The Outcaste

by F. E. Penny

Other members of Pantulu's household slipped away to carry the news to the neighbours. The story was told and retold with variations till the whole town was agog with curiosity. Many were the surmises, but not a single one came near the true solution of the mystery.

On the morning of the day when Bopaul and his father were expected a large crowd gathered at the railway station to learn what had happened. No one knew whether Pantulu would be in the same train. It was Bopaul to whom they looked for news. Friends and fellow-caste men were permitted on the platform, which was crowded. A larger number, moved only by curiosity, assembled outside the station.

Chirapore was a terminus. The train arrived and poured forth its load of travellers. Some astonishment was caused by the sight of the large assembly gathered in and round the building; but the attention of Bopaul and his father was diverted to the recovery of personal baggage from the vans, and their curiosity as to the reason of so big a crowd was lost in anxiety to assure themselves of the safety of their property.

Through the crowd Pantulu and his son pushed their way hastily. So hemmed in were they that they escaped observation except by a few. In the hurry and bustle no attempt was made to detain them for a greeting which could be made with more dignity later. Pantulu led the way, passing straight through the station and out into the public road, where stood a row of carriages for hire. Ananda followed close upon his heels with his suit-case. His two portmanteaux were carried by a couple of coolies and placed without delay upon the roof of a hired gharry.

Father and son stepped into the carriage and were driven off. Not a word passed between them. Ananda was conducted back to the home of his childhood in an ominous silence that chilled him and destroyed all his happiness. He wondered vaguely what his father intended to do with him. He was aware that he could not join the family circle, eat with them, take part in the daily religious worship conducted by his father as head of the house before the chief meal of the day. His exclusion would have been insisted upon even if he had not taken the momentous step. Until the restoration of caste it was imperative that he should lead a life apart from the rest of the family. It would mean the occupation of an isolated room well away from the kitchen, the taking of his food in solitude, the reservation of earthen drinking vessels exclusively for his own use, to be destroyed afterwards. But with all this there would be nothing to prevent him from meeting the male members of the family in that general place of assembly in all Indian houses, the pial or verandah. There they could talk and he could relate his experiences, and the others might listen without fear of contamination. This condition of affairs might last without personal discomfort to any one for a week or ten days, or even longer, according to the decree of those who conducted the ceremonies for the restoration of caste.

Under the altered circumstances Ananda concluded that the arrangements for his accommodation would be of a permanent nature, and more comfortable than if they were temporary. He would be able to furnish his room to his liking, introducing a few western luxuries, such as an armchair or two, a writing-table, bookcase, a table at which he could sit to take his meals. He could join the family in the pial, but otherwise lead his own life as he had learned to lead it in England. No difficulty presented itself to his mind in the arrangement; in truth, there was none. Provided he did not force himself upon his family in a manner that would endanger their caste rules, no objection could be made to his staying for a time under his father's roof. Later he would propose the separate house—it might be small and unassuming—where he could live as he pleased with his wife and child.

In the midst of his speculations the noisy ramshackle vehicle drew up before the house. The plantain palms and festoons of green leaves remained where joyful fingers had placed them. The Venetian masts that were to have supported ropes of Chinese lanterns had also been left standing, some of them bare of decoration, others gaudy with red and white twists of calico. Not a living creature was visible. The big iron-studded door was closely shut. A few small windows looking towards the road were screened with Venetian shutters; the pial was empty. There was not even the joyous bark of a dog to welcome home the wanderer.

Pantulu stepped out of the carriage and directed the driver to place the two leather portmanteaux on the steps. He kept his back to his son whenever he was able, and studiously averted his gaze. The sight of the wound on his son's face hurt him more than a little. Ananda followed his father, and the coachman was paid and ordered to leave without delay. They waited till he had retreated in a cloud of dust; and then Ananda, who was impatient of delay, put his foot on the first step of the flight that led up to the pial.

"Stop!" said his father, sternly. "Follow me!"

He gave no explanation, and confined himself to as few words as possible. Leading the way round to the side of the house, he entered the compound and conducted his son to a little outer yard into which opened the door of a room that had no communication with the rest of the building. The room was empty, except for a thick layer of dust and dried leaves blown in by the wind through the open door. A tiny, unglazed, unshuttered window high up under the eaves of the roof, admitted a little light; but at best the room was but a den, and not fit for the accommodation of a human being, let alone a son of the house.