It was evening. As usual, she was strolling in the park. Sure enough, she could see Balasaheb walking towards her briskly.
“Kumud,” he said, his eyes full of love. “I have faith in you. That is why I am waiting for your answer with so much hope. Please don’t say no.”
The girl was quiet. “Why does he love me so much?” she wondered for the hundredth time. She was from a poor family. Without a dowry, which they could ill aff ord, there would be no question of a rich husband. In fact, her father was worried sick that he might never be able to find even a reasonably decent match for his beloved daughter, now already of marriageable age. His financial difficulties notwithstanding, it had never crossed Vishnupant’s mind to choose the easier option of getting his young and beautiful Kumud married to an older groom.
“If I cannot find a suitable husband for you, it would be better for you to remain unmarried,” he told her. “It would be better for you to engage yourself in social service. A young matriculate girl like you who is trained in nursing can get work anywhere.” It was no wonder, then, that she was surprised when the affluent young man, Balasaheb Inamdar, fell in love with her and even proposed to her!
A smile radiated across her face. She bowed her head and said quietly, “Am I imagining this . . . or are you really saying this to me? You know very well that your mother will never approve of your marrying a poor girl like me, especially when the wealthy Patwardhan and Vinchukar families would leap at such an offer. Why would a rich family like yours ever wish to forge a connection with a poor family like mine?”
“Kumudini, have you really thought carefully about who I am and what I am offering you? I am a beggar, maddened by your beauty and character, and I am begging for your love. By the grace of God, I have enough wealth of my own and do not have any desire to acquire more from my bride.”
“That is exactly why you are so wrong,” she interrupted.
“You are thinking only about yourself. Shouldn’t you also think about what your parents wish for you? In any case, this is something you ought to think about . . . that they would never accept me as their daughter-in-law.”
“I know all that,” replied Balasaheb, impatiently. “Our society believed in adult marriages in ancient times; our scriptures say so. The demon of social disapproval did not haunt adolescent girls then. In any case, I will absolutely not, for any reason at all, pay attention to the blabbering of ignorant villagers. Kumudini, you don’t really have any valid reason to refuse me, do you? The only problem could be that you would not be able to continue your education and may have to bid farewell to Goddess Saraswati for my sake. It is true that your education will be affected by marriage. When I saw you for the first time two years ago, the seeds of love struck roots in my heart. If that hadn’t happened, I am sure my family would have pressured me into marrying an eight-year-old child long ago. But now that I will complete my MA degree and will not need to attend university, I will no longer have a convincing excuse for delaying my marriage.” Kumud stood before him, looking down and tracing patterns in the ground with her toe. Balasaheb stopped speaking. She looked up, and their eyes met. And Balasaheb had his answer. The language of love needs no words. Kumudini gave Balasaheb two flowers that she had plucked earlier in the evening. Then they walked away quickly.
Babasaheb Inamdar’s family had been wealthy over several generations and had a lifestyle fit for minor royalty. They owned most of the lands in Pimpalgaon, an agricultural town in Nashik district. They had an annual income of almost Rs 75,000 a year and were reputed for their warm hospitality to guests, respect to the meritorious, and kindness and generosity to the poor and beggars. Babasaheb was conventional, but by no means an obscurantist. He believed in education. He had sent Balasaheb, his only child, far away from the village for higher education. Balasaheb was intelligent and had been a brilliant student. He would soon earn his MA degree.
Since there was no need for his son to work for a living, Babasaheb had wanted him to return home immediately upon completing the MA examinations. He had wanted his son to take a year off and stay at home with them in Pimpalgaon. However, his unexpected death after a brief illness had placed the responsibilities and obligations of the head of the family upon Balasaheb’s shoulders. At that time, Balasaheb was still in university. Balasaheb had returned home immediately, without completing his MA. For the next two years he was busy settling the family affairs. After that he had found a qualified and reliable manager to attend to the day-to-day business matters and returned to his studies, as had been his father’s wish. It was during the two-year interlude at home that Kumudini had entered his life. What happened after that should be evident from the conversation just narrated.
That evening, no sooner had Balasaheb stepped in through the front door, than a servant informed him that his mother wished to speak to him immediately. Parvatibai was traditional, arrogant and very conscious of her status. Shankar Shastri, the priest, was reading the Ramayan aloud to her. Thama-kaku sat on the floor nearby, rolling cotton buds for the puja lamps. She looked up at Aaisaheb (as everyone in the household referred to Parvatibai) from time to time in case she had some instructions for her. The moment she was informed that Govindpant, had arrived, Aaisaheb looked at Shastri-bua, who took the cue instantly. “Ask him to come here,” Shankar Shastri instructed the servant.
“Come in, Govindpant. Do sit down,” Aaisaheb said.
“We have received many proposals and photographs from prospective matches,” Parvatibai said, using the royal “we”. “Once Bal (Balasaheb) is married, we will be relieved of our responsibility. He wanted to study and now he has fulfilled his ambition. There is no further excuse for not getting married. At his age, he should have had two children.”
Arranging the four photographs in a row, Govindpant pointed to one, “I think he will like this girl. Oh look, here comes Balasaheb himself.”
Balasaheb stepped into his mother’s room. “Shubhasay shighram (the sooner the better). Let us get his consent.”
“Why? What do you mean? Why do we need his consent? Does he ever contradict me? In any case, would I ever do anything except the best for him? Isn’t that true, Shastri-bua?”
“About that, there can be no question, Aaisaheb. Balasaheb is intelligent and very polite. Where is the need to ask him?” Shankar Shastri echoed.
Excerpted with permission from “Pretensions and Misconceptions” in The Stepmother and Other Stories, Laxmibai Abhyankar, translated from the Marathi by Ranjana Kaul, Ratna Books.
