“AREN’T you well to-day, dear,” asked Sailaja when Kamala returned, “have you a headache?”
“No, I’m all right; why isn’t Uncle here?”
“Mother sent him off to Allahabad to see my sister there; she hasn’t been well for some time.”
“When will he be back?”
“He’ll be away for a week at least, they say. You’ve been overdoing it, working at that bungalow of yours all day. You’re looking very tired. Have your supper early and go to bed.”
Kamala’s only salvation at this stage would have been to take Saila into her confidence but that, she felt, was impossible. Nothing would induce her to confess to Saila of all people that the man whom she supposed to be her husband was not her husband at all.
Kamala shut herself into her own room and read Ramesh’s letter again by the light of her lamp.
Neither the name nor the whereabouts of the person addressed appeared in the letter but the contents clearly indicated that that person was a woman, that she had been betrothed to Ramesh, and that his connection with Kamala had caused the engagement to be broken off. Further, Ramesh had not concealed the fact that he loved with all his heart the woman to whom he was writing and that it was for the sake of the hapless Kamala, whose fate had been so curiously linked with his own, that he had severed connection with her.
Kamala recalled bit by bit the whole of her life with Ramesh from that first meeting on the sand-bank to their arrival in Ghazipur and what had been obscure before became clear as daylight. Ramesh had known throughout that she was not his wife, and had been at his wits’ end wondering how he could dispose of her, while she had calmly assumed him to be her husband and was preparing, unabashed, to settle down with him in lifelong companionship.
Shame pierced her heart like a dagger and as various incidents recurred to her memory she would gladly have sunk into the floor. Disgrace would cling to her all her life; there was no escape from its stigma.
She threw open the door and passed out into the garden behind the house. The dark wintry sky stretched above her in repellant coldness like a vault of black marble. No wisp of cloud, no haze was to be seen and the stars shone clearly. A plantation of mango saplings in the foreground accentuated the gloom. No avenue of escape from her misery opened before her mental vision. She sank down on the chilly grass and sat there, in statue-like rigidity, without shedding a tear or uttering a sound.
She took no count of the passage of time but by-and-by the biting cold pierced her to the heart and she shivered in every limb. When at last the waning moon cleft the darkness behind the motionless palms Kamala slowly rose, retired to her own chamber, and closed the door.
In the morning when she opened her eyes Saila stood by her bed. Kamala sat up at once, ashamed that she had slept so late.
“Don’t get up, dear,” said Saila, “you had better sleep on for a little; I’m sure you’re not well. You look tired and there are dark lines under your eyes. Tell me what the matter is, dear,” and Sailaja sat down beside her and put her arm round Kamala’s neck.
Kamala’s breast heaved and she could restrain her tears no longer. She hid her face on Saila’s shoulder and wept freely, while Saila held her in a firm embrace, making no attempt at consoling speeches.
At last Kamala withdrew from Saila’s encircling arm, wiped her eyes, and began to laugh boisterously.
“Come, come, that’s enough,” said Saila, “you’re the most secretive girl I ever met; but you needn’t think I don’t know what it’s all about; I’m not so green as that! Shall I tell you what it is? Since Ramesh Babu went to Allahabad he hasn’t written you a single letter and you’re vexed about it, though you’re too proud to say so. But you must remember that he has a lot to do there and he’ll be back in a couple of days. You mustn’t mind if he doesn’t find an opportunity to write when he’s only away for that short time. Silly girl! But do you know, dear, though I’m giving you this good advice, had it happened to me I should have done the same! Women do cry over foolish things. Once you have had your cry out and start smiling again you’ll forget about it.”
She drew Kamala to her breast and went on, “You feel now that you’ll never be able to forgive Ramesh Babu, don’t you? Tell me the truth now.”
“Yes, that’s the truth,” said Kamala.
Saila tapped her on the cheek. “I thought so; of course it was that! All right, we’ll see. Only don’t take it to heart.”
That very morning Saila despatched a letter to her father in Allahabad. “Kamala is in great distress,” she wrote, “because she has not heard from Ramesh Babu. One can well imagine what it must mean for the poor child when he brings her to a strange place and then goes off whenever he likes, leaving her behind and never writing to her. Can’t he get his business in Allahabad over? Plenty of people have business to do and yet find time for writing.”
Uncle hunted up Ramesh, read him an extract from his daughter’s letter, and then lectured him severely. Now the real truth was not that Kamala had been too little in Ramesh’s thoughts but that the more he pondered the deeper his perplexity had grown. It was not indifference but indecision that had caused him to linger in Allahabad. Then on the top of all his bewilderment came this extract from Saila’s letter.
The wording of the letter clearly indicated that Kamala missed him sorely though diffidence forbade her to write herself. Ramesh had come to the parting of the ways and he decided at once what course to take. Not his happiness alone but Kamala’s love for him must be the guiding factor. Providence had not only linked their lives but had knit their hearts on that distant sand-bank.
So he bestirred himself and composed the following letter to Kamala:
DEAREST — You must not regard this form of address as a mere epistolary convention, Kamala. I should never address you as “dearest” were you not actually the person whom I love most in the world. If you have entertained any doubts — if I have ever wounded your feelings, may the fact that in all sincerity I address you as “dearest” dissipate those doubts and assuage the pain of those wounds for ever!
What need to enlarge on this? Much of my behaviour in the past must have pained you. If in your heart you indict me for that, the charge is one that I cannot refute. I can only reiterate that you are my dearest and that there is none for whom I cherish the same affection. This may not be a complete defence for all my shortcomings of behaviour but it is the only one that I can offer. So, Kamala, in addressing you as “dearest” I draw the sponge over all our doubt-infested past and lay the foundations of our future love. Believe me I have no thought for any one but you and you are indeed my “dearest.” If you are once firmly convinced of this, doubts and questionings may be finally set at rest.
I would ask you next if I have won your love or not but I dare not ask that. Love prompts the question and I do not for an instant doubt that one day it will be answered.
No words will be uttered but heart will speak to heart; it is my love for you that gives me this assurance. I do not boast myself worthy of you but I feel that my adoration cannot be in vain.
I fully realise that this letter reads like a laboured composition and for that reason I have an impulse to tear it up; but it is impossible for me yet to write a letter that will truly express my feelings. After all, letters are things that two persons must interchange. In the first letter of a series the writer can hardly give true expression to his sentiments. When our two minds are in full communion then I shall be able to write to you letters that are real letters. Only when the doors on both sides of a room are open can the wind blow through it freely.
Kamala, dearest, when shall I find the door of your heart?
All this will come to fruition slowly and haste would defeat its own purpose. I shall reach Ghazipur on the morning of the day after you receive this. I beg that I may find you in our house on my arrival. We have been long homeless and I can endure this life no longer. Now at last I look forward to crossing our own threshold and beholding in the queen of my heart the mistress of my house. That moment will be our second “auspicious look.”
Do you remember our first on that moonlight night by the riverside on the lonely sand-bank — under the open sky, without the semblance of a roof over our heads and no parents or relations to preside over the ceremony?
It seems unreal to me, like a dream. And so I ardently anticipate another “auspicious look” in the clear calm light of morning surrounded by four walls and solid reality. Your sweet smiling face framed in our own doorway will for ever remain enshrined in my memory. It is a picture that I long to behold. Dearest, I am a suppliant at the gate of your heart; do not send me empty away! Your devoted RAMESH.