Sita

Sita

My father sat down in an imposing chair. The room had begun to assume the atmosphere of an operating theatre. I felt that gleaming steel things were being set up and sterilized while the anaesthetist was at work on the patient next door.

And suddenly out of the hush my mother appeared and beaming happily came towards me very solicitously. 'Here she is,' she said, sitting next to me on the divan. 'I'm sure you'll like her.'

I saw a small girl, heavily draped in a sari, emerge from the far end of the room, supported by three women including the mother. She was put down at the focal point of that dark corner. Her face was covered, or very nearly so, by the sweep of her sari. As her head was bowed, I could see very little of her except her forehead, her eyebrows and a tuft of black shiny hair. Perhaps it was all deliberately designed this way. Perhaps the whole atmosphere was meant to hold the tension as does a thriller.

'Sit down, my girl,' her mother said to her, and the figure in the sari obeyed with the slow-motion-picture speed which seemed almost remotely controlled.

I realized that it would be thought indecorous if I stared too hard and too long in a vain attempt to catch a glimpse of her face or even her eyes. I knew that I would never find out what soft, silky thoughts were plying through the mind of that thoroughly encased figure. Again and again, in brief instant seconds, I glanced at that figure in the corner, utterly mute and self-contained, powered with the innate sensibilities of those who are able to wait.

'What is your name?' my mother asked.

'Sita Bandopadhyay,' came the reply, in a soft, frightened voice.

'What are you studying?'

'MSc in botany, this is my fifth year.'

'How did you do in your BSc?'

'I got a high second class.'

Perhaps the girl had answered these questions a hundred times before, perhaps my mother had asked them of her half a dozen times already, but if she wished to have a 'happy life', she would have to indulge in the ritual a good many times yet to achieve her goal.

The purpose of this ritual, as it was explained to me later, was to test the girl's nature. How malleable she was, whether she was aggressive and arrogant or 'sweet, docile and acquiescing'. By the way these qualities were listed I was left in little doubt as to which fell into the 'vice' column [aggressive and arrogant] and which into the 'virtuous' [malleable, sweet, docile and acquiescing].

The father of the girl took up at this point.

'My girl is always studying. She is very conscientious about her studies.' (I had said I wanted a 'literate' girl.) 'I mean, it isn't up to a father to say this of his own daughter, but a more sweet-natured, helpful, self-sacrificing girl would be hard to find. During her exams, when the missus was ill, I wanted to take on an extra servant, but Sita would not hear of it. She did a good deal of the housework and then she would study late into the night. I mean, her teachers at college expected a first from her, you know, and I don't want to boast, but I am sure she would have secured it but for her mother's illness.'

Not a word escaped the lips of the 'self-sacrificing' girl.

'Sing us a song, my dear,' my mother said, hoping to provide some relief.

The harmonium was brought in and the girl settled herself into a suitable position to play the instrument. As she was doing so, she raised the sari slightly above her head; our eyes caught each other for a flashing instant. And I saw she was beautiful. By the way her father was whining on, I had expected a Caliban in disguise. I later discovered that his high-pressure sales effort was not prompted by a deficiency in her looks but by his inability to provide an adequate dowry for what he considered a 'highly prized party'.

I liked her voice and the song she sang.

'Do you want to hear another song?' her mother asked me.

I found myself frozen and could barely shake my head to signify the negative. A roomful of eyes bored into me. The silence was broken when the servant brought in a large tray of sweetmeats.

One of the small girls came and held a small plate in front of me. I took it and smiled.

'Sita made those herself,' the father continued, 'she's an excellent cook. I like her cooking even better than the missus's.'

'They're very nice,' I said, setting my teeth into the second piece. 'I like sweetmeats. They're one of the things I miss in England.'

'Ah, never worry about that. Sita will make you some wonderful sweetmeats.'

Again I felt embarrassed, this time more for the girl than for myself. I wondered if anyone ever paused to consider her feelings, how she might want to react to this circus where human life was being bartered. What was life for if there was no choice? How did Man achieve dignity other than by asserting the freedom of his will? What was the impulse that made us cling to a pattern always and irresistibly out of our control?

The girl sat there like a Goddess. And for a moment I felt that no one but a Goddess could have her forbearance, her beauty, the sweet maddening melody of her voice. Restively, my eyes swung round to her, so calm, so removed, so enchantingly graceful.

'Do you speak English?' my mother asked her.

The girl nodded her head.

'Well,' she said, turning to me, 'you said you wanted to get to know the girl. Come on, then, ask her some questions in English. Ask her anything you'd like to know.'

I kept silent. Movement and thought were difficult. I tried to catch her eyes again and failed.

'Would you like to live in England?' I asked finally in Bengali (in a middle-class home to speak in English is a sign of arrogance, disrespect to elders).

She nodded her head again.

'How do you know you'd like to spend your life with me?'

The girl kept silent.

'Of course she would like to,' the father interjected. 'Why wouldn't she, with a good-looking boy like you? I mean, how many boys are there flying around today who can claim such revered and wonderful parents?'

I felt my question had been as adequately answered as I could hope and noticed my father's impatient fingers rapping the table. He had kept silent all through and now it was his turn to wind up the session with all the polite elegance of a Chakravarti.

'Well, Mr Bandopadhyay,' he said, rising, 'we must be on our way.'

'Can't you spare another minute of your valuable time,' the man asked, dripping. 'I was hoping to show some of Sita's embroidery to our young friend.'

'That'll be all right,' my father replied. 'She's very good at that sort of thing. We've seen that. It's mainly to have the two young people look at each other that we came.'

The man nodded, while I followed my father out of the house. Mother came away shortly after.

The man was throttling up for his final speech. I knew at this point it would be most pointedly directed at me, as my father had deftly shifted the onus of decision.

'Well, my young friend,' he started again, with his heavy hand on my shoulder, 'how did you find her?' He paused for a while. 'Well ... I might not be the richest man in the realm but I have a beautiful daughter. And you know how it is in these things, all a matter of His wishes.' At this point he touched his forehead, signifying the official residence of Fate, I supposed. 'Sita is twenty-one and for a Bengali girl this is getting on a bit. There have been tentative talks with other parties, but of course none so glorious as your parents. What I say is, the sooner these things are finalized, the better. After all, your leave is only for three weeks and there are a lot of things to think about in marriage.'

'I quite understand,' I said, and again paid my respects by touching his feet. He did the same to my parents.

'I'll let you know, Bandopadhyay,' my father said to him, a trifle regally, I thought, and got into the car, with me following. My mother got in after me. The car zoomed into the night.

A good ten minutes elapsed before my mother asked, 'Do you want to marry that girl?'

I kept silent.

Later that evening, I reflected that I could have said yes, could have found myself in a room alone with a beautiful, twenty-one-year-old Bengali girl who would be 'sweet, docile and acquiescing', without ever having spoken to me in her life. She would be mine, the whole of her, all the sweetmeats, embroidery, perhaps even her master's degree in botany, all for the price of a single yes. ...

I search the sky for shooting stars to bring me word from the Lord. And yes, the signs are all there...

(From Sasthi Brata, "MY GOD DIED YOUNG", Penguin Books, Rs. 250.)

The above passages from the highly entertaining novel "MY GOD DIED YOUNG" sound to Me as if (Cf. Chap. FIVE: "CRIES OF A TRAPPED ANIMAL") Adam is advertising the charming and sexy Eve/Margaret/Mary/Sita for Almighty God's kind consideration and necessary action in the firm conviction that God would soon rescue trapped angels Adam and Eve from the clutches of evil rapist Satan whose insane hobby for billions of years has been to trap and torture and then release and again hunt down and torture Adam and Eve and then release them again for future torture on and on ad infinitum. (God eliminated Satan a few years ago when the virtuous-looking arrogant rapist Satan, leader of the gang of aliens for billions of years, committed suicide in panic a few years ago by deliberate prolonged starvation because he felt very scared of God Who had arrived on Earth to destroy evil rapist Satan and his evil gang of male and female human-looking ALIENS on and inside Earth.)

Kishalay Sinha [G]