“Why don’t we get married?” Amrita asked plainly.
Victor let out a short laugh as he read the letter that had just come in. He had collected his post from the front desk of the hostel of the medical school and read the long epistle from her by the time he reached his room. Amrita’s straight forwardness was one of her most endearing qualities for Victor. He received a letter from her every week, sometimes even two a week, and in each one of them she was always open and forthright. She was whimsical too, but it added to her allure.
Of late, her letters were bitter about how Marie and Umrao Singh opposed her relationship with her cousin. She complained about their insensitivity towards her feelings for Victor. Marie was vehement in her opposition.
“Why should she?” he shot back, “Remember while you people were in Paris, you came down to Buda every summer? Well, I was at a party in your home there once and after everyone had left your mother accosted me while I was leaving and said, ‘Why don’t you two get married?’ I was taken aback completely. I had expected her to oppose even the thought of it. I felt quite embarrassed. I said, ‘Yes, but I am nobody. I am only a student.’ Her answer to that was: ‘That is all right. She goes back to Paris, and you go back to your studies. When your studies are finished then you can get married.’”
“Did she say that?” Amrita wrote back surprised, “She’s is like this – one moment here, the next there. She was probably checking you out then because for a long time now she’s ferociously against you.”
Marie was adamant that Victor was not the right choice. She wanted her in-law to be from the landed gentry, a figure of influence and charm. That Indira had married KVK Sundaram, a dashing officer of the Indian Civil Services in October 1937, further accentuated the situation for her. Marie wanted a groom like Sundaram, or even better than him, for Amri.
Her father, she said, was stuck like an old record on the close blood ties between them. “He’s your aunt’s son. Your mother is her blood sister, not some distant relative,” he argued with her in an irritated voice, “Marriage between first cousins is not approved of. It should not happen.”
Victor considered Amrita’s proposal. He was quite pleased to know she was wanting marriage with him despite meeting and mixing with people in high society and in power – people of great influence like Nehru. He wrote back his reply. “It is a wonderful idea, but I am yet nobody. I have to get some practical experience. A mere medical degree is not enough. Let me get some experience.”
She was delighted by the reply. She immediately wrote back, “In that case, why shouldn’t I come to Hungary? You can continue your work. We can get married and live together. We will take a flat. I can do some painting. I like Hungary. It is a colorful country. I am coming.” She however added a rider. “After you get your experience, you must come back with me to India. Please I want to work in India. Everything suits me here – the colors in particular,” she pleaded but conceded, “If an occasion arises, we can always go back to Hungary for a visit. But I want to live in India.”
“Very nice,” Victor wrote back, “it suits me. I agree.”
The compelling need to formalise her relationship with Victor was partly because of Indira’s marriage and consanguinity, but largely because of her parents’ growing disapproval of Amrita’s close friendships with multiple men. She had shared every tiny bit of her life with Victor from the time she was barely six years old. He knew her in and out, and took a keen but benign interest in the goings-on in her life. Victor, she was sure, understood her perfectly. Besides, she would be away from the constant pressure of her parents once she was married.
Marriage occupied much of Amrita’s mind during the preceding months. She discussed it with Iqbal and Helen, and even wrote to Karl about it.
“Why do you think you should get married?” Iqbal inquired from her while they were having tea on the lawns of Faletti’s Hotel in Lahore. “Why must you? I don’t think you should.”
Helen asked her if it was the best decision for her, given the fact her parents were against it.
Amrita frowned. “I have to because I am sort of committed to it,” she said with emphasis. “It was always a sort of understanding between us that we would be married one day.”
“Yes, darling” Helen comforted her, “you should, if you think so. But also think if he’s the right man for you…”
Amrita looked away for a moment and replied earnestly, “I am sure he is. I have always been very attached to him. He has always stood by me. He knows everything about me, there is nothing to hide from him. There will be no bickering over the past because I am an open book for him.”
Iqbal wanted to intervene but Amrita continued. “And Iqbal, since he knows exactly what I am, he will not curb my style of living. I will be happy with him. Besides, I will also feel a sense of security in being married to him…I feel sure I am doing the right thing.”
“Then its fine,” Iqbal withdrew into the depth of his chair. Amrita looked at him with a mischievous twinkle in her eye and quipped, “I will at least die married…I hate the thought of being a lonely old maid!” They laughed. She was forthcoming with Karl too. “My fiancé, she wrote, “being a Hungarian and not having finished his medical studies yet wants me to go and join him as soon as possible…He has waited for so long, it has been more than eight years…”
Karl asked her to think it over. He told her frankly her decision required more thought since she was a free spirited artist. She agreed with him. “I feel fairly convinced,” she wrote back, “I am not made for marriage but I am trying it out all the same. I am essentially weak, you know, and I have to have somebody ‘taking care of me’ (ridiculous though that may sound), someone good-naturedly watching over me all the time, for I am terribly helpless. I am afraid of my forthcoming marriage. It has gone on too long. Besides, I don’t think I will make an ideal wife.”
Excerpted with permission from Amrita and Victor, Ashwini Bhatnagar, Fingerprint Books.
