This was a very large-scale function because of official interest in it; the officials were interested because the chief man of the place, who was behind all the shows, was a minister of the state cabinet, and it had been his ambition in life to build a first-rate maternity center in this area. Knowing the circumstances, I had moderated my demand to a thousand rupees for expenses, which meant it was free of income tax. After all, I too liked to contribute to a social cause, and certainly we would not come out of it too badly anyway. But it was all the same for Nalini. Instead of traveling by train, we were going by car, that was all. She was pleased that we should be returning home the same night.
The show was held in an immense pavilion specially constructed with bamboos and coconut matting and decorated with brilliant tapestry, bunting, flowers, and colored lights. The stage itself was so beautifully designed that Nalini, who generally ignored everything except the flowers at the end, cried, “What a lovely place. I feel so happy to dance here.” Over a thousand people were seated in the auditorium.
She began her first movement, as usual, after a signal from me. She entered, carrying a brass lamp, with a song in praise of Ganesha, the elephant-faced god, the remover of impediments.
Two hours passed. She was doing her fifth item—a snake dance, unusually enough. I liked to watch it. This item always interested me. As the musicians tuned their instruments and played the famous snake song, Nalini came gliding onto the stage. She fanned out her fingers slowly, and the yellow spotlight, playing on her white upturned palms, gave them the appearance of a cobra hood; she wore a diadem for this act, and it sparkled. Lights changed, she gradually sank to the floor, the music became slower and slower, the refrain urged the snake to dance—the snake that resided on the locks of Shiva himself, on the wrist of his spouse, Parvathi, and in the ever-radiant home of the gods in Kailas. This was a song that elevated the serpent and brought out its mystic quality; the rhythm was hypnotic. It was her masterpiece. Every inch of her body from toe to head rippled and vibrated to the rhythm of this song which lifted the cobra out of its class of an underground reptile into a creature of grace and divinity and an ornament of the gods.
The dance took forty-five minutes in all; the audience watched in rapt silence. I was captivated by it. . . . She rarely chose to do it indeed. She always said that a special mood was needed, and always joked that so much wriggling twisted her up too much and she could not stand upright again for days. I sat gazing as if I were seeing it for the first time. There came to my mind my mother’s remark on the first day, “A serpent girl! Be careful.” I felt sad at the thought of my mother. How much she could have enjoyed watching this. What would she have said if she could have seen Rosie now, in her shining costume and diadem? I felt a regret at the rift that had developed between me and my mother. She occasionally wrote me a postcard, and I sent her small sums of money now and then, dashing off a few lines to say I was well. She often asked when I’d get back the house for her—well, that involved a big sum and I told myself I’d attend to it as soon as I had some time. Anyway, what was the hurry? She was quite happy in the village; that brother of hers looked after her very well. Somehow I could never fully forgive her for her treatment of Rosie on that fateful day. Well, we were now on cordial terms, but far away from each other, the best possible arrangement. I was watching Nalini and at the same time thinking of my mother. At this moment one of the men of the organization came up to me unobtrusively and said, “You are wanted, sir.”
“Who wants me?”
“The District Superintendent of Police.”
“Tell him I’ll be with him as soon as this act is over.”
He went away. The District Superintendent! He was one of my card-playing mates. What did he want to see me about now? Of course, the officials were all here, expecting the Minister (a sofa was kept vacant for him), and extra police were posted to control the crowd and the traffic. After this act, when the curtain came down, thunderous applause broke out, and I went out. Yes, the District Superintendent was there. He was in plain dress.
“Hello, Superintendent, I didn’t know you were coming; you could have come with us in the car,” I cried.
He plucked my sleeve and drew me aside because there were too many people watching us. We went to a lonely spot under a lamp outside, and he whispered, “I’m awfully sorry to say this, but I’ve a warrant for your arrest. It has come from headquarters.”
I smiled awkwardly, partly disbelieving him. I thought he was joking. He pulled out a paper. Yes, it was a true and good warrant for my arrest on a complaint from Marco, the charge being forgery. When I stood ruminating, the Inspector asked, “Did you sign any recent document for—for the lady?”
“Yes; she was busy. But how can you call that forgery?”
“Did you write ‘For’ or just write her name?” He plied me with questions. “It’s a serious charge,” he said. “I hope you will pull through, but for the moment I have to take you in custody.”
I realized the gravity of the situation. I whispered, “Please don’t create a scene now. Wait until the end of the show, and till we are back home.”
“I’ll have to be with you in the car, and after the warrant is served you can arrange for a surety bond till the case is taken up. That will leave you free, but first I’m afraid you will have to go with me to the magistrate. He has to sanction it. I have no powers.”
I went back to my sofa in the hall. They brought me my garland. Somebody got up and made a speech thanking the dancer and Mr. Raju for their help in getting the collection to over seventy thousand rupees. Incidentally he spun out a lot of verbiage around the theme of the dance in India, its status, philosophy, and purpose. He went on and on. He was a much-respected president of the local high school or some such thing. There was tremendous applause at the end of his speech. More speeches followed. I felt numb, hardly hearing anything. I didn’t care what they said. I didn’t care whether the speech was long or short. When it was over, I went to Nalini’s dressing-room. I found her changing. A number of girls were standing around her, some waiting for autographs, and some just looking on. I said to Nalini, “We will have to hurry.”
I went back to the Superintendent in the corridor, composing my looks, trying to look cheerful and unconcerned. A lot of the first-row men surrounded me to explain their appreciation in minute detail. “She just towers above all others,” someone said. “I have seen dancers for a half-century—I’m the sort of man who will forgo a meal and walk twenty miles to see a dance. But never have I seen,” etc., etc. “This maternity home, you know, will be the first of its kind. We must have a wing named after Miss Nalini. I hope you will be able to come again. We would like to have you both for the opening ceremony. Could you give us a photograph of her? . . . We’d like to enlarge it and hang it in the hall. . . . That’ll be a source of inspiration for many others, and, who knows, in this very building may be born a genius who may follow the footsteps of your distinguished wife.”
I didn’t care what they said. I simply nodded and grunted till Nalini came out. I knew that the men surrounded and talked to me only in the hope of getting a close view of Nalini. As usual, she had her garland; I gave her mine. The Superintendent led the way unobtrusively to our Plymouth waiting outside. We had to walk through a crowd buzzing around us like flies. The driver held the door open.
“Get in. Get in,” I said impatiently to Nalini. I sat beside her. Her face was partially illuminated by a shaft of gaslight from a lamp hanging on a tree. Thick dust hung in the air, churned up by the traffic; all the vehicles, cars, bullock carts, and jutkas were leaving in a mass, with a deafening honking of horns and rattle of wheels. A few policemen stood at a discreet distance and saluted the Superintendent as our car moved away. He occupied the front seat next to the driver. I told her, “Our friend, the District Superintendent, is coming back with us to the city.”
It was about two hours’ journey. She talked for a while about the evening. I gave her some comments o
n her performance. I told her something of what I had heard people say about her snake dance. She said, “You are never tired of it,” and then lapsed into silence and drowsiness, only waiting for our destination, as our car whizzed along the country highway, past long rows of bullock carts with their jingling bells. “They sound like your anklets,” I whispered to her clumsily.
The moment we reached our home, she threw a smile at the Superintendent, murmured, “Good night,” and vanished into the house. The Superintendent said to me, “Let us go now in my jeep.” It was waiting at the gate.
I sent away the Plymouth. I said, “I say, Superintendent, give me a little time, please. I want to tell her about it.”
“All right. Don’t delay. We must not get into trouble.”
I went up the staircase. He followed. He stood on the landing while I went into her room. She listened to me as if I were addressing a stone pillar. Even now I can recollect her bewildered, stunned expression as she tried to comprehend the situation. I thought she would break down. She often broke down on small issues, but this seemed to leave her unperturbed. She merely said, “I felt all along you were not doing right things. This is karma. What can we do?” She came out to the landing and asked the officer, “What shall we do about it, sir? Is there no way out?”
“At the moment I have no discretion, madam. It’s a non-bailable warrant. But perhaps tomorrow you may apply for reconsideration of bond. But we can do nothing till tomorrow, till it’s moved before the magistrate.” He was no longer my friend, but a frightful technician.
CHAPTER TEN
I had to spend a couple of days in the lock-up, among low criminals. The District Superintendent ceased to be friendly the moment we were in the Central Police Station. He just abandoned me to the routine care of the station officer.
Rosie came to see me in the police lock-up and wept. I sat for the first time with my eyes averted, in the farthest corner of the cell. After a while I recovered my composure and told her to go and see our banker. All that she asked was, “Oh, we had so much money! Where is it all gone?”
I went back home three days later, but the old, normal life was gone. Mani worked in a mechanical manner, with bowed head, in his own room. There was no work for him to do. Fewer letters arrived for me. There was a sepulchral quietness about the house. Nalini’s feet were silent upstairs. No visitors came. She had had to scrape up a bail bond for ten thousand rupees. If I had lived as a normal man of common sense, it would not have been difficult to find the amount. As it was, I had tied up whatever was left over in several foolish share certificates, on which the banks would not advance any money, and the rest I had spent in showy living, including the advances taken for future engagements.
I suggested to Rosie, “Why don’t you go through with your engagements for the next quarter? We should receive the balance of the fees.” I caught her at dinner, because nowadays I spent all my time downstairs and left her alone. I lacked the confidence to face her alone in her room. I even spent my sleeping hours on the hall sofa.
She did not answer. I repeated my question, at which she muttered, when the cook went in to fetch something, “Must we discuss it before the cook?” I accepted the snub meekly.
I was now a sort of hanger-on in the house; ever since she had released me from police custody, the mastery had passed to her. I fretted inwardly at the thought of it. When the first shock of the affair had subsided, she became hardened. She never spoke to me except as to a tramp she had salvaged. It could not be helped. She had had to scrape together all her resources to help me. She went through her act of help in a sort of cold, businesslike manner. I ate my food in silence. She deigned to spend some time in the hall after food. She came and sat down there. She had a tray of betel leaves by her side on the sofa. I pushed it off and dared to seat myself by her side. Her lips were reddened with betel juice. Her face was flushed with the tingling effect of betel leaves. She looked at me imperiously and asked, “Now, what is it?” Before I opened my mouth, she added, “Remember, you should speak nothing before the cook. The servants are gossiping too much. On the first of the month I’m going to send one of them away.”
“Wait, wait. Don’t rush,” I began.
“What should I wait for?” Her eyes glistened with tears; she blew her nose. I could do nothing about it but just watch. After all, the mastery had passed to her and if she thought fit to cry, it was her business. She had enough strength in her to overcome it if she thought it necessary. It was I who needed comforting. I was overwhelmed with a sudden self-pity. Why should she cry? She was not on the threshold of a prison. She had not been the one who had run hither and thither creating glamour and a public for a dancer; it was not she who had been fiendishly trapped by a half-forgotten man like Marco—an apparent gazer at cave-paintings, but actually venomous and vindictive, like the cobra lying in wait for its victim. I can now see that it was a very wrong line of thought to adopt. But how could I help it? It was only such perverse lines of thought and my excessive self-pity that enabled me to survive those moments; one needed all that amount of devilry to keep oneself afloat. I could give no time for others. I could not bother to think of her own troubles, of the mess she had been led into, of the financial emptiness after all those months of dancing and working, of the surprise sprung upon her by my lack of—what should we call it, judgment? No, it was something much lower than that. Lack of ordinary character! I see it all now clearly, but at that time I still clung to my own grievances, and could watch without much perturbation her emotional tantrums. I allowed her to have her cry as usual. She wiped her eyes and asked, “You said something when we were eating?”
“Yes; but you wouldn’t let me proceed,” I said petulantly. “I was asking why you should not go through with the programs, at least those for which we have received an advance.”
She remained in thought for a while and said, “Why should I?”
“Because we received only an advance, while what we desperately need is the full fee in every case.”
“Where is all the money?”
“You should know. The account is all in your name, and you may see the bankbook if you like.” It was a cruel thing to say. Some devil was wagging his tongue within my skull. I was suddenly racked with the feeling that after all I had done for her she was not sufficiently sympathetic to my cause.
She spurned continuing this perverse discussion. She merely said, “Please tell me what those engagements are and I’ll return them all their money.”
I knew that this was just a brave statement. Where would she find the amount to refund? “Why should you? Why should you not go through with them?”
“Is money your only consideration? Don’t you see how I can’t face the public again?”
“Why not? If I’m under arrest, I’m under arrest; that is all. Not you. Why should you not go about your business normally?”
“I can’t; that is all. I can say nothing more.”
I asked coldly, “What do you propose to do in future?”
“Perhaps I’ll go back to him.”
“Do you think he will take you back?”
“Yes; if I stop dancing.”
I laughed in a sinister manner. “Why do you laugh?” she asked.
“If it were only the question of dancing, he might.”
Why did I talk like this? It hurt her very much. “Yes; you are in a position to say such a thing now. He may not admit me over the threshold, in which event it is far better to end one’s life on his doorstep.” She remained moody for a while. It gave me a profound satisfaction to see her imperiousness shattered after all. She added, “I think the best solution for all concerned would be to be done with this business of living. I mean both of us. A dozen sleeping pills in a glass of milk, or two glasses of milk. One often hears of suicide pacts. It seems to me a wonderful solution, like going on a long holiday. We could sit and talk one night perhaps, and sip our glasses of milk, and maybe we should wake up in a trouble-free world. I’d propos
e it this very minute if I were sure you would keep the pact, but I fear that I may go ahead and you may change your mind at the last second.”
“And have the responsibility of disposing of your body?” I said, which was the worst thing I could have said. Why was I speaking like this again and again? I think I was piqued that she would not continue her dancing, was a free creature, while I was a jailbird.
I said, “Is it not better to keep dancing than think these morbid thoughts?” I felt I must take charge of her again. “Why won’t you dance? Is it because you think I won’t be there to look after you? I’m sure you can manage. And it may after all be only for a short time. Oh, there is nothing in this case of ours. It’ll just break down at the first hearing. You take my word for it. It’s a false charge.”
“Is it?” she asked.
“How can they prove anything against me?”
She merely ignored this legal rambling and said, “Even if you are free, I’ll not dance in public any more. I am tired of all this circus existence.”