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when he returned he was more taciturn than ever and none dared ask.

     

    CHAPTER VI

    I KEPT Ira as long as I could but when she was past fourteen her marriage could be delayed no longer, for it is well known with what speed eligible young men are snapped up; at it was, most girls of her age were already married or at least betrothed. The choice of go-between was not easy to make: Kali was the nearest to hand and the obvious one, but she was garrulous and self-opinionated: rejection of the young man she selected would involve a tedious squabble. Besides, she had sons of her own and might well consider them suitable husbands, which I certainly could not, for they owned no land. Old Granny, on the other hand, would be the ideal go-between: she was old and experienced, knew very well what to look for and never lacked patience; but for some years now I had not traded with her and she might with every justification refuse to act for me. But in the end it was to her I went.
    "A dowry of one hundred rupees," I said. "A maiden like a flower. Do your best for me and I shall be ever in your debt. This I ask you," I said, looking straight at her, "although Biswas takes my produce and for you there has been nothing."
    "I bear you no grudge, Rukmani," she replied. "Times are hard and we must do what we can for ourselves and our children. I will do my best."
    Thereafter never a week went by but she brought news of this boy or that, and she and I and Nathan spent long hours trying to assess their relative merits. At last we found one who seemed to fulfill our requirements: he was young and well favoured, the only son of his father from whom he would one day inherit a good portion of land.
    "They will expect a large dowry," I said regretfully. "One hundred rupees will not win such a husband, we have no more."
    "She is endowed with beauty," Old Granny said. "It will make up for a small dowry -- in this case."
    She was right. Within a month the preliminaries were completed, the day was fixed. Ira accepted our choice with her usual docility; if she fretted at the thought of leaving us and her brothers she showed no sign. Only once she asked a little wistfully how frequently I would be able to visit her, and, although I knew such trips would have to be very rare since her future home lay some ten villages away, I assured her not a year would pass without my going to see her two or three times.
    "Besides, you will not want me so often," I said. "This home, your brothers, are all you have known so far, but when you have your own home and your own children you will not miss these. . . ."
    She nodded slightly, making no comment, yet I knew how bruised she must be by the imminent parting. My spirit ached with pity for her, I longed to be able to comfort her, to convince her that in a few months' time her new home would be the most significant part of her life, the rest only a preparation . . . but before this joy must come the stress of parting, the loneliness of beginning a new life among strangers, the strain of the early days of marriage; and because I knew this the words would not come. . . .
    Wedding day. Women from the village came to assist. Janaki, Kali, many I hardly knew. We went with Ira to the river and, when she was freshly bathed, put on her the red sari I had worn at my own wedding. Its rich heavy folds made her look more slender than she was, made her look a child. . . . I darkened her eyes with kohl and the years fell away more; she was so pitifully young I could hardly believe she was to be married, today.
    The bridegroom arrived; his parents, his relatives, our friends, the priests. The drummer arrived and squatted outside awaiting permission to begin; the fiddler joined him. There should have been other musicians -- a flautist, a harmonium player, but we could not afford these. Nathan would have nothing we could not pay for. No debts, he insisted, no debts. But I grudged Ira nothing: had I not saved from the day of her birth so