It was Rayaru who once related this episode to me.
During my morning walk, I would often see a woman with a bag in her hand hurrying past on some errand. She was of advancing years, yet her face did not show her age. She was charming to look at. There was no kumkum, on her forehead; poor thing she must have lost her husband and probably has to work somewhere, I surmised.
One day when I and my wife were on our way to a friend’s house, the lady went by, and as she passed she greeted my wife with folded hands, and as I was with her, greeted me too. We returned the greetings. She did not speak, just walked past.
Having continued for some distance, I commented, ‘I see this lady going this way once or twice a week. It appears you know her. There is no kumkum on her forehead. Perhaps she has lost her husband.’
‘She is a Christian girl,’ my wife replied. ‘It appears she is not married. She stays in the lane behind ours and works as a nurse in a clinic in Basavanagudi.
‘Where did you meet her?’ I asked.
‘Some time ago, when Lakshamma’s son was ill, the doctor had advised getting a nurse to look after him. He sent this lady to her. I met her at Lakshamma’s place.
‘Oh, I see. Her people generally work with great devotion.’
‘I believe so. Lakshamma praised her greatly. She mentioned that the lady stayed awake all night to attend to the child.’
‘She must be quite well paid too.’
‘Possibly. The doctor pays her a good salary. When such work comes her way, people pay her anywhere from ten to fifteen rupees extra.’
I came to know more about the woman some time later. A gentleman from the Iyengar community resided in the house in the lane behind ours where my wife had mentioned the lady stayed. There was no one else in the house, and it appeared that he did all the cooking and household work in the place. People who had seen the man thought he had been engaged by the lady as a cook and household help. A Christian woman! Why would she employ a Srivaishnavite Brahmin, an Iyengar, for such work, I wondered. Was the lady an Iyengar who had become a Christian? People do find it difficult to give up their old customs and ways of life even after getting converted. May be that was the case with her, I concluded.
I learnt that she had mentioned to someone that the Iyengar was her husband. My wife told me this later. Maybe they are living as husband and wife we conjectured.
Some days later, on a morning walk, I happened to take the lane behind ours. The Iyengar was standing at the door and I guessed he was the husband of the nurse. I had not seen him before but, nonetheless he greeted me, and I returned the greeting and went by. The Iyengar greeted me not as a person known to him, but more to acknowledge the presence of a respectable gentleman of the locality. It could even be that the nurse had told him about us.
In this way we acknowledged that we lived in the same neighbourhood. It was a nodding acquaintanceship, nothing else.
One morning, I saw the lady approaching our place. I was at the entrance, and as I looked up, she greeted me with folded hands and said, ‘I have come to see you, Sir, may I come in please?’
‘Oh, by all means! Please do come in, amma. You need not ask. Do come,’ I said.
She pushed open the gate and entered. When she came closer, I asked her what the matter was, ‘What brings you here, amma?’
There were tears in her eyes, and sadness written over her face. Yet, clearly, she was a woman with great self-control. She spoke softly. ‘My husband passed away this morning, after ten days of fever. He was an Iyengar. A very tradition-bound person. Till the end he followed his customs and traditions. He had instructed me to see that when he passed away, the last rites would be performed by a Srivaishnavite Brahmin. I agreed. Now, to do all that I will have to go and call such a person – which would be improper. They may not agree to come. You will have to help me Sir, to fulfil my husband’s wishes.’
I replied, ‘Amma, shouldn’t you have given us some idea of this earlier? You have waited until he expired?’
‘I had thought of coming and asking for your help earlier. But he had said that I should not trouble you unnecessarily. Go when it is unavoidable. They are good people, they will certainly help,’ he had said. I have never gone against his wishes ever. He looked after me very well. We were not married, yet we were more attached to one another than a husband and wife. My good fortune was fated to last till now. Today, it has ended. All that is left now is to get these last rites done.’
She was not able to control her grief. At that moment my wife who had come and stood by my side asked her what had been the matter with her husband.
‘Ten days ago, he said he had fever. Yet, he cooked as usual, served me the food and also had his own. I told him not to cook as the fever would increase. I said I would order food from the hotel. ‘You lie down and rest, stay in bed,’ I had insisted, but he would not listen. ‘Should one be so frightened of fever? It comes and goes,’ he said.
‘It goes, yes, I will consult the doctor and bring some medicines. You take them,’ I told him. ‘We are not a people blessed with so much comfort as to make much of a simple illness. Doctors and medicines cannot be got for nothing in Bangalore,’ he replied.
‘How much will it cost? It could be ten or twenty, or thirty. It doesn’t matter, I have the money, you need not worry,’ I told him. ‘You are ready to spend. I am not ready to have you spend,’ he said. An obstinate person. If something was seen to be right by him, it had to be done, come what may. If it was considered wrong, it would not be done, come what may! I don’t even know how high the fever was when it went up. Even last night he prepared and served me dinner. He must have had his dinner too. He slept the night. In the morning when it was time to wake up, he had expired. I found out when I went upstairs to him to find out why he had not got up. Some time ago, when he had fallen ill, he had said, ‘If anything should happen to me, please see that you get my last rites done by people of my own faith.’ I had said I would do so. ‘Just saying I will do so won’t do. Give me your word. Put your hand in mine,’ he had said, and had extended his hand. I put my hand in his. That was a joke. He laughed, I did not laugh. Men seem to find such inauspicious talk funny. Women do not. I was not his wife, married to him. Yet, I was praying to God that I should die before his eyes. God has said it cannot be. I have to get this work done. The gentleman will have to kindly help me get this work done.’
Listening to her, I thought, what kind of loving pride is this that the woman feels for her mate? I have lost two wives and this is my third marriage. My first two wives were just like her. The third too is like them. This woman, who herself admits she was not married to him is no less like a wife. She has a desire that her man should be happy, and that her man’s wishes should be fulfilled.
My wife looked at me, ‘We will have to find a Srivaishnavite. Where will you go?’
‘Oddly enough,’ I said, ‘as though in anticipation of just such an occasion, a couple of months ago, I was talking in the club to Garudachar, the merchant. He mentioned that he had arranged a fund to help out people at times of loss. He said that if the person in charge of the Tulasi Thota Temple were to be informed, he could arrange to get work such as this done. I will go there and seek out somebody.’
‘That seems best. I remember you had mentioned this before.’
I decided that I would myself go to the Krishnaswami Temple instead of sending someone and waiting impatiently for him to return, which could conceivably cause a delay. By God’s grace, as soon as I reached the Temple, I came across Garudachar himself. So, everything was made easy. Within fifteen minutes, four pall bearers from the Srivaishnavite houses around Tulasi Thota, and a priest were arranged. I paid the priest to get the required material for the rites and bring the pall bearers home. The priest was back soon and rites were performed with a faithfulness that would have satisfied the dead man, if he had been alive. I was not obliged to go to the funeral, but the lady wanted to go herself and my wife decided to accompany her. So, three of us went to the cremation, ensured that it was carried out befittingly, took a bath in the temple pond and returned.
The 13th day ceremonies were also completed leaving out no ritual. An additional homa was performed to avoid the need for any other ritual later.
‘By getting all the rites performed, you have indeed been most helpful, Sir. I find no words to express my feelings for the services you have rendered to me,’ the lady said.
I replied, ‘Your desire that your husband’s soul should be in peace is a noble one. For doing all that was required according to his wishes, you needed someone’s help. The blessed opportunity to help came my way. Please do not at all think of what I have been able to do as a great service. Just think that an opportunity to carry out the last rites of a noble person was given to me.’
A few days later, when this lady came to our house, she spoke in a matter-of-fact way to my wife about how the close relationship between her and the Iyengar had developed.
In our district town there is a big hospital. The Iyengar had worked there as an accountant. She was a nurse in the hospital. The man had a wife but no children. He was middle-aged. Before long, his wife passed away. The nurse used to drop by in the course of her work to get medicines, bed linen and other things, and stay on to chat with the Iyengar. He knew she was a Christian, and unmarried. One day, a year after his wife’s demise, meeting him in the course of work, she remarked, ‘It’s a year since your wife died. Will you remain alone forever? Shouldn’t you marry again? You cook and do everything yourself. It is sad.’
He replied, ‘Who will give me a girl to marry?’
‘Do you think you are too old to marry?’ she asked.
‘I am old,’ he said and changed the subject.
Some more days passed. Without any other thought than to express sympathy, she told him, ‘I feel sorry to see you living all alone.’
‘If I don’t wish to stay alone, will you live with me?’ he asked.
She had not expected such a question. But it appeared to have followed logically from her talk.
‘You are a Brahmin, I am a Christian. Can there be marriage for us?’
‘Not marriage. Just living together. What is so special about marriage? If marriage has not taken place, so what?’
After a pause, she replied, ‘so be it.’
‘I was getting old, amma. Over thirty. I had lived a chaste life. None of my people had come forward to marry me. The elders who would have got me married were no more. What was wrong if I lived with him. After living together, any time, any day, if necessity arose, there could be a registered marriage. Thinking thus, I agreed to his offer. It appears he had never thought I would agree. When I said ‘Yes’ his happiness was unbounded. He told me later, ‘You are a nurse working in the hospital. There should not be any talk that I have exploited you. Today, after work, on your way back home, you come with me. We will go to the senior doctor and tell him that we have decided to live together. We will tell him, ‘We wish to inform you of this so that you know we have not done anything wrong, should anyone complain to you about us. Nobody can say anything,’’ he said, and I agreed.’
‘In the evening we went to the senior doctor and told him. He not only agreed that there was nothing wrong, but even went on to say it was a very good decision, and blessed us and wished us happiness. The senior doctor is a very good man, just like your husband – the same dignity, the same nobility.’
I smiled sheepishly.
*
This story, titled ‘Acharvanta Iyengaru’ in the original Kannada, first appeared in the collection Sanna Kathegalu, Masti Venkatesh Iyengar Jeevana Trust.
The translators are grateful to Masti Venkatesh Iyengar Jeevana Karyalaya Trust, Bangalore for their help in making this translation faithful to the spirit of the original, and for giving them permission to publish it.
*
Jnanpith Award Winner 1983, for his novel Chikaveera Rajendra, this doyen of Kannada literature, Masti Venkatesh lyengar (June 6, 1891 to June 6, 1986), expressed himself prolifically through some 80 short stories, 18 plays, 3 novels, 17 collections of poems, besides a biography and several critical works.
*
Speaking both Telugu and Kannada, the late Shashikala and Jagannath Sharma were Bangaloreans. Shashikala Sharma was well-read in Kannada literature and had a superb command over the language. Jagannath Sharma was an editor of technical, management and trade journals in New Delhi and Mumbai. They have also translated a story by Purnachandra Tejaswi.
‘Translating from Kannada,’ says Jagannath Sharma, ‘was a happy hobby for us.’ He lives in the US with his daughter.
Translators' Note
We homed in on this story out of the large collection of Masti’s works because the theme of a ‘live-in’ relationship, that too of a middle-class man and woman belonging to distinctly disparate communities, struck us as very bold in the times that Masti lived and wrote in. Masti has narrated the story of this loving couple in such a disarmingly casual way that it comes across as just another simple, affectionate relationship of two souls who so matter-of-factly transcended the severely inhibiting religious, social and cultural mores of the time