Madan Mohan Pandey was by any reckoning a most unusual young man. ‘So like his father in looks, so unlike him in everything else,’ said people who knew the family. This was true. The father was never seen without his custom-made coat and trousers, even in the height of summer; the son had never been spotted in anything but dhoti-kurta and, since his youth, a saffron-and-gold angavastra around his neck. This was the most obvious contrast. There were other, deeper differences, apparent to those close to the family, and they had begun to surface when Madan Mohan was still a child.
Though both Madan Mohan’s parents were Brahmins, they had discarded Brahmin practices and Westernized themselves. It was his father Hari Mohan Pandey’s doing. He had made it to the Indian Civil Service the very first time he took the exam in Delhi, and thus found his way to England in the year 1928. In the one year of probation in Oxford, he had snipped off his topknot and discarded his sacred thread, the janeu. He had also committed the abominable crime of eating beef, and while in England, openly boasted to other Indian students, ‘If you like to eat meat, there is nothing tastier than a juicy beefsteak. Try it with a glass of red vintage wine and you’ll know what I mean.’ He often quoted a Punjabi adage: ‘Let it starve to death but do not kill it. Let vultures eat it but not mankind. Blessed be the Hindus, blessed their sacred cow.’ Back home in India, however, he abjured eating beef. He explained: ‘Here the cow is our mother, we drink its milk. We cannot kill and eat our gau mata. It is different in Europe. European cows are not sacred.’ Everyone agreed that he was a clever, pragmatic young man who had a bright future as a bureaucrat of the Raj.
A young bachelor in the ICS was the most sought-after groom by parents of unmarried daughters. Hari Mohan had lost both his parents shortly after his return from Oxford, so the decision was entirely his own. He settled for Parvati Joshi, a convent-educated daughter of a Brahmin family who owned the largest department store in Delhi. She brought a huge dowry and was a docile girl willing to adapt herself to the European lifestyle of her husband, even when she wasn’t entirely comfortable with it. Madan Mohan, their only child, was born a year after their marriage. Though the Pandeys had little faith in horoscopes, Parvati’s father, Satyanand Joshi, had one cast for his grandson a few days after he was born. No one bothered to read it. Parvati simply rolled up the parchment, tied it up with a red ribbon and put it away in the safe in which she kept her jewellery.
By the time Madan Mohan started going to nursery school, it became evident that he had a mind of his own and was not going to be dictated to by his parents. His father insisted that everyone in the family speak in English because it was the language of the rulers and the future language of the world. Hindi or Hindustani was only meant to give orders to the servants or communicate with illiterate people. But little Madan Mohan persisted in speaking Hindi. His mother agreed and spoke in Hindi to him. His father refused to do so and hardly ever spoke to him. Madan Mohan’s parents ate their meals with fork and knife; he wanted to eat with his fingers and threw a tantrum if he was not allowed to. Hari Mohan blamed his father-in-law, a pious and proud Brahmin, for his son’s native ways, since the boy spent a lot of time with his grandfather who lived a short walk away on Curzon Road. Hari Mohan gave his servants strict instructions that Chhotey Sahib was not to be taken to Curzon Road, not even when their Mataji went over to meet her parents. But he could do nothing about Satyanand Joshi’s visits to his own house when he was away on work, or in bed, two evenings a week, with the sisters Rasoolan and Akhtari of Chandni Chowk.
After nursery school, Madan Mohan was sent to the English-medium Modern School. But it was not English to which he paid much attention but Hindi, Sanskrit and mathematics. He did better in studies than his father. While his father’s performance had been consistently above average through school, Madan Mohan excelled in every subject, including English. Hari Mohan was secretly proud of his son’s scholarly achievements and was certain that if the boy sat for the Civil Services examination, he would make it without much difficulty. But he was not at all certain whether or not the boy would agree to sit for the exam. While still at school he had started talking of Gandhi in reverential tones, and had his school uniform made of the handspun khadi yarn that Gandhi was propagating.
After passing his matriculation, topping the Delhi list as everyone expected him to, instead of joining the prestigious St Stephen’s College, Madan Mohan opted for Hindu College. ‘I am a Hindu,’ he told his father. ‘I don’t want to go to a Christian institution.’ Being freed from wearing his school uniform of a blue shirt and dark blue shorts, he took to wearing white khadi kurtas and dhotis. And much to his father’s irritation, he also began to sport a pigtail and a red tilak on his forehead. For his subjects, he chose Hindi, Sanskrit, philosophy and mathematics. He took an active part in inter-collegiate debates. While other contestants spoke in English, Madan Mohan always spoke in Hindi, and his speeches were replete with quotations in Sanskrit from the Vedas, Upanishads and the Gita and anecdotes from the Ramayana and the Mahabharata. People began to call him Pandit Madan Mohan Pandey, or simply, Panditji. So under one roof, in a well-appointed bungalow of an ICS officer, lived three different people: Sahib, Mataji and Panditji.
It was one day during his vacations, awaiting results of the BA exam, that Madan Mohan asked his mother if she still had the horoscope cast at his birth. ‘Yes,’ she replied, a little surprised and a little pleased too, for despite her husband’s influence she remained a traditional Brahmin at heart. ‘I’m sure it is still in my safe. Nobody has ever bothered to read it. Your father doesn’t believe in such things, as you know.’ His father didn’t, Madan Mohan agreed, but he did, so could he see it, please. It was found as it had been put away over two decades ago, in a parchment scroll tied with a red ribbon. Madan Mohan took it to his room and opened it. On top it had the swastika emblem in saffron paste and the letter Om. Below this was a rectangle cut with different squares containing the names of eight planets. Madan Mohan had no difficulty in deciphering the contents of the horoscope, which were in Sanskrit. It read:
This child born in samvat 1989 of the Vikrami calendar corresponding to the date 15 August of the year 1931 of the Christian calendar will be most honehaar (gifted—this word was in Hindi). If properly nurtured by his parents, he will have a very bright future. He will be inclined to be somewhat headstrong, but if properly directed he will achieve great heights. If thwarted, he may turn into a rebel.
Madan Mohan paused. So far so good: every word of the horoscope had come true. His scholastic achievements did indeed presage a bright future. He had differences with his father. He was a rebel—with a cause. He continued to read:
He is likely to change his profession a few times. He may be in government service, an educationist and possibly even a politician. He is not likely to go into business. [How could he? He was a Brahmin, not the son of a bania tradesman, muttered Madan Mohan.] Whatever profession he undertakes, he will be highly successful. People born during the confluence of his planetary signs are leaders of men and are destined to achieve greatness. He may have a problem finding a suitable life partner and is advised to study the proposed bride’s horoscope very carefully before giving his consent. If the horoscopes match, he should have a happy marriage and a large family of sons and daughters. His health may also create problems, as being somewhat intense he may suffer from stomach ulcers. He is advised to eat only sattvik food without garlic, asafoetida, onions, pickles, etc. He should abstain from liquor and tobacco. If he follows a strict regimen of food and does the prescribed yoga asanas he should live a long and healthy life.
Madan Mohan pondered over the contents of his horoscope before he rolled it up and re-tied it with the red ribbon. His mother entered the room and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Beta, what does it say? We have never had it read. Your father never bothered with it.’
‘Theek hai—it is okay. What it says about me has come true up till now. If Pitaji did bother to read it, he would realize that horoscopes are never false. Ma, do you know, in no other country in the world can people predict the future course of events as accurately as in India. It is a science known only to Indians. There are many other things in our shastras which prove that our forefathers also knew about electricity, aviation, telecommunications and much else that the Western world claims as its discoveries. The Westerners lie. We are pioneers in every field of science, mathematics, physics, chemistry, astronomy, astrology. You name it, we had it.’
Parvati had already come around to believing that her son was destined for a great future. He was not an eccentric, as her husband often described him. She gradually persuaded him that there was more to their son than he gave him credit for. ‘Why can’t he be like other young men of his age?’ Hari Mohan grumbled. ‘All this business of a long chutia dangling at the back of his head, tilak on his forehead, dhoti-kurta, spouting Sanskrit and whatnot! I agree he is a bright fellow, but why doesn’t he move with the times?’
‘Because he believes we Indians had a great past of which our generation knows very little. He wants to make us all aware of it,’ Parvati said excitedly. ‘He just told me what is written in his horoscope. It forecasts a great future for him. So far whatever it says has come true. If Bhagwan wills, the rest will also come true.’
‘So be it,’ mumbled Pandey Senior and fell silent.
*
Madan Mohan topped the list in the university exam for the bachelor of arts degree, getting distinctions in Sanskrit and mathematics. He was immediately offered the post of lecturer in both subjects by the principal of Hindu College. He was only twenty at the time—the youngest ever to be offered a teaching job in the college.
His parents were delighted. But a teaching career had its limitations. He would undoubtedly become a professor, the head of his department, the principal of his college, and possibly even end up as the vice-chancellor of some university. But the civil services offered a much brighter future. His father pleaded with him—he no longer gave orders—to at least take a shot at the Indian Administrative Service. He could then decide his future career. The British had left, after all, and by joining the civil services now he would only be serving his own great country.
Madan Mohan gave in, only to please his father. He studied for the IAS exam. Apart from his favourite subjects, Hindi, Sanskrit and mathematics, he took Indian history. Studying for this paper confirmed his views of India’s great Hindu past, the depredations caused by Muslim invaders and rulers and the brainwashing of Indians carried out during British rule. It made his blood boil.
He was third on the list of successful candidates. All the Central services would be his for the asking after the formality of a viva voce. Having gone so far to accommodate his father’s wishes, he decided to put his foot down. He refused to go for the interview and so opted out of government service. He decided to accept the post of lecturer which was still open to him. The number of parents of nubile daughters who had approached the Pandeys for a marriage alliance when Madan Mohan cleared the written exam for the IAS, dropped sharply. When his mother told him about it, Madan Mohan scoffed: ‘See how low our society has fallen? Everyone is up for sale. I will put a stop to all this nonsense.’
Despite their disappointment at Madan Mohan refusing to join any civil service, his parents had reason to admire him. How many young men in the country would have the guts to walk away from a prestigious job and accept a lowly-paid lecturer’s salary? Their wide circle of relatives and friends, though they would no longer give their daughters in marriage to their son, showered praise on him. ‘If India had more of his kind of young men,’ they said, ‘we would have a different story to tell.’ And so Madan Mohan embarked on a career as an educationist, filled with a great sense of purpose. He would rescue young minds from false histories. On his first day as lecturer, he wore a new khadi kurta-pyjama, a longer than usual tilak on his broad forehead, and, for the first time, a silk angavastra around his neck, saffron with a gold border.
It is ironic that although Madan Mohan had chosen the teaching profession and mastered the subjects he taught, his students did not take to him. He was too pedantic, too rigid in his views, and did not like being questioned. According to him, now that British rule in India was over, it was time Hindus regained their cultural and scientific inheritance, and for this it was necessary to suppress the Muslims or throw them out of the country. Hindus would revive ancient Hindu science and technology enshrined in the vedas. The ancients knew all about aviation long before the Wright brothers flew a plane. Didn’t Shri Ram, Sita, Lakshman and Hanuman fly from Sri Lanka to Ayodhya in the Pushpak Viman? Didn’t Hanuman parachute down from the aircraft to land ahead of the rest of the party and alert the people of Ayodhya so they could give their beloved Ram a fitting welcome? Madan Mohan talked of Ayurveda as the greatest system of medicine and Vaastu as the foundation of all architecture. He mocked Muslim claims to having built the Qutab Minar and the Taj Mahal: ‘They were not builders; they were destroyers of great temples built by Hindu architects,’ he said. ‘You read ancient Sanskrit texts and they will open your eyes. Don’t accept what is written in English textbooks as gospel truth; they belittle everything our ancestors did only to glorify their own tiny achievements.’ And he went on in this manner while most of his students struggled to stay awake.
Attendance in Madan Mohan’s classes began to drop as students opted for other subjects after their mid-term exams. Boys and girls began referring to him in derision as Mahamahopadhya Chutiadhari (wearer of the pigtail) Pandit Madan Mohanji. Some invented new names for his initials: MM—Maha Moorakh, the great fool. Reports reached the Principal’s ears that Pandey, despite his brilliance, was not a good teacher. By the end of the year, Madan Mohan sensed that neither students nor the teaching fraternity were ready to accept his revolutionary ideas. He was not the one to make compromises. If they didn’t want him, he did not want them. And that was that.
The college authorities sensed that if they fired Madan Mohan there would be an uproar in university circles; if he resigned it would bring a bad name to the college. It was Madan Mohan himself who found a way out of the predicament. He applied for long leave without pay. With a great show of regeret the principal accepted his application and assured him that the post of lecturer he had held would not be filled till he decided to return.
Madan Mohan’s parents began to despair of their son all over again. ‘God gives with one hand and takes away with the other,’ remarked his father. ‘God gave him brains and God also made him wayward.’
‘He needs a stabilizing influence in his life,’ Parvati ventured. ‘Perhaps a good, understanding wife will make him more responsible.’
‘We had dozens of the richest Brahmin families offering their daughters to us. Who will want to hand over his child to an unemployed college teacher?’
‘What do you mean by unemployed teacher?’ Parvati retorted angrily. ‘He is an outstanding scholar, the likes of which this country does not have!’
Pandey Senior had no response to that but to throw up his hands in despair and grunt. After a while he said, ‘You have to ask him if he’s willing to get married. If I know him he will say no and give you a long lecture on the merits of remaining a brahmachari, with quotations on celibacy from Sanskrit texts that only he understands.’
His wife glowered at him. She did not like anything sarcastic being said about her son. But she knew that it would not be easy to get round the boy—he was unpredictable.
Unpredictable he proved to be. Parvati broached the subject as tactfully as she could. ‘Beta, you are getting on twenty-four now. Isn’t it time you found a life companion to look after you? We are getting old and find it increasingly difficult to look after ourselves. Your father has asthma. I have arthritis in my knees and struggle to walk. We need someone to run the house.’
Madan Mohan did not scoff at the idea as she had feared he would. Instead he asked, ‘Has any family approached you?’
‘Many families have made enquiries,’ she began happily. ‘We put them off by saying you didn’t have a pukka job and were not ready for marriage. Of course, you don’t need a job if you don’t want one. You have this house; it is yours after we go. And there is enough money in the bank to last your lifetime. Both of us are eager to see you married. It is for you to decide.’
Madan Mohan pondered over the matter for a while, then replied, ‘If that is what you want, I will abide by your wishes.’
His mother beamed a radiant smile and put her right hand on his head. ‘Jeetey raho, beta! May you live long. Would you like to see the girls whose parents have approached us, or their photos?’
‘No, Ma. I don’t want to see them or their photos. You choose. But I would like to examine the horoscopes of the girls you shortlist. I am in no hurry.’
Having left his teaching job, Madan Mohan joined the Hindu Sangathan. He had heard favourable accounts of the organization. It aimed to re-educate Hindus about their glorious past, the havoc caused by Muslim invaders and the insidious anti-Hindu propaganda carried out by Christian missionaries under British patronage. Its members assembled every morning in different parks of the city, dressed in white shirts, baggy khaki shorts and black caps. They were mainly shopkeepers with paunches and spindly, hairy legs. They were put through a drill with lathis, and performed yoga asanas and wrestled clumsily in the mud like overgrown schoolboys. The sessions ended with short sermons delivered by their leaders. Madan Mohan joined the shakha, or branch, closest to his home. His reputation as an extraordinary scholar and a champion of Hindu pride had preceded him. He was given a warm welcome. He was asked to deliver the morning sermons and was invited by other shakhas in the city to speak to them. Soon the chief of the Delhi Sangathan invited him to the central office. He was welcomed with a cordial embrace. The chief was a thin elderly man with thick glasses and a Charlie Chaplin moustache. He spoke very slowly. ‘I have heard great praise of your dedication to the Sangathan and the way you expound its ideals. You have qualities of leadership. I have also made enquiries about your background. You come from a noble and distinguished Brahmin family. You have been a professor and believe in the ideals of brahmacharya. Isn’t that so?’
Madan Mohan replied candidly, ‘I thank you for your kind words. I was a lecturer and not a professor. I am single but plan to get married soon.’
The old chief looked disappointed. ‘Some of our leaders remained celibate all their lives because they wanted to devote all their time and energy to the Sangathan.’
‘I intend to devote myself entirely to the Sangathan, but I have to get married; I have given my word to my mother. I am her only child.’
The chief was impressed. ‘That is very noble of you. A mother is goddess incarnate, her wishes should be treated as commands. Several of our leaders are also grihasthis. But being a householder does not mean that you are any less committed to the cause. What really counts is dedication.’
‘You can count on me for that,’ replied Madan Mohan, and then the thin man in khaki shorts embraced him again.
*
It did not take long for Madan Mohan’s mother to revive proposals they had received earlier—all from Brahmin families. As required, all of them furnished horoscopes, quite a few sent their daughters’ biodatas and photographs as well. Hari Mohan and Parvati examined the proposals first and weeded out those they considered unsuitable. They were left with a dozen which they put before their son. ‘I don’t want to see any photographs,’ he said firmly. ‘I would like to know the exact time and place of their birth so I can make my calculations and check if their horoscopes have been properly cast. It is common for parents of girls to lie about their age. I will also examine their biodatas. I expect my wife to be educated.’
‘We’ve seen to that,’ replied his father. ‘We rejected those who have not been to college. All these girls are graduates in something or the other: English, history, Hindi, home science. It is now for you to decide.’
Madan Mohan took the horoscopes to his room and spread them out on the work table. From his study of the subject he had concluded that the best match for a Leo—he was a Leo—was a Taurus. Only three applicants in the lot were born under the sign. He scanned their biodatas. Two had been educated in Indian paathshalas, one was from a convent and had taken her BA degree in English literature from St John’s College, Agra—a Christian missionary college—on a scholarship. Madan Mohan thought over it. Though he set no store by knowledge of English literature, he felt that his future wife should have a good command over the language, as most books in his personal library were in English. It was also a useful asset when meeting foreigners and people who could not speak Hindi. The Christian missionary education bothered him, but he was quite certain that like many Indians of her class the girl had not really thought about the pernicious influence of the proselytizing Christians. She needed to be educated, to have her eyes opened to the truth, and he was confident he could do that. He took a second and a third look at the girl’s biodata and horoscope. She was one of the many daughters of a school teacher in Mathura. She was five years younger than him: that was ideal. Her name was Mohini Joshi.
‘Find out what you can about this girl Mohini Joshi,’ he told his parents. They were overjoyed. ‘Joshis are of the same class of Brahmins as us Pandeys,’ said his mother. ‘Pandey-Joshi alliances are common. Her father appears to be a man of modest means, which is better. One should not make an alliance with a family above one’s own.’
So Pandey Senior wrote to Joshi Senior and invited him and his wife over to Delhi. A few days later the Joshis arrived at the Pandeys’ doorstep with their daughter. They were awed at the size of the bungalow and its lavishly furnished interior. They joined the palms of their hands as if in prayer and said, ‘We are humble people who have very little to give in the way of dowry, except our daughter.’ Mohini went down on her knees and touched the feet of the Pandeys. Both put their hands on her head and blessed her. ‘We are not looking for a dowry,’ said Parvati Pandey. ‘Bhagwan has given us plenty. All we want is a nice girl for our only child. He, as you know, is one in a million. He refused to join government service after being selected for it and went into the teaching profession. Now he is a full-time social worker dedicated to the service of his country.’
Tea was ordered. Parvati asked the servant to inform Chhotey Sahib that the Joshis had arrived. Madan Mohan came down from his room, dutifully touched the Joshis’ feet and allowed Mohini to touch his. Parvati poured out the tea, asked the Joshis by turn how much sugar they liked, and had the bearer hand them their cups. She and her husband were appalled to see all three pour the tea into their saucers and slurp noisily as they sipped it. Madan Mohan was charmed: where could you meet Indians these days who drank tea out of saucers?
There were long pauses of silence. Parvati did her best to keep the conversation going. Her husband wasn’t sure whether he should speak to them in Hindi or English. Mrs Joshi evidently didn’t speak the language and her daughter sat dumbly looking down at her feet. Madan Mohan was not much help either. He kept staring at Mohini, looking her up and down. She was certainly fair, he noted—as most Brahmins undefiled by non-Hindu blood were. She was short and petite and had long, glossy, heavily oiled hair tied up in a big bun behind her head. Her bosom was beautifully rounded, snugly ensconced in her full-sleeved blouse, and when she touched his feet, he had noticed that she had the kind of hips described in one Hindu text as ‘auspicious, child-bearing hips’. She had painted her toe nails red and wore a thin silver anklet on one foot. Mohini sensed she was being assessed and kept her head bowed. Then the impulse to see the young man who might become her husband overcame her shyness and she looked up. She thought he looked exactly like a young Brahmin rishi, one who had just had his morning dip in the icy waters of the Ganga. He looked clean and in robust health. She was pleased at the prospect of being his wife. Their eyes met for a brief moment. Her face lit up with a winsome smile. He was bowled over.
While Hari Mohan occupied himself drinking a second cup of tea that he did not want, his wife and their son whispered into each other’s ears. Then Parvati fished out a small box of blue velvet from her handbag and handed it to Madan Mohan. He drew up a chair next to Mohini and sat down beside her. He took her left hand in his and slipped a gold ring with a diamond on her third finger. Mohini was overcome with embarrassment and could think of nothing else but to go down on the carpet and place her head between his feet like a puppy.
The Joshis were overwhelmed with gratitude. ‘For our Mohini fate has opened the gates to heaven in all its refulgent glory,’ said the father. He said this in chaste Hindi, prompting Hari Mohan to say ‘Bas, bas,’ irritably to stop the man before he launched into Sanskrit shlokas. The mother added, addressing Parvati, ‘Behenji, we are poor people, we have very little to give you except our daughter. From now on she is your property. You are her mother.’
Hari Mohan interrupted gruffly, ‘I told you we don’t want anything in the way of a dowry. We don’t believe in big baraats, no band baaja. It will be a simple wedding according to vedic rites as my son wishes, with the minimum of guests. I think it will be best if you come to Delhi with your immediate family. I will reserve a baraat ghar for you—there is one not far from here. You can stay there and have the havan in the garden. We will fix the day of the marriage after our son has consulted his star charts. He claims to know more about auspicious days than any astrologer.’
The Joshis fell at the feet of the Pandeys. ‘We are mere bricks of a sewer and our daughter will adorn the top floor of a palace! Bhagwan has answered our prayers,’ said Mr Joshi with tears in his eyes. The Joshis embraced the Pandeys many times before they got onto the three-wheeler phut-phut on which they had come, to return to the inter-state bus terminal and take the bus to Mathura.
*
The Pandeys were pleasantly surprised that their son had so readily agreed to get married. They were confused; they had to admit that they did not really know how his mind worked. For Madan Mohan it was quite straightforward: he always went by the sacred texts. A man’s lifespan was a hundred years, divided into four equal parts. The first quarter, brahmacharya, was for study, and during this time he had to remain celibate. Madan Mohan was twenty-four and still a virgin. He was now about to enter into grihastha—the life of a householder: acquire a wife, have children, and earn his livelihood. For this, too, there were rules, and he was following them diligently. The Kamasutra prescribed that a man should marry a woman at least three years younger than himself: Mohini was five years his junior. The Kamasutra divided men and women into three categories depending on the sizes of their genitals, and indicated which category of women made ideal wives. From the little he had seen of her, Mohini was almost certainly a mrigini, a doe—petite, slim and coy; clearly a suitable bride. She certainly could not be a mare. Nor a hasthini—a she-elephant—a woman with a large vulva and an enormous appetite for sex.
He was not entirely sure about his own category: was he a hare, a bull or a horse? He did not like to think of himself as a hare—they were as randy as rabbits and had small penises. He had never measured his organ but its size impressed him. He could be a bull or a horse. Yes, that was most likely—though that might create problems for the petite Mohini; he would have to be gentle with her. He would adjust to her, and give her time to adjust to him, by controlling his lust like a yogi.
*
Madan Mohan was particular about dates. It was late in March that the Joshis had come over with their daughter and he had agreed to marry her. Since then Joshi had written twice to his father enquiring about his health and indicating that he did not believe in long engagements; as soon as their son-in-law-to-be had decided on an auspicious day, the Joshis would like to hand over their daughter to his family. He wrote a letter to Madan Mohan, too, with the same request. Mohini had also written two letters to Madan Mohan, both in English and in block letters, addressing him as ‘MY ONE AND ONLY MADANJI’ and telling him how much she was looking forward to becoming his ‘LOVING AND FAITHFUL WIFE’. She signed off as ‘YOUR BELOVED MOHINI’. Madan Mohan replied to their letters in a business-like tone, telling Mohini’s father that they would soon be hearing from him about a suitable date, and assuring Mohini of his affection and advising her to acquaint herself with sacred Hindu texts on marriage.
The 15th of August was Madan Mohan’s birthday. He would turn twenty-five, and could then end his brahmacharya and enter grihastha. The marriage ceremony could take place on any day after that. But by that time the monsoons would have set in. The gods would retire under the ocean. It was not auspicious to have marriages during the rainy season. Sometime late October or early November would be more suitable. For a more precise time, he would need to study carefully the books he had collected on astrology.
Madan Mohan had recently begun using B.V. Raman’s Hindu Predictable Astrology as a textbook on the subject. It was heavily marked and underlined on several pages. To him, Raman was a genius, and his book, based on ancient Sanskrit texts, was far more reliable than the works of Nostradamus and other Europeans who were mere magicians—and bad ones, too, since magic had been perfected in India, not in the West. He also subscribed to The Astrological Magazine, published from Bangalore, and Babaji, edited by Lachhman Das Madan of Delhi. Every new book and magazine he read on astrology confirmed his opinion that the wise sages of India’s glorious past were geniuses. They had divided not only the months of the year but also the hours of the day and night into periods that were auspicious and those that were unlucky: Rahu Kaal, Yamagand, Gulika Kaal. With these principles to guide him, Madan Mohan consulted his own and Mohini’s horoscopes. He decided that the 31st of October would be the most suitable day for their marriage and 9.30 p.m. the most suitable time for the nuptial ceremony. Hari Mohan Pandey wrote to Mohini’s father informing him of this.
In the meantime, Madan Mohan read and re-read the Kamasutra. He marvelled at the precision with which the sage Vatsyayana had analysed sexual differences between men and women and given detailed advice on how they could get the best out of each other. He knew about the three classifications of the two genders depending on the sizes of their genitals. He had recently measured his penis at rest and when erect with a measuring tape and it had confirmed his opinion that he was either a bull or a horse, probably the latter. But how did one plumb the depths of a woman’s vagina? He came to the conclusion that in Vatsyayana’s time Hindu scientists must have invented some kind of dipstick for the purpose, of the kind used to gauge the amount of oil in a car. They had made all the necessary calculations centuries ago, so that now people like him could study the scriptures and tell, just by looking carefully at a woman, the size of her vagina.
He read with amazement about the chatushashti—sixty-four—different postures that couples could adopt during intercourse. And about the sexually sensitive points in a woman’s body—where and how to kiss her, bite her, dig his nails in her—and the kinds of noises she would make in the heat of passion. Vatsyayana was meticulous in his research and quoted other authorities on sex where they differed with him. He was a true scholar and a sage, and Madan Mohan was full of admiration for him.
However, he was dismayed to read Vatsyayana’s advice that a man should not be in a hurry to consummate his marriage on the first night but wait at least three days to win over his bride’s confidence and only enter her when she was fully aroused and eager for the union. He pondered over the problem. He got some books from the Nehru Library to see if they had anything on the subject of deferring sexual intercourse after marriage. He was delighted to find yet another piece of evidence of the West borrowing ideas from ancient Hindu texts. As usual, the Germans had been the first to pick up Oriental wisdom. In several parts of that Aryan country it was a practice not to allow a newly-wed couple access to each other for a few days. In Swabia, three days’ abstinence was prescribed—the same as in the Kamasutra. They were known as Tobias nights. Convinced, all over again, of the greatness of Hindu thought and practice, Madan Mohan decided that if he could remain celibate for twenty-five years, he could remain celibate for twenty-five years and three days.
*
Madan Mohan took charge of his wedding arrangements. He went to the baraat ghar in Kaka Nagar, inspected the rooms and furniture and gave instructions on how many coloured lights were to be put up on the parapets of the building and in the trees in the garden; where the havan pit was to be dug and where the three-man team of shehnai players was to be seated. He chartered a bus to pick up the Joshis, their relatives and friends early on 30th October, get them to Delhi by noon and then take them back to Mathura, minus Mohini, the next afternoon. He informed his prospective father-in-law of the arrangements, telling him that the bus could carry no more than fifty passengers and advising him to bring their family priest with them. The only tasks he left for his parents were to buy gifts for Mohini’s family and arrange a lunch reception in their house on the day following the wedding.
Through all this he also continued attending and addressing shakha meetings, doing his yoga asanas and studying the Kamasutra. Starting a week before his wedding date he got a masseur, trained in the science of Ayurveda, to give him an oil massage every morning. He followed the massage with a hot bath, scrubbing his body with a loofah to rinse out the oil. It invigorated his system and left a mild fragrance of herbal oil on his body.
Things went exactly according to schedule. The Joshis arrived in Delhi on time. With them they brought their own pandit, and the little dowry they could afford to give their daughter: a sewing machine, a small fridge, six sarees and some jewellery. The Pandeys invited their closest relatives and friends, who were to form their son’s baraat, for tea on the afternoon of the 31st of October. By the time the tea party was over, the sun had set and the guests were instructed to have their cars lined up behind the larger of the Pandeys’ two cars which had been decked up with strings of jasmine flowers. Madan Mohan had put his foot down on riding on a horse led by a brass band. He did not wish to make a spectacle of himself. He rode in the car with his parents to the baraat ghar. By the time they arrived, the coloured lights had been switched on and the shehnai players had struck up their plaintive whine. The Joshis welcomed the Pandeys and their party. Mohini was gently pushed in front, half her face covered by her sari pallu. She put a garland of jasmines around Madan’s neck; in return Madan put a garland around hers. The guests were conducted to the lawn to partake of a vegetarian feast of pooris, kachauris, sweets and soft drinks.
While the guests were still guzzling food and drinks, Madan was taken indoors for a session of banter with Mohini’s sisters and girl cousins. They seated him in their midst and placed a platter of sweets and a tumbler of sharbat before him. ‘Doolhaji, sample some of our home-made halva and sharbat,’ they chorused. Madan was too smart for them. ‘You taste some first, then I’ll take it,’ he said. It turned out that the sweets were full of chillies, the sharbat full of salt. Disappointed that their prank had failed, the girls removed the platter. Even as they did so, one girl came up behind Madan Mohan, pulled his chutia and asked, ‘Other animals have tails on their bums, why do you have one on your head?’ Madan Mohan turned around sharply, grabbed the girl’s pigtail and brought her down to her knees. ‘You touch my chutia again and I’ll make sure you don’t have a single hair left on your head!’ he said angrily. ‘Learn to respect your traditions!’ Mohini’s mother, who was at the door, rushed in and intervened, ‘Bas, stop this nonsense. Don’t trouble your jeejaji. It is time for the pheras.’
The havan pit was lit and pandits of both families took their places beside it. The auspicious hour for solemnizing the marriage was at hand. Madan Mohan and Mohini were seated side by side. The pandits began to chant marriage hymns from the Vedas, feeding the sacred fire with spoonfuls of ghee and instructing the bride and bridegroom to toss sacred offerings into it. Madan Mohan, of course, needed no instructions since he was familiar with all the hymns and rituals. This went on for nearly half an hour. Then the couple was asked to stand up. One end of Mohini’s saree was tied to a pink scarf that Madan Mohan wore around his neck, and as they went round the sacred fire seven times, family members and friends gathered around and showered rose petals on them. Madan Mohan put a black-beaded mangalsutra around Mohini’s neck, applied sindhoor in the parting of her hair, and the two were pronounced man and wife.
It was a custom in the Joshi clan that the bridegroom spent the first night in the bride’s home, all by himself. It was only after he had taken his bride to his own home that he was allowed to consummate his marriage. Since the Joshis had no home of their own or even relatives in Delhi, they prepared a room in the baraat ghar for their son-in-law. Madan slept fitfully. The small room had bare white walls and only a couple of chairs, and the bed was an uncomfortable string charpai with pillows as hard as wood. Despite the spartan routine of yoga asanas and the Sangathan drill, Madan Mohan found this trying since he was used to sleeping on a soft bed with feathered pillows. Then there were thoughts about entering the second stage of his life. He was no longer a brahmachari but a man with a wife to look after, whose needs he had to cater to and whom he had to take out with him wherever he went. He would have to make a lot of adjustments in his daily routine. But there would be compensations, of course—a woman to make love to whenever he wanted, a woman to look after his needs as his mother had done, and bear his children. Most of all he looked forward to the next three days, during which he would prepare Mohini to yield herself to him. The Kamasutra advised grooms to be patient and gentle with their virgin wives. If she was put off by her first experience of sex, it would take the poor girl months or years to come to terms with it. It was well past midnight by the time Madan Mohan finally fell asleep. He was still groggy the next morning when, to the sad notes of the shehnai, Mohini bid a tearful farewell to her family and was driven away in the Pandeys’ car to her new home.
There was a stream of visitors all morning till late into the evening at the Pandey residence; relays of bearers serving tea, coffee, cold drinks and snacks. By the time the last visitor left, and blessings sufficient for several lifetimes had been bestowed on the newly-wed couple, it was time for dinner. No one had appetite for more food and everyone was exhausted—most of all Mohini. The family sat around the table sipping tomato soup, which was all they could take. Parvati escorted the bridal couple to their bedroom, blessed them and retired. Madan Mohan bolted his bedroom door from the inside and sat down on the sofa.
‘You must be very tired,’ he said to Mohini. ‘Come and sit beside me so I can have a good look at you. And you tell me all about yourself.’ To his surprise, Mohini, who had looked ready to collapse with exhaustion only a few minutes before, sprang back to life, pulled the pallu from her head, grabbed his hand and said boldly, ‘Take a good look. Do you like what you see?’
This was not at all according to the holy book on sex. Perhaps she had not read it. ‘Yes, you are a very good-looking young lady,’ Madan Mohan replied, ‘a classic example of a mrigini.’
‘A what?’
‘Mrigini—a doe. According to the Kamasutra there are three types of women: a deer-woman, a mare-woman and an elephant-woman, depending on the sizes of their private parts. You are small and well-formed; you have to be a mrigini. Didn’t you read the Kamasutra? I’d asked you to read the sacred Hindu texts on marriage.’
‘Harey Ram! What kind of a family do you think I come from! My parents never allowed dirty books in the house.’
‘It is not a dirty book,’ said Madan Mohan sternly. ‘It is the oldest classic in the world on marriage and the art of love.’
‘I don’t know about such things. But I would have you know that when I was in college, they had a beauty contest. I was unanimously voted beauty queen of the year.’
‘You entered a beauty contest?’ he asked rather alarmed. ‘Chheeh! Chheeh! They are Western practices, very unbecoming for Hindu women. How did your parents allow you to do something so vulgar?’
Mohini was crushed. ‘I did not tell my Ma and Pitaji about it till after I was crowned. They did not like my exposing myself and allowing my breasts, waist and buttocks to be measured, but they were quite pleased with the outcome. I have a good figure. My friends in college told me I have the same measurments as that Swedish girl who became Miss Universe last year. Only, I am short, just five feet two inches.’
‘That is an appropriate height. I am five feet seven; a woman should be suitably shorter than her husband,’ Madan Mohan said stiffly and then fell silent.
‘You are not gussa with me, are you?’ Mohini pouted.
‘No, I am not angry. What is past is past. But no more beauty contests. They are very un-Hindu,’ he replied firmly.
‘Thank God!’ Mohini sighed dramatically in relief, with one hand on her chest. With her other hand, she still clutched his. He was the husband, he was meant to take the lead, but it was she who was calling the shots. This confused Madan Mohan. There were a few moments of awkward silence before he remembered the next step he had to take. He fished out a betel leaf from his silver paan daan and said, ‘Here, I have a special paan for you.’ He held it to her lips. ‘You must take half of it from me,’ she said and took half the paan in her mouth, the other half sticking out of her teeth. She put a hand on his thigh and leant towards him. Madan Mohan was amazed by her brassiness. As he bit into the half sticking out of her mouth, she flung her arms around his neck and gave him a full-blooded kiss on his lips.
This was outrageous! She was flouting all the sacred rules. Despite her petiteness she was perhaps not a mrigini after all!
‘Are you by any chance a hasthini, young lady?’ he asked weakly.
‘A what? Do I look like an elephant to you?’ she demanded angrily.
‘No, no, it has nothing to do with the size of your body,’ he explained apologetically, ‘but . . . but—’
‘What but-but? First a mrigini, then a hasthini—I am an innocent little girl, I don’t understand all this.’
‘That is because you have never read the Kamasutra.’
‘I told you Pitaji would not allow such books in our home.’
‘Pity! It would have taught you something about the art of making love.’
‘Professor sahib, you don’t have to read books to learn how to make love. We are married. I make love to you, you make love to me. Isn’t that simple?’
‘No, it is not so simple,’ he replied. ‘Do you know there are sixty-four ways of making love?’
‘Sixty-four!’ she exclaimed with wide-eyed wonder. ‘I thought there was only one. You teach me all sixty-four. I promise to be a good disciple.’ She gave him another kiss on his lips. ‘But we can’t spend our first night of marriage as if we are in a classroom. That is not the meaning of suhaag raat.’
‘No, it is not,’ he said pulling her away from him. ‘The first night should be spent in getting to know each other. You tell me about yourself and I will tell you about myself. On the second night we do the same but go a little further in disclosing more intimate details. Hindu authorities on the subject advise that love-making should start after the third night.’
‘Uffo!’ she exploded. ‘What a strange man you are! If we are to do nothing on our suhaag raat, we may as well go to sleep. What is this nonsense about talking! I am very tired.’ She got up from the couch and walked briskly to the bathroom. She rinsed her mouth, washed her face and went straight to the bed prepared for them. She brushed away the rose petals strewn on the sheets and lay down in her wedding sari with her face turned towards the wall. Madan Mohan sensed she was sulking; she was evidently a bad-tempered girl and would have to be handled very carefully. He would be patient.
He went to the bathroom, brushed his teeth and took a shower, carefully soaping his armpits and groin. He changed into a fresh pair of kurta-pyjamas and sat on the nuptial bed. After a while he put his hand on Mohini’s shoulder and asked, ‘Are you gussa with me?’
She shrugged her shoulder and growled, ‘Don’t touch me till you get permission from your holy dictionary. I don’t want to talk to you.’
Madan Mohan resigned himself to a sleepless night. For a long while he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. Then he switched off the bed light and shut his eyes. Mohini lay facing the other way, stiff as a log. The Kamasutra had nothing to say about sulking brides. Slowly sleep overcame him.
Mohini was up before him. She squeezed toothpaste onto her forefinger and rubbed her gums vigorously. She did not know how to operate the shower, so she filled the steel bucket from the tap and since there was no lota, used the enamel mug placed on the cistern of the WC to wash herself. She changed into a new silk sari and without saying a word to her husband went down to join his parents. Hari Mohan Pandey was reading the morning papers; his mother was in the puja room. Mohini touched her father-in-law’s feet, received his blessings and joined her mother-in-law.
They heard Madan Mohan come down and join his father for tea. Parvati quickly finished her part of the ritual and told her daughter-in-law, ‘Bahu, I will send my son to join you. My puja is short and basic, but he is very particular about the rituals he follows. You must pray together and learn from him. I will help the servants prepare breakfast.’ She went out and informed her son, ‘Mohini is waiting for you to perform puja. She does not know the rituals we follow. I will have the breakfast laid out.’
As soon as Madan had gone into the puja room, his mother walked up to the bridal chamber. She saw the rose and jasmine petals she had strewn on the bed the evening before scattered on the floor. That was a good sign: the couple had slept together. She examined the bed sheet: there were no tell-tale stains of blood or seminal discharge. They had probably not consummated their union. Her son was a sensible boy; he had not shown impatience with his virgin bride who understandably knew little or nothing about sex. He would teach her in good time. Parvati joined her small family for breakfast satisfied with what she had seen.
At the breakfast table, things hadn’t really changed over the years. Hari Mohan Pandey still preferred a heavy English breakfast: glass of orange juice, cornflakes with milk, bacon and eggs, toast with butter and marmalade, and coffee. All this was accompanied by a flash and tinkle of forks and knives, spoons and china. He ended his morning meals by lighting his briar pipe. Madan Mohan, on the other hand, still insisted on North Indian vegetarian food: pooris and aalo-sabzi made in ghee, or paranthas with pickle and dahi; and always milk instead of tea or coffee. At the end of his meals one of the servants brought him a finger bowl, since he ate with his fingers. Only Parvati Pandey’s eating habits had changed, and reflected her slightly confused state, caught as she was between husband and son. Since Madan Mohan’s early teens, she too had begun to share his Indian breakfast, best eaten with the fingers. Hari Mohan had shouted at her the first few times, but gradually reconciled himself to having lost his authority to the younger male. Now Parvati went back to Western food and cutlery only occasionally, when she felt sorry for her husband or wanted him to know that she still loved him, or when she wanted something from him.
Mohini was faced with a tricky situation at the breakfast table. Should she defer to her father-in-law or her husband? Should she first try and prove that she could handle forks and knives (which she could not with ease, but had got her friend Alice Carvalho from college to teach her) and then switch permanently to Indian food and use her fingers? The issue was decided for her when her mother-in-law instructed the servants to serve Bade Sahib the usual and everyone else poori-aaloo. They all ate in silence.
The day went by receiving another stream of visitors who came to congratulate the Pandeys bearing wedding gifts. So it went on till late in the evening. Mohini avoided eye contact with her husband and clung to her mother-in-law like a dutiful bahu. It was only after dinner that the couple were left alone for the night in their bedroom.
Mohini was still sulking. She took a bath, changed into a fresh cotton sari and lay down on the bed, facing the wall. Madan also took a bath, changed into kurta-pyjamas and lay down on his side of the bed. After a while he stretched out his hand and put it on Mohini’s shoulder. ‘This is no way to behave towards your husband,’ he said gently. She shrugged his hand off and replied, ‘You don’t want to have anything to do with me for three days. So I will talk to you when your silly period of abstinence is over.’
‘But we must talk. You must tell me about yourself; you can ask me whatever you want to know about me. We are strangers to each other. We can become better acquainted, become friends, then lovers. This is laid down in the shastras; we must obey them.’
Mohini turned around to face him. There were tears in her eyes. ‘What do you want to hear about me? I am a poor teacher’s daughter. I’ve been to school and college. You did not like my winning a beauty contest. You don’t want to see what I look like till three days are over. I don’t understand you.’ She covered her face with her hands and started sobbing.
Madan Mohan slid over to her side of the bed, gently took her hands off her face and wiped her tears. He kissed her on the forehead. ‘You are a very pretty girl,’ he said in a soothing voice. ‘I don’t have to see you naked to see how beautiful you are. The gods have made you what you are. I am lucky to have you as my wife.’ Mohini clung to him. Gradually her sobs came to an end. She fell asleep in her husband’s arms. Her body touched his many times during the night but made no demands on him.
Mohini regained her cheerfulness. She helped her motherin-law and the servants in the kitchen, laying the table, receiving visitors, getting flowers from the garden and putting them in vases. The short crisis in her relationship with her husband was over. One more night and the period of sex taboo would also end. At long last she would get what she had been looking forward to since her engagement.
*
Came the night of all nights. After her mother-in-law left the couple in their bedroom, Mohini had a bath, liberally sprinkled her body with fragrant talcum powder, rubbed her gums with toothpaste vigorously, and came out looking as radiant as a bride should look for the event. Madan Mohan was pleased with what he saw and asked her to wait a few minutes till he too had had a bath. He scrubbed himself, brushed his teeth, and as a final touch, dabbed some French perfume on his neck and in his armpits—this last was a compromise he was constrained to make since ittar, the local perfume, was an invention of the Mughals, who were more abhorrent to him than the Whites. He joined Mohini on the sofa. He took two betel leaves wrapped in silver paper, put one in his mouth and the other in hers.
‘So,’ he said, and fell silent.
‘So,’ she replied, smiling through her betel-stained teeth. They held hands. ‘So, Professor sahib, Panditji, my Pati Parmeshwar, I am happy to be your wife. You command, I obey.’
‘I will begin with a kiss.’ He meant to startle her with his repertoire of the many varieties of kisses described in the Kamasutra. But Mohini overpowered him.
‘You can have as many as you want,’ she replied and glued her lips to his.
They stayed in a tight embrace for a long time. Then Madan Mohan tried to regain control. He kissed her all over her face. His hands strayed to her bosom. He was not sure if she would like him taking that liberty with her. She undid the buttons of her blouse and the clasp of her bra. ‘Kiss me here,’ she whispered in his ear. Madan Mohan felt his control over the proceedings slipping; he had to assert himself, but the sight of her breasts made him go weak in the knees. He had only seen women’s breasts in pictures and on marble statues, never in the flesh. He slobbered over them, not knowing which one of the two demanded more attention. ‘They are beautiful,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I am not surprised you were chosen the beauty queen.’
‘So you approve of the Western practice after all,’ she laughed. ‘Let me tell you, it is not only the bosom that matters in beauty contests. They measure the waist, buttocks, legs, everything. I came tops in every department.’
‘Show me,’ Madan Mohan said and then wondered who had spoken those words.
Mohini stood up, unwrapped her sari, freed herself of her blouse and bra and after a coy pause, undid the cord of her petticoat and let it slip down to the floor. She covered her sex with both her hands and turned around to let him see her smooth, well-rounded buttocks. Then she faced him and spread out her arms. ‘Let’s lie down.’
Madan Mohan recoiled in horror. What was that tuft of ugly black hair doing between her legs! He had not seen any such growth in the illustrated copies of the Kamasutra nor on any marble statues. He had hair above his genitals, yes, but wasn’t that a masculine phenomenon? Why should a comely woman, a mrigini, have pubic hair? He was confused; also worked up. This was not going as he had planned. Mohini took his hand and led him to the nuptial bed. ‘Take your clothes off. I want to see as much of you as you see of me,’ she ordered. Meekly he obeyed her command. And revealed that he too had ugly black hair in his middle. For some reason nature had put it there. He was too worked up to ponder over the inscrutable phenomenon. They clasped each other in a tight embrace, and tumbled onto the bed. There followed a storm of kisses. It was time for the real act to begin. Madan Mohan explored his young bride’s thighs with his hands and whispered in her ear: ‘My little doe, this will hurt you, but only the first time. Then you will get used to it and enjoy it. Trust me.’ While he was still fumbling, not knowing where to enter her, Mohini grasped his member and directed it to the right course. Madan Mohan recalled Vatsyayana’s warning to be very gentle with a virgin. ‘Go on, push it in,’ Mohini said impatiently. Madan Mohan’s head was now on fire; he had barely touched the opening of her vagina when he came in violent spurts all over her thighs.
For him it was a beautiful experience. Not for her. She could not hold back her frustration. She grabbed him by his hair and swore, ‘Gadha! Donkey! I haven’t even begun and you’ve finished!’ She extricated herself from under him and ran into the bathroom to clean herself and cool off. When she came out, she was confronted by an astonishing sight. Madan Mohan was standing on his head, with his limp penis hanging down like a stubby arrow pointing to his face.
‘What are you doing?’ she screamed.
‘Bindu is the life force of a man. It’s made of ingredients taken from all parts of his body, from his skull to his toes. To replenish it a man should do a sirsh-asana after he has had sex,’ he explained from the position he was in.
‘You call that having sex? You should have done it with your head, that might have been more satisfying,’ she said in a huff. She lay down on her end of the double bed and switched off the lights.
Madan Mohan lowered his legs and sat up. He groped in the dark to get to the bathroom, washed himself and groped his way back to the bed. Sleep did not come to him for a long time. He pondered over where he had gone wrong. The Kamasutra had not prepared him for such crass behaviour on the part of a wife. Could she belong to a different category of women than he had presumed from her small size? He looked around the darkened room. Perhaps there was something wrong with their bedroom. He should consult Vaastu, which explained how houses should be built, rooms arranged, furniture placed. He had also not paid attention to the ancient science of gemology: gem stones were said to affect functions of the body. Some could rouse passions, others cool them down. His mind went forward and backward on the wisdom of the ancient texts and on his own failure to meet his newly married wife’s expectations. Gradually sleep overtook him.
He did not see Mohini get up. He heard her splashing water in the bathroom and realized she had been up for some time. The bathroom door opened and she stepped out stark naked, rubbing her body with a towel. She was indeed a beautiful girl with hair hanging down to her waist and a perfect body, except for the indecent tuft of hair around her vagina. Couldn’t she do something about that, and about her crassness? She had laid out her sari, petticoat and blouse on the bed. By way of greeting she said, ‘Saara chippak-chippak—sticky all over—belly, thighs, all chippak-chippak. I had to soap myself three times to get it off.’ She changed into her clothes, touched his feet perfunctorily as he lay and went down to greet his parents.
Madan Mohan got up and went into the bathroom. While bathing he noticed some chippak-chippak on his groin and thighs as well. What a waste of precious bindu, he thought. It should have gone inside Mohini to give birth to a new life. His ears burned with the memory of the night’s encounter. He changed into a fresh dhoti-kurta and joined the family waiting for him to have breakfast.
While the servant was laying the breakfast table, Madan Mohan’s mother slipped upstairs to inspect her son’s bed. She noticed a few drops of dried semen but no blood. She was mystified. She came back looking thoughtful.
The family was seated at the breakfast table. Madan Mohan and his father were having an animated dialogue. It started by Madan Mohan asking his father, ‘Pitaji, did you consult a Vaastu expert when you had this bungalow designed?’
‘An expert in what?’ asked the father.
‘Vaastu Shastra. You know, the ancient Hindu text on architecture and interior designing.’
‘Never heard of it. I got a good architect to design this house. Of course he consulted me on my requirements. I think he did a good job. What’s wrong with it?’
‘No, no, I didn’t say anything is wrong with our house. Only, Vaastu takes into account sun and wind movements. It is very particular about the direction in which a house faces, where the kitchen and lavatories should be located—that sort of thing.’
‘He designed it in a way we could get the most of the sun in winter and the least in summer. Which way a house faces makes not the slightest difference.’
‘It does. Vaastu says so. Our Sangathan office opened to the south. Our membership dropped. A Vaastu expert told us to change our entrance to the east and our membership picked up.’
‘Rubbish! What kind of nonsense is this? What happens to hundred-storeyed skyscrapers going up in big cities abroad—not all of them face east.’
Madan Mohan had not worked that out but he was not the one to give up an argument easily. ‘We don’t know what happens to people living in houses facing south. But we can’t discount ancient learning in so off-hand a manner. Vaastu goes into great detail not only about kitchens and toilets but also bedrooms, reception rooms, puja rooms, verandahs. It also specifies which direction the entrance and exit should face. Our ancestors followed all those rules.’
‘Of course they had to,’ snapped his father. ‘They had chulhas which sent up smoke, so a kitchen had to be at the back. They shat in smelly pans which had to be cleaned by outcaste sweepers, so they had to be at some distance from their dwellings. We use electricity or gas for cooking, we have flush toilets which do not smell. We have air-conditioners to keep the house cool in summer and heaters to warm it in winter. Did your aastu-vaastu or whatever you call it know about these modern amenities?’
The argument was getting hot. It was bad to argue when eating. Parvati cut it short. ‘Beta, will you be home for lunch?’
‘I don’t think so, Ma. I may be late at the Sangathan office. I have not been there for three days and there may be lots of work pending. Don’t wait for me.’
‘You’ve only been married three days. You should have taken some leave. Married couples take ten to fifteen days off for their honeymoon.’
‘Honeymoon! A Western notion,’ scoffed Madan Mohan. ‘Did our forefathers go on honeymoons with their brides? To them dharma came first. The Sangathan is my dharma.’
The staff at the Sangathan office were surprised to see him. They too believed that he would be away for a week or ten days, in Kashmir or Shimla or some other hill resort, to get to know his bride better. They had not fixed any speaking schedule for him. Madan Mohan Pandey was as unpredictable as ever. He acknowledged his colleagues’ felicitations and then added, ‘Don’t fix any speaking engagements for me till I ask for them. I have some ancient books to consult, so don’t let anyone disturb me.’
He gave his assistant a list of books on Vaastu and Feng shui and asked him to get them from the office library. He spent the day going over them, making sketches of his bedroom, putting crosses indicating directions as on a mariner’s map, and marking the way beds, sofas and chairs should be placed according to Vaastu shastra. Feng shui did not add much to his information. He was happy to be following instructions of a manual entirely conceived by India’s great forefathers.
He got back home earlier than usual. The servants told him that his parents had taken their daughter-in-law to show her the sights of Delhi and would be back before sunset. Just as well, he thought, he wouldn’t be disturbing anyone. He took the chart he had made up to his bedroom and ordered the servants to change the furniture around according to his instructions. The double bed had its head towards the north: exactly the opposite of what was prescribed in Vaastu. He had it turned around. The sofa was put alongside the bay window, the armchairs placed facing it across the round glass table with the flower vase. The servants did not question their young master; they had implicit faith in his mother’s judgement that he was a mahavidwan, a man of great wisdom.
It was dark by the time the rest of the family returned from their sightseeing tour. Madan Mohan’s father had planned the itinerary: to start with, the Qutab Minar, followed by Humayun’s tomb, ending at Nizamuddin’s dargah. Mohini was very excited with what she had seen. ‘They didn’t allow us to go up the Minar,’ she informed her husband. ‘A young couple had jumped off it and killed themselves only two days ago. But I’m sure one would get a great view of the city from so high up in the sky.’ Madan responded sourly, ‘Yes, ruins all around. The walls of Prithviraj Chauhan’s fort. And did you see the Quwwat-ul-Islam Mosque? Twenty-seven Hindu and Jain temples were destroyed to make one mosque. Not one, not two, but twenty-seven temples,’ he repeated slowly. ‘It is enough to make the blood of any Hindu boil with rage.’
His father bit his lip, took time to refill his pipe with tobacco, lit it and took a couple of puffs before he said in a tone of suppressed rage, ‘We went sightseeing, not to raise our blood pressures.’
Mohini sensed a storm brewing between father and son and quickly changed the subject. ‘Surely you can’t say anything against Nizamuddin Auliya; he loved both Hindus and Muslims. We saw a lot of Hindu families at the dargah. They were asking for favours and tying mannat strings around the marble trellis of the tomb.’
‘Bewakoofs. They were a bunch of fools,’ said Madan Mohan.
‘I also tied a mannat string,’ confessed Mohini.
‘You are a bewakoof too!’
‘It’s no use arguing with him,’ the father intervened. ‘By his reckoning everyone except he is a bewakoof.’
‘You should read our true history and not the Muslim and Christian versions, Pitaji. You will continue to believe in the lies of the barbarians otherwise.’
‘Bas, bas, enough of this,’ said Parvati firmly, waving her hands to drive away clouds of ill will. ‘You make a mountain out of a mole hill. Mohini enjoyed her outing—didn’t you, beta? Next time we will take her to the Birla Mandir, the Hanuman Mandir and Bangla Sahib Gurdwara.’
Madan Mohan’s exchange of words with his father cast a gloom over the rest of the evening. No one was in the mood to talk at dinner; they gobbled up the food laid on the table. Hari Mohan Pandey left for his study without bidding anyone goodnight. He was followed by his wife and then Mohini. Madan Mohan felt guilty for having spoilt the atmosphere. But how could he help it if just about anything he said or did irritated his father? And his new wife—she did not seem interested in anything he stood for. It would take him a long while to bring her around to his ideal of a good Hindu wife. With a heavy heart he went up to his bedroom. Worse awaited him.
Mohini was reprimanding the servants for turning around the bed and furniture without consulting her. ‘Bahuji, Chhotey Sahib ordered us to do so.’ Just then the Chhotey Sahib entered the room. Mohini turned on him. ‘What is all this oot-pataang? Without asking me, without telling me.’ The servants waited nervously for further orders. ‘What do you mean?’ responded Madan Mohan sharply. ‘There is nothing nonsensical about it. This is how the interior of a bedroom should be according to Vaastu Shastra. Nothing goes right in a house or a room that is wrongly designed or laid out.’ Before the servants could leave, Mohini spat out the venom that had built up in her: ‘When you don’t know how to dance, you blame the dance floor,’ she shouted the Hindi proverb. Madan Mohan was crushed; his manhood had been questioned in front of his own servants. Mohini realized what she had blurted out and covered her face and broke into sobs. She rushed to the bathroom and slammed the door behind her. The servants slipped out of the room.
Madan Mohan lay down on his bed, utterly defeated and deflated. He did not change into his night clothes. He just kept staring at the ceiling. He heard Mohini come out of the bathroom and lie down on the bed. They did not speak to each other. Neither had any desire to get closer to the other. They slept fitfully. At some point shortly after midnight, Madan Mohan awoke in a panic; it was a dream he had had, but he could remember nothing of it. He lay awake for a while, looking at Mohini, asleep, facing the wall. If he could rouse his lust, he thought, he might break through the wall that separated them. He fixed his gaze on her buttocks, dimly visible in the moonlight streaming in through the open window. Nothing happened. He put a hand inside his pyjamas and fondled his penis, but it remained limp as a snail. His panic rose. This was a calamity he had not foreseen; the Kamasutra had said nothing about penises that failed to respond. What if Mohini found out? Uncouth woman that she was, she might shout this out to the whole world! He stiffened, afraid of making any movement that might wake her up, and prayed for sleep. An hour, the longest of his life, passed before his prayer was answered.
Madan Mohan did not know when Mohini got up in the morning. He did not hear her bathing. By the time he opened his eyes, she was quietly shutting the door behind her to join his parents. He went to the bathroom to take a shower. He noticed what looked like a blob of cotton wool soaked in blood floating in the toilet. Did Mohini suffer from piles at this young age? He was puzzled. He went downstairs. His mother was in the puja room, saying her morning prayers. His father was in his study, reading the morning papers. Mohini was sitting alone. Madan asked her, ‘Aren’t you doing puja this morning?’ She shook her head and replied, ‘I can’t go to the puja room for a few days.’ He could not see why, but did not ask her. When his mother came out and went to the kitchen to organize breakfast, Mohini did not join her as she did every morning. ‘Aren’t you going to help Ma with the breakfast?’ he asked. Mohini again shook her head and replied, ‘Not for four or five days.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m not clean,’ she replied with exasperation.
‘Not clean? But you’ve just had a bath.’
Mohini snarled, ‘Buddhoo!’
Madan Mohan was taken aback. Yet another snub, and first thing in the morning. It was after breakfast during which his mother did most of the talking that Madan Mohan had a few moments alone with her. ‘Ma, what is wrong with Mohini? I only asked her why she did not do her puja or help in the kitchen and she abused me. She called me a fool. Is this the sort of language a Hindu wife should use for her husband?’
His mother was overcome with emotion. She put her arm round her son’s shoulders. ‘How innocent you are, beta.’ Then she proceeded to quickly explain the workings of a woman’s body. How was it, wondered Madan Mohan, that the Hindu classics he had read had not informed him of these things?
Instead of being cheered by the contribution his mother had made to his knowledge of the world, Madan Mohan went into deep depression. Despite the academic distinctions he had amassed, his father did not have much of an opinion of him. He had failed as a teacher in college, and he knew what he said at the shakha meetings was beyond the comprehension of bania shopkeepers. And there was Mohini, from a lower middle-class family, half-baked product of a convent and a Christian college, who had the audacity to call him a donkey and a fool. She had no refinement; she would never make the ideal wife. He was fairly sure her unscrupulous parents had given him a false horoscope for her. He did not want to have anything more to do with her. If she wanted to live with him, he would let her do so but he would never again let her touch him.
Mohini’s thoughts were equally dark. She had looked forward to being married to the only son of a well-to-do family who was reputed to be a scholar. She also expected him to be an ardent lover. She had eagerly awaited the night when she would surprise him with her perfect body and rouse him to great passion. But this fellow had turned out to be a crackpot who did not know the first thing about making love. He assessed her as some zoologist did an animal—a deer, an elephant. Her beauty was wasted on the fool. A sixty-year old would be more youthful than him. She did not want to have anything more to do with him. Her only fear was her parents’ reaction. They believed that once a daughter was given away in marriage she only left her husband’s home on a bier, wrapped in a red shroud signifying death in matrimonial bliss. She resolved to confront them. And if she failed, she would look for a job as a teacher in some school or college. She had the requisite qualifications.
The atmosphere in the Pandey household was tense. The one voice heard when the family was together for meals was that of the mother. Others rarely answered her questions. Mohini was anyhow due to return to her parents’ for a few days, as was customary, and await her husband’s first visit to his in-laws’ home to fetch her.
A week later, Mohini’s brother came to Delhi to escort his sister to Mathura. Weeks passed, then months. Madan Mohan did not go to Mathura to bring her back. Gradually both the Pandeys and the Joshis resigned themselves to the fact that the marriage had ended without being consummated.
‘What wrong did we do to deserve this blot on our family’s reputation?’ Parvati asked her husband after he had lit his briar pipe one morning. He did not answer her question and continued to draw on his pipe and fill the air with fragrant smoke. She waved away the smoke with one hand and repeated her question. ‘Where did we go wrong, I ask you. We had their horoscopes matched, they assured us of a happy marriage with lots of grandchildren. Madan himself examined them and approved of the girl. Tell me, what do you think went wrong?’ she said demanding an answer.
Pandey Senior put down his pipe on the table and snapped, ‘That boy is a gadha. He is an impotent fool!’
Parvati Pandey sank back in her chair, covered her face with her hands and sobbed, ‘How can you be so coarse about your only child? Shame on you!’ Then she regained her composure, sat up and said defiantly, ‘You wait and watch. My son is a mahavidwan. With his wisdom and learning he will become a great leader of our country!’
‘God save our country,’ said Hari Mohan Pandey and returned to his pipe.