fetid stench. The cook and the servant refused to go anywhere near him, so it was up to me to get buckets of water and clean up after him. No one ate that night. In the early hours of the morning, Ramesh-dada began to perspire profusely, after which his body went cold. I was terribly frightened, and could not sleep at all that night out of fear and anxiety.

  Ramesh-dada came to his senses at nine in the morning. I gave him a bath and made him some hot cocoa with milk. He read Kamala’s letter carefully and realised that things had become serious.

  Clouds had gathered in the blue sky of our love. Trust made way for suspicion. I began to consider Ramesh-dada from a new perspective, as the different sides of his personality became clear to me—debauchee, embezzler, traitor, liar, drunkard.

  Chapter the Fifth

  On the Road to Sin

  AFTER THIS I KEPT GETTING into altercations with Ramesh-dada over the minutest of things. All the cash we had, had been spent; Mukul-dada had sent fifty rupees on my writing to him—he had gone to great difficulties to collect the money, for he was, after all, a poorly paid teacher. Ramesh-dada had squandered twenty-eight out of the fifty rupees on drinking. This is how adverse fortune strikes. The cook had left as he was not being paid; I did the cooking two times a day. I did not know how to cook, I had never learnt. Unwell as I was, the heat and smoke all but killed me.

  I asked Ramesh-dada to look for a job in Mathura, but he paid no attention. He sold the expensive winter suit he had in exchange for a little money. Soon he sold my jewellery too. I had concealed the necklace that my stepmother had given me on my birthday; this transgression earned me harsh words and a beating. Slaps and kicks came my way on any pretext these days; I could only weep as I tolerated it all.

  ‘Write to Kamala for some money,’ Ramesh-dada told me. ‘Hers is a poor family, where is she to get any?’ I said. He was furious with me; so I had no choice but to write to Kamala, who sent twenty rupees. We ran out of it soon.

  A few of my ornaments and costly garments were still with me. Ramesh-dada used his wiles to get me to part with them so that he could sell them. The gold necklace was the only thing I had not handed over yet. One day he told me, ‘I have got a job as a professor at the Prem College in Vrindavan. I have met Raja Mahendra Pratap, he is fiercely opposed to the British government. So am I, as you know. The Raja was very pleased to know this, he will give me a salary of one hundred rupees a month.’ I was ecstatic on hearing this.

  Looking worried, Ramesh-dada said, ‘A new suit of clothes is necessary, but there is no money.’

  I said, ‘Pawn my gold necklace for the money, you can redeem it when you get the first month’s salary.’

  Turning away, Ramesh-dada said solemnly, ‘No, that’s impossible, it’s a gift of love from your stepmother.’ I realised that this was an expression of pique and sarcasm over the events of the other day. Unlocking my jewellery box, I tossed the necklace into his lap. The one hundred and fifty rupees that came from pawning it went on Ramesh-dada’s own expenses; the suit of clothes he was meant to get for his new job as a professor did not materialise.

  I began to suspect that he was lying about the job, that his intention was to relieve me of my only remaining possession so as to pay for his drinking. ‘When will you start teaching?’ I asked him one day. Slyly he replied, ‘Raja Mahendra Pratap has had to leave Vrindavan unexpectedly, the government has issued a warrant for his arrest. This is posing a problem.’ Lest I doubt his word, he quickly read out a report about Raja Mahendra Pratap from The Hindu newspaper.

  The Jhulan festival had begun in Mathura and Vrindavan. ‘Can we visit the Dwarkadheesh temple?’ I asked Ramesh-dada. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I do not feel well. Take Lachhman.’ Lachhman was our servant. I left, leaving Ramesh-dada behind at home.

  The temples of Mathura had a festive air on the occasion, nowhere more so than at the Dwarkadheesh temple. The idol was placed on a gigantic throne of gold and silver, and the entire temple was decorated beautifully with lights, flowers and bunting, while a group of singers performed devotional songs melodiously. The sights and sounds brought great peace to the heart even in adverse and desperate times.

  We returned home at about nine at night after watching the rituals at Bisramghat and the jhulan celebrations at two or three other temples. I found Ramesh-dada missing, and the lights switched on. A letter lay on the bed. It said something along these lines:

  ‘I can no longer live with you, Maanu. You have begun to despise me as an embezzler, a debauchee, a drunkard. There is no room for love where hatred and suspicion reign. I can shed the slur on my name if I return the three thousand rupees to the cashbox—I can walk around in society with my head held high even if I lure a dozen more girls out of their homes; and as for drinking, why, it’s the sign of a rich man. You do not understand your own best interests, there is no future for you. I shall see what protection your newly aroused ethics leave you with. I am leaving—do not come looking for me. The police is pursuing me. Leave this house immediately.’

  Suddenly I felt as though a load the size of a mountain had been lifted off me. I was about to drown, but now I was able to lift my head clear of the water and breathe. This was how intolerable Ramesh-dada’s behaviour had become. I had wanted freedom; god seemed to have opened the doors for me.

  I did not eat that evening, and late at night, anxieties assailed me. Where should I go now, what should I do—I could not afford to be weak-willed. The night passed without sleep. When I looked around in the morning I experienced a twinge of sadness for Ramesh-dada. Instead of making a cup of tea, I called Lachhman and said, ‘I have to go to Vrindavan, please get me a carriage.’

  All I had left of my jewellery were two sets of gold bangles and one pair of earrings. Selling these, I cleared the servant’s dues of three months of salary, with some money left over. A letter arrived from Kamala, in which she had written, ‘You made a mistake in running away with Ramesh-babu. In love affairs like these the consummation comes quickly, but so does separation. There was no particular obstacle to your marriage, your father might not have objected either. There is still time to come back and correct your error.’

  I did not care for Kamala’s advice, and did not respond to her letter either. Moving to Vrindavan, I hired a small house near Seva Kunj. There were several Bengalis living nearby, most of them widows of advanced years. ‘My husband and mother-in-law died of cholera when we were living in Mathura,’ I told them. ‘I have written to my family.’ Everyone expressed sympathy.

  A month later I gave up this house for one near Bansighat. I was almost out of money; I also had a bout of fever for ten days. Begging would have ensured I had enough to eat, but I was too weak to move.

  Two days went by without food. I did not know the art of begging. I lay on the street near Bansighat, telling myself that death alone could release me now. A kind-hearted Bengali gentleman who was passing by saw my plight and took me to the hermitage of a sage whose disciple he was. The mahant there had a large establishment, filled with idols of deities and disciples and followers who served him. A Bengali, he was nearly sixty-five, with matted hair, a beard running down to his chest, and his body covered in sandalwood paste and ashes. When he saw me, he asked his disciple, ‘Why have you brought her? She is pregnant. She must have run away on the incitement of an evil man who has now abandoned her. She has much misery lying in store. Very well, give her a little pr
asad.’

  When I had recovered a bit, he told me, ‘We are not allowed to let women stay at this hermitage, ma. Especially you, you are with child, there are grave risks. What do you want to do?’ I burst into tears, clutched his feet and said, ‘I am a sinner, baba, save me. You know everything in my heart and mind.’

  He said, ‘Yes, I do. I even know what you do not know about yourself. This repentance is short-lived and insincere. Once carnal desires have taken root in your heart, there is no escape from them. Suffering, poverty, or illness can temporarily halt the growth of the tree of sin, but it drops new seeds whenever the conditions become favourable again. Nothing but the mercy of god can enable this temptation to be conquered. This requires unrelenting penance.’

  My voice choking with tears, I said, ‘Forgive me, give me shelter.’ Affectionately the mahant said, ‘Ma, you will get plenty of kindness in the form of clothes and food, there is no dearth of such compassion in this world. You are under attack at present, not from poverty but from your irresistible proclivities. You are not seeking the shelter that will protect you from this invasion, what you wish for are food, clothing and shelter. Tell me, would you like to go back home?’

  When I acquiesced, he took down by father’s name and address. Sending for one of his disciples, he said, ‘Write a letter to Calcutta. Ramkishen lives with his wife and two children in the garden next to the hermitage. This woman will stay with them. Make all the arrangements.’ When the disciple left, he told me, ‘I doubt whether your father will accept you back. He has to follow the dictates of society, after all. Succumbing to temptation and sin is a spiritual illness; the soul cannot turn to god until it is cleansed by penance.’