Indira and Other Stories/The Two Rings/Chapter 1
THE TWO RINGS
I
A youthful pair were standing in a leafy arbour in a garden. At that distant period the blue waters of the Bay of Bengal washed the feet of the ancient city of Tamluk, and the roar of its breakers could be heard in its streets. There stood a noble mansion in a suburb of Tamluk, and hard by on the seashore was a beautiful garden-house. These pleasant possessions belonged to a merchant of the name of Dhana Das. It was the merchant's lovely daughter Hiranmayi who was now conversing with a handsome youth in the arbour.
It must be admitted that Hiranmayi had passed the age at which Hindu girls are usually given in marriage. Not, be it observed, because of any reluctance on her part. Ever since her eleventh birthday, for five long years the girl had addressed her prayers to Sagareswari, the sea-goddess, to grant her the husband of her choice, but so far her heart's desire had not been fulfilled. Lest, however, my reader should be scandalised, let me explain that everyone knew why this marriageable maiden had, contrary to Hindu rules of propriety, granted one private interview to her young companion. When Hiranmayi was about four, the youth now by her side was eight years old. His father, Suchisuta Chetty, was a near neighbour of Dhana Das, and so the two children used to play together. They were always in one another's company in the house of one or other of their parents. Though the maiden was now sixteen years old and the boy had become a fine stripling of twenty, the old childish familiarity and friendship endured. There had been only one impediment to the continuance of these affectionate relations. At the proper season, their parents had agreed that the young people should be joined in marriage. Even the wedding day had been fixed. But, to the surprise of all, Hiranmayi's father had suddenly announced that he would not give his daughter to his old friend's son. After this decision it was of course unfitting that the girl should be on intimate terms with the friend of her childhood. It was only to-day that, by dint of repeated entreaties, and on the pretext of having a very particular communication to make her, Purandar had persuaded Hiranmayi to grant him an interview. As she entered the arbour where the youth was awaiting her, Hiranmayi hastened to say, "Why have you sent for me? You know quite well that I am no longer a little girl, and that it is improper for us to meet alone. If you send for me again, I shall not come."
It was pretty to see the grave matronly air with which this sweet sixteen year girl said, "You know I am no longer a little girl". But, alas, there was no one there to enjoy the humour of the situation. Purandar's age and mood alike prevented him from feeling the quaintness of the girl's protest.
He plucked a flower from the creeper that climbed the arbour, and began distractedly pulling it to pieces.
"I shall never ask you to come again," he said, sadly. "I am going to a far country. I wanted to tell you before I depart."
"To a far country!" She exclaimed. "Where are you going?"
"To Ceylon,[1]" he replied.
"To Ceylon!" she said. "Why is that? Why to Ceylon?"
"Why am I going?" he answered. "Because we are merchant folk, and travel by sea is our business."
As he spoke, in spite of his efforts, the lad's eyes filled with tears. Hiranmayi seemed as though she had not heard. She said not a word. Her looks wandered to the fair scene about her. Her wide-open girlish eyes seemed to be gazing at the play of the sun's rays on the twinkling waves of the sea. It was early morning. A gentle breeze was blowing. The sun shone gaily on the wavelets that ran before the breeze; the long line of breakers stretched endlessly along the shore; the foam showed on the blue water like jewels on a blue dress; the white seabirds were playing on the beach in companies. Hiranmayi seemed to be watching all these lovely things: the blue sea; the white foam on the crest of the breakers; the play of the glancing sunshine on the waves. She vaguely looked at a distant ship under sail. Her eye caught a bird far away, a dot against the pure blue of the sky. Finally her glance rested on a withered flower lying on the path. With an effort she said: "Why should you go? On other occasions it was your father who went on these trading expeditions."
Purandar answered: "My father is an old man now, and it is time that I should earn my living. I asked leave of my father to take his place." Hiranmayi leaned her head against one of the wooden supports of the arbour. Purandar saw that her forehead was wofully puckered, that her pretty lips were trembling, that her nostrils were quivering. Presently he saw that the girl was crying.
Purandar hastily turned aside. He too looked vaguely at the surrounding objects, at sky and shore, at the city and the sea. But it was all no use. The tears would come. They were trickling down his cheek. He angrily wiped them away, and said, "That was what I came to tell you. From the very day that your father announced that he would not consent to our marriage, I made up my mind to go to Ceylon. I hope . . . I hope I may never come back! If ever I can manage to forget you, I will return, but not otherwise. I cannot say any more. You would not understand me if I did. But this you must hear. If all the world and all its wealth were weighed in the balance against you, my darling, I would choose you."
Having said this, the lad stepped aside, and began pacing up and down, tearing another flower to pieces. When the hateful desire to cry was a little abated, he came back, and said: "I know quite well that you love me. But sooner or later you will be someone else's bride. So you must dismiss me from your heart. Pray that you and I may never meet again."
With these words, poor Purandar hurried away. Hiranmayi sat down and wept. Restraining her grief she said to herself: "If I were to die to-day, would Purandar need to go to Ceylon? Why should I not hang myself with one of these creepers, or fling myself into yonder sea?" And then the sensible reflection came, "If I die, what will it matter to me whether Purandar goes to Ceylon or not?"
So thinking, Hiranmayi sat and wept silently.
- ↑ Of course Ceylon in the old days of sailing ships was as the Antipodes in our own time.