The hot months passed slowly; and when, after the early harvest, the fall monsoon came on, Kota grew more than ever listless and unhappy. Her time was now much occupied, however, with religious ceremonial; and, in this respect, probably no woman was ever better cared for than Kota. The Simontonnayana was made the occasion of a special festival, which was attended by the whole village. According to the commands of the Vedic ritual, the mother was magnificently dressed, and adorned with gold and jewels. Gokarna sacrificed a bull to Indra, the flesh of which, after an offering to the gods, was partaken by everybody. Then the ceremony of the parting of the hair was performed, and texts were chanted by all the Brahmans. Only one event marred the general gayety of the night. At the end of the prescribed ceremony, and before the beginning of the feast, Gokarna, following custom, bade his wife sing the merry festival song: “Taza ba Taza”. Kota, who had sat silent and solemn through the entire ceremony, looked up at her husband pleadingly, then opened her lips, uttered the first words of the song in a hoarse and trembling tone, and suddenly burst into a torrent of tears that no entreaty of her friends nor stern command of her husband could still. This incident was considered an evil omen; but, in the subsequent feast and merrymaking, it was quickly forgotten by all save the poor little mother herself.
After this, Kota did not appear again in public. Indeed, for the next two moons she spent her time almost wholly on her bed, attended by Jensa, and sometimes by Hilka, till, at length, January came. In the last days, Gokarna suddenly became attentive, nay, almost tender, to his wife. He was by nature neither demonstrative nor affectionate. But the matter of his child touched the dominating note of his nature:—pride. And he could not but be interested in the person who had power to present him with sons to whom he could hand down his state and dignity. Gokarna was inordinately anxious for a son. Though his dispassionate nature rebelled bitterly at the thought, he was determined that, should this child prove to be a girl, he would take another wife. Meantime, however, Kota was the object of his highest interest; and not a little was she astonished when he left the conducting of the full-moon sacrifices to an under-priest, that he might stay beside her. He wished to talk with her of the child. But Kota’s three years of wedded life had not prepared her to confide her secret thoughts to her husband, and he got surprisingly little from her on the subject nearest both of them. His conclusion was that she was like all women:—too stupid to think. But had Kota chosen, she could have disclosed to him a little wonder-world of motherhood that would have opened his eyes anew to womankind. Melancholy she had been. Now she was full of dread. Nevertheless, the sacred love was in her; and, in her brighter hours, she had given her child all the tenderness of hope, all the ambitions and desires for its welfare, that her stunted womanhood could conjure up. For the first years of its life, at least, the baby would be her own to love and to rule. Her heart would have something to cling to. The dry dust of her existence was about to put forth flowers and foliage at last. But of such thoughts, and the joy in them, she could tell Gokarna nothing, as he sat beside her mat-bed in mid-January of that year 1207. He could only make ceaseless inquiries as to her welfare; and, toward nightfall, he was rewarded by her suddenly sitting up, and crying to him to send at once for the low-caste nurse who was to attend her in the coming hours.
These hours were terrible enough, even to the emotionless Gokarna. Religion forbade his remaining with his wife, or allowing any but the woman of special caste to behold her. All he could do was to sit in the room next to that in which she lay, kindle a sacrificial fire, repeat over it certain prescribed Vedic texts, and listen anxiously to the sounds issuing from the neighboring room. This lasted an unconscionable time. Then, when the night was at its most solemn ebb, the moaning and sobbing suddenly ceased, and silence fell on the priest’s house. This stillness was far more terrible than the noise had been. Gokarna’s unemotional nature was stirred to its very depths. Should he brave the Vedas—and go to her? While he waited, straining his ears, a new sound came:—a faint, baby wail that pierced the heart of the man and caused him to start joyously to his feet. A moment later the hanging before the doorway was pushed aside, and the nurse appeared, holding in her arms the child, wrapped in a piece of cotton cloth. For a second, Gokarna stood still, choking with hope. Then he ran forward, and put his hands on the tiny form:
“Is it—is it a boy? Speak!” he said.
The nurse answered not a word, but laid the child in his arms.
Not until noon the next day did Gokarna enter the room where his wife lay. Kota, on the bed, with the baby beside her, started up as he entered. But the words on her lips were stopped by his look.
“In the name of the gods, Kota, I give greeting to thee—and to my son. My son,” he repeated, slowly, his eyes fixed upon the face of his wife, whose frightened expression did not diminish. “And thou,” he continued, turning to the nurse who stood at hand, listening intently, “see that, on penalty of banishment, thou prate to none concerning the matters of this house. I am now come to perform the ceremony of the breathing and the secret name. Therefore depart, woman, from the room, nor return until I summon thee.”
The nurse, alarmed at his tone, made a hasty exit; and Gokarna turned again to his wife. Nor did he say another word on the subject nearest both their hearts. Immediately he took the child from its mother’s arms, at which it protested, with lusty voice, Kota watching it the while with tenderest mother-eyes. Gokarna, holding the child up before him, breathed three times upon it, and murmured: “Draw in thy breath with the Rik, breathe within the Yagus, breathe forth with the Saman.”
Then, handing the babe for a moment back to its mother, he left the room, shortly returning with the articles of daily sacrifice:—honey, melted butter, and barley mixed together in a small earthen dish, in which stood also a spoon of beaten silver. Placing these on the floor beside the bed, he seated himself, took the child again, and looked up to Kota. “The name,” he said. “Find thou the omen for our name for him.”