Tara: A Mahratta Tale

by Meadows Taylor

"What could you do with her, Shastree, if you had her? You see she is no longer a Brahmun, but an outcast. You could not even give her water; and the two old Brahmun women who attended her in her illness, and the one who now waits on her, will have to be purified with plenty of ceremonies—and plenty to pay for them, too, will be needed; but do not care for that, Shastree, my lord is very wealthy. So, you see, we must give her up as a Hindu, and even let her go into the other faith."

The Shastree would groan at these home truths, but could reply nothing. As to his wife, she rejoiced heartily, and had no misgiving. The expression of a mother's nature would not be denied to Anunda; for there is no mother with the experience of a life's love grown into her heart, who does not rejoice in the thought of a wife's useful happiness to her daughter, and in the expectation of its fruits! All that had been done to soothe Tara, to distract her mind, to fill up the vacant place there with other interests—learning, religious exercise, and devotion to the service of the goddess—had been tried in turn, and were, as Anunda felt, but a mockery.

Possibly, most probably, indeed, under other circumstances, Tara's pure mind would eventually have taken refuge in asceticism, and those severe penances, in which the woman who had persecuted her at Pertâbgurh, had grown to take delight; but, knowing the too frequent condition of the indulgence of lawless love by women situated like her daughter, and exposed to the same temptations, Anunda had often trembled for her safety; and yet owned to herself that, to doubt her, was profanation.

No, she could not object. Had she been simply asked the question previously, as a proud Brahmun woman, she must have refused. Now, circumstances had put that far beyond her reach. To object, would not retard the final issue, or influence it in any way; but to consent joyfully, would add so much, and so supremely to Tara's happiness, that opposition quickly grew to be an impossibility in the good lady's mind: and before she came to the end of the first day's journey, Fazil himself could not have desired a warmer advocate.

A good deal of this fell out from being left to herself. Palankeens had been hired; and as the three travellers were carried on singly for hours together, each had fallen into the train of thought most congenial. Radha had certainly no voice in the matter, but was delighted. Anunda, between joy for her recovered child, and her new prospects of an honourable life, had been wellnigh beside herself at first, and the quiet soothing motion of the litter was of all things the best, perhaps, to calm her, and bring her practical mind into perception of the true realities of the position. "We have mourned her as dead," she said to herself, "we have performed all the ceremonies, and distributed all the charities necessary for the occasion; now she is alive after all, and born again into a new faith; so the death which we believed in, was a type of what was to be fulfilled. I see it all now," she said to herself, "and so it has been ordered for her without the pain of burning. Strange, my husband does not see this, but I will tell it to him when we arrive."

And so she did. Radha, too, caught up this tone of argument as best suited to her husband's mind, and the two women agreeing, left him little to say. It did not appear he had anything to urge or to object. "This is some punishment for her sins in an earlier life," he said to Anunda; "and 'tis well it is no worse."

Anunda and Radha could not see the punishment, except that Tara would have to eat unclean things; otherwise, what was left to be desired?

If this was their deliberate opinion at the close of the first day's march,—the second day, and the quiet jogging motion of the litters, the change of air and scene, and the peace which had settled gradually into their hearts, had much more than confirmed it. Whatever there was of objection, was dealt with on the first evening; and on the second, as they rested for the night, impatience to see their child once more, an irrepressible yearning to place her happiness beyond doubt, or chance of mishap, had driven out all other feeling. So, on the third morning, as they entered their litters for the day's journey, and knew they would reach Kurrar before sunset, Anunda, who laughed and cried by turns in a strange manner, as she dressed their morning meal herself before they set out, saw, with a thankful heart, that the heavy care which had sat on her husband's spirit for so long had passed away, and his old placid, benign expression, had taken its place.

That afternoon, as the sun's rays lengthened, and were filled with that golden radiance which clothed the meanest objects with glory, and lighted up the town and fort, and the camp beyond,—the little procession of the three palankeens, and the small body of horsemen, approached the town gate. Bulwunt Rao had timed their arrival to suit the lady Lurlee's desire, for the astrological tables had been once more consulted, and the Moollas of several mosques had been obliged to declare the most fortunate hour for the entry of the party into the town. Messengers, too, had met them, enjoining care in this respect; and Bulwunt Rao and the hunchback were both relieved by the appearance of a last emissary at the gate to express approval of their arrangements and to urge them on.

No need of hastening now. The bearers themselves were in hurry enough; for Bulwunt Rao's promise had been liberal, and they had kept the horsemen at a brisk canter for the last few miles of the journey. Now, therefore, shouting and hallooing to each other, the men who carried the litters, rushed through the gate of the town, and up the main street at their utmost speed; and there was a race between the three sets, in which Anunda's were victorious, and clamoured for largesse as they set down her palankeen before the door of the kind merchant's house where Tara still was. Much the good lady had deliberated in her mind whether she could ever be touched by Tara without pollution, and whether it could be avoided; and we believe we are correct in saying that she had determined, if it were to cost her half, or all the money she had left in the banker's hands at Tooljapoor, she did not care, but she must hold her child once more to her heart.