THE steamer in which Ramesh and Kamala had embarked duly left Goalundo. There were no other first or second class passengers and Ramesh annexed a cabin and deposited their belongings in it.
Kamala took a morning draught of milk and then settled down to admire the ever-shifting river-scenery through the open door of the cabin.
“Do you know where we’re going, Kamala?” asked Ramesh.
“Home,” said Kamala.
Ramesh. “You don’t want to go there, so we’re not going.”
Kamala. “Was it on my account that you gave up the idea?”
Ramesh. “Yes, it was on your account.”
“Why did you do that?” said Kamala pouting. “You needn’t have made so much of a chance remark that I dropped. You’re very easily offended.”
Ramesh smiled. “I wasn’t offended at all; I don’t want to go home either.”
“Where are we going to then?” queried Kamala eagerly.
Ramesh. “We’re going to the west-country.”
Kamala opened her eyes when she heard this. What a world of meaning that word “West” conjures up to stay-at-home folk! — sacred shrines, invigorating air, new places, new sights, the past splendours of kings and emperors, wonderfully wrought temples, fables of eld, and legends of the heroic age!
“What places are we going to?” asked Kamala in a flutter of delight.
“I haven’t decided yet. We pass Monghyr, Patna, Dinapore, Buxar, Ghazipur, and Benares, and we’ll get off at one of these places.” Some of the names were familiar to Kamala and some were not, but her imagination took fire as he reeled them off.
“What fun it’ll be!” and she clapped her hands.
“The fun will come later,” said Ramesh, “in the meantime we must see about feeding ourselves. You don’t want meals from the crew’s galley, I suppose!”
“Heaven help us! I should think not!” cried Kamala with a grimace.
Ramesh. “What’ll we do then?”
Kamala. “I’ll do the cooking.”
Ramesh. “Can you cook?”
Kamala burst into laughter, “I don’t know what you take me for? Can I cook? What a little noodle you must think me! Why, I did all the cooking at my uncle’s.”
Ramesh became apologetic; “I shouldn’t have asked you that. Well, we had better make our preparations now, hadn’t we?” and he went off and soon returned with an iron cooking-stove; nor was that all. There was a lad called Umesh on board belonging to the Kayastha or writer caste, inferior only to Brahmans in Bengal; him Ramesh engaged as Kamala’s assistant in the kitchen in return for his fare to Benares and a daily wage.
“What are we to have for breakfast, Kamala?” he asked next.
“What can you expect when you bring me only rice and pulse? We’ll have kedgeree to-day.”
In accordance with Kamala’s directions Ramesh procured some spices from the deck-hands. “What do you expect me to do with them now?” she asked, tickled by his ignorance of culinary matters. “I can’t pound them without a pestle and a currystone, you know! You really are the limit!”
Ramesh swallowed this rebuke and hurried off in search of the required implements. He could not find exactly what was wanted but he managed to borrow an iron pestle and a mortar from the crew. These were hardly what Kamala was accustomed to but she had to make shift with them. Ramesh suggested getting some one else to pound the spices, but she scouted this proposal and fell to work with alacrity. Her struggle with the unfamiliar instruments entertained her hugely, and she only laughed when the spices shot out of the mortar and scattered in all directions; Ramesh found her hilarity infectious and joined in.
When the spice-pounding episode was over, Kamala kilted her skirts and fenced off a corner for her cooking operations. A large earthenware receptacle which they had brought from Calcutta to hold sweetstuff served the purpose of a cooking-pot. Having set this on to boil, Kamala suggested that Ramesh should take his bath at once and by the time he returned his breakfast would be ready. He did accordingly and found on his return that the food had been cooked. The next question was, what to use as a plate?
Ramesh made the halting suggestion that he might borrow a dish from the Mahommedan deck-hands, but Kamala was horrified at the idea, though he confessed to her in an undertone that it would not be the first time that he had committed this offence against Hindu ceremonial purity.
“You can’t undo it now,” was her comment, “but you must never do it again. I couldn’t bear such a thing,” and she took the flat lid of the cooking-pot, cleaned it thoroughly, and laid it down in front of him. “You must use this to-day; we’ll get something better when we can.”
Ramesh fetched water, washed down a portion of the deck, and sat down to his meal, satisfied that he had complied with his ceremonial obligations.
He had only taken one or two mouthfuls when he exclaimed, “I say, how splendidly you cook!”
“You needn’t try to be funny!” protested Kamala in confusion.
“I’m not being funny; you’ll see for yourself when your turn comes,” and he very soon polished off his plateful and asked for more. Kamala gave him a much larger helping this time.
“What are you doing?” he exclaimed, “have you left enough for yourself?”
“Oh, that’s all right! there’s plenty left.” She was delighted to see Ramesh enjoying his food.
“What are you going to eat off?” he asked next.
“Why, the lid of course,” she replied, serene in her belief that as his wife she might use his plate.
“Oh, no, you mustn’t do that,” cried Ramesh in horror.
“Why not?” asked Kamala surprised.
“It would never do at all.”
“Of course it would; I know what I’m about. What are you going to eat off, Umesh?”
“There’s a confectioner selling sweets below decks; I’ll get some sâl leaves from him to use as a plate,” said Umesh.
“If you’re going to use that lid,” Ramesh went on, “give it to me and I’ll wash it thoroughly first.”
“What a fuss about nothing!” was her comment on his officiousness.
A few minutes later she exclaimed, “You never brought me any pân, so I can’t get any ready for you to chew.”
“There’s a man selling it below,” remarked Ramesh; and so their modest requirements were soon satisfied. Ramesh’s reflections, however, were profoundly disturbing. “How on earth am I to get this idea that we’re man and wife out of her head?” he asked himself.
Kamala was quite ready to assume the rôle of housewife without expecting any outside help or instruction, for her life at her uncle’s had been a continuous round of cooking, nursing, and housework. Her neatness, dexterity, and the cheerful alacrity with which she went about her duties enchanted Ramesh, but simultaneously he was assailed by tormenting questions: What were their future relations to be? To keep her with him and to turn her away were alike unthinkable. Where was he to draw the line in his daily intercourse with her? If only Hemnalini had been one of the party everything would be simple! But that was impossible, and he could think of no other solution to his present entanglement. He finally decided to have done with concealment; Kamala must know the whole truth.