The clinking of the rupees is written on the first page of my memory. The sound and sight of them gave me a thrill of pleasure, but a moment after came the fright at the sight of the strange being. Scared as I was, I saw everything, heard all that was said and felt a thousand times more than I now can find words to describe. All was so sudden, strange and incomprehensible, that I was dumb with fear at the great thing standing so high up in the room, and when my mother began her piteous wailings, I was hushed to silence with my intense feelings of sorrow for her.
As the sahib rushed from the place, my mama threw herself upon the bare earthen floor with a shriek, and there lay moaning and crying out in heart-piercing tones, “My Sahib! my Sahib!” I sprang from my corner, and sat down by her, and placing her head upon my lap stroked her hair back from her face and begged of her “mama, pyari mama! why do you cry so?” There was no answer, but “my Sahib! my Sahib!” O! the agony of that hour! It has never left me, it became a part of my life and is with me now, for I feel it. What could I do, a little tot that had never been out of the court? I do not know how long I sat there; I must have become exhausted and gone to sleep, for in the morning I found myself lying on the charpoy where I suppose my mama placed me.
As I awoke, my first thought was of her. I glanced around the room and saw her sitting on a low stool facing the court. Her eyes were turned towards the western sky, but evidently she was not looking at anything. I awakened as from a horrible dream and could not at once realize what had happened, but when I saw that haggard, pallid face, those wide open eyes, that looked and saw nothing, all the night scene flashed upon me and I cried out, “Mama, mama!” She turned her head, without a word, toward me and began again to look far away as if for something beyond mortal ken. I was told years after, that before that night she was the most happy woman of all in the court, always so pleasant to her neighbors, always smiling, laughing and romping with her children; but after that awful night, the light of her life had gone out into utter darkness, for she never smiled again.
The rupees were gathered up and put in the rough wooden box, fastened with a big padlock. They were taken out one by one to pay the rent and to buy a little flour, rice and bread and a few vegetables for our daily food. There was a little sister, too young, thank God, to know anything of the trouble in the house. An old woman went to the bazar to purchase our food and did the cooking. At first a few of the neighboring women looked in at the door and tried to be friendly, but the little mother took no notice of them and they ceased coming. One day I overheard one of them say to the other as an excuse for her silence, “Her Sahib has gone.”
The little sister and I passed our time as best we could with the few cheap playthings we had, eating our cheap food, occasionally delighted with some native sweets that the old woman bought for us. The dear mama would sit on her little stool with her hands clasped over her knees, her face turned toward the west, her large eyes strained wide open as if to see something in the far away distance.
At early morning I would find her sitting thus. Nearly all the day she would sit looking in utter silence. Sometimes the little sister and I would fall upon her knees and chatter to her. She would turn her head toward us for a moment and perhaps say a word or two and then take up her looking again. There was never a ripple of laughter, such as used to cheer everybody around her, as they told me years after, not even a smile for us, her children. She seemed to be alone, and as I remember her and am now able to think about her condition and actions, it appears to me her heart was dying, gradually, to be sure, but dying.
I could not understand anything about it then for I was too young to realize what had occurred. I had scarcely ever been outside our rooms and never outside the little court or muhalla. I had no companion but the little sister. I knew nothing of the great world or little world outside, and had only seen a few native people in the court as I looked down from our veranda. As to the names, father or papa, I had not heard them, and if spoken to me I would not have understood what they meant. I was not aware that I had a father or ever had one. It was better perhaps as it was, for had I been told that the sahib I saw was my father; that it was he who had treated my mama with such infamous cruelty; that for him she was breaking her heart, dying day by day, as she kept looking toward him in the west, as he was going home to enjoy life and get a new wife, forsaking our dear mama and casting off us, his own children, for whose being he alone was responsible; had I known this, my life would have undoubtedly been altogether different and not for the better either. Knowledge is power, but it is often best not to have too much of it, nor to have it before we are capable of using it.
CHAPTER III.
I do not know how long this kind of life continued. It may have been a year or only a few months. There was nothing to break the monotony, nothing to be as time marks to show the passing days and months. The little mama took less and less interest in everything. One day coming out of the other room I found her lying on the floor. I saw by the look of her face that something was the matter with her, so I ran quickly and called the old woman, who placed her carefully upon the charpoy. She did not utter a word, made no sign of pain or distress, but kept on looking in the old direction with those large brilliant eyes, so wide open, peering into the distance. How bright they seem to me now, how they have haunted me all these years! Many a night have I awakened to see those eyes before me as if in reality they were there.
The rupees had been going, one by one, and now that the little mama remained on the charpoy day and night, the old woman took the key of the padlock from my mother’s waist-string and opened the box to get a rupee for some food. I saw there was but little in the box, a few fancy bits of clothing, some ornaments and a bundle of papers bound up with a string. The old woman took the best care she could of us all. She evidently saw that the time was short before all her labors, especially for the mama, would be ended.