Above the wild outcry of the place was heard the entry at the cedar doors of Sadyattes and armed men. The gems and the blossoms wildly scattered, the bands of eunuchs, conspirators or dully innocent, stood there, stood there, Bagios well in front, dressed in red and yellow, with mad action of his arms, with explanatory torrents of words. Slaves, wailing with reason, for they all might be scourged to death, brought fresh lamps so that there might be more light upon evil. Through the windows poured in the night air, and droves of moths came to the lamps. When Sadyattes entered the Room of the White Flowers Aryenis was sitting upon the couch, her limbs beneath her, and in her lap the dead Alyattes.
“I crept through and stung,” she said to Sadyattes the diver, “but the fire has charred me black.”
CHAPTER XI
THE BANKS OF JUMUNA
Zira, clad in a ragged, brown dress, sat beneath a clump of bamboo growing by the stream that ran past Gângya’s house, and cleaned the copper cooking-pots. For three years Zira had been called widow. When you are young and fortunate, beloved and happy, three years is not a great space of time. When you are young but unfortunate, abused and wretched, it may be long indeed. Zira was young in years, but quite old in misery.
Her head showed shaven, the ragged shawl that covered it being pushed back since none was by saving the monkeys in the banyan tree and the lizards on the rock wall. She was thin, for she was never given enough to eat and steadily overworked. Upon her arms were black bruises, for her mother-in-law was subject to hot rages and yesterday had shaken Zira until her teeth chattered in her head, and the blood stood still under the griping fingers. Across her shoulders ran a weal from the stick with which she had been struck because she had broken an earthern lamp. Zira looked, and was, forlorn, ill-treated, poorly lodged and fed, abused, struck with tongue and hand, a menial and pariah, a widow in the house of her husband’s parents.
Zira scoured, dully, a huge red copper pan. There were many vessels to be cleaned, for Gângya was a rich man as riches went in the village by the Jumuna. The earth swam in heat; it was so hot that even the monkeys were quiet, and the lizards themselves might seem less active. Zira, drawing a sigh, put her head on her arms and her arms on her knees. She must have a little rest, no matter what the consequences! A change to looking on pleasurable things from things so sadly unpleasurable becomes now and then a necessity, even to the old in woe. Zira must have a little colour and fragrance and music, and went to the only place where she knew she might get them, and that was down the steps into Memory. The ache might seem worse after being there, but let it seem!
Madhava’s caste and her caste had been Vaisya, merchants, husbandmen. As a child and a girl she was not without teaching. Her own mother strictly taught her many things, though not, of course, the high things in which the priest instructed her father and elder brother. But she knew, sitting by the stream, with her head in her arms, that she had been born many times and would be born many times again. But she was not one of those strong ones who could stray at will in Memory. She could go down the steps a little way, but then there arose, as it were, mist and a roaring in the ears. She had imagination, had it, indeed, in bulk, but it did not occur to her particularly to connect imagination and her own history—not yet did that occur. She made pictures with which to lighten unhappiness, but often the pictures were bitter, and gave her no entertainment.... But now, down in Memory, she was re-living small happinesses of childhood and girlhood—toys and adornments and days and moods and happenings—and then again, again, for the ten thousandth time again, her marriage to Madhava.
Her marriage to Madhava. Ah!... Ah! She sat under the bamboo, under the teak tree, and forgot the pots and pans, the bruises upon her arms and how sore were her shoulders—how dull and slow-beating and sore was her heart!... Village lights—village lights, and the gongs in the temple—lights carried in procession, and flowers and flowers; spices and cakes and fruits burned in sacrificial fires.... How she, Zira, was dressed by her mother and sisters and the neighbours, and how she met Madhava and they walked hand in hand.... All the rites—oblation to Agni and prayers for long life, kind kindred, many children, right wealth—all the rites, and the marriage pledge,
“That heart of thine shall be mine, and this heart of mine shall be thine.”
How bright was that day—and the village shouting and laughing—and all so friendly, even the children friendly—children that now stoned her and cried “Widow, widow! Madhava must have died because of you!”