III. CHILD MARRIAGE
Much as I wish that I had not to write this chapter, I
know that I shall have to swallow many such bitter
draughts in the course of this narrative. And I cannot do
otherwise, if I claim to be a worshipper of Truth. It is
my painful duty to have to record here my marriage at the
age of thirteen. As I see the youngsters of the same age
about me who are under my care, and think of my own
marriage, I am inclined to pity myself and to
congratulate them on having escaped my lot. I can see no
moral argument in support of such a preposterously early
marriage.
Let the reader make no mistake. I was married, not
betrothed. For in Kathiawad there are two distinct rites,
betrothal and marriage. Betrothal is a preliminary
promise on the part of the parents of the boy and the
girl to join them in marriage, and it is not inviolable.
The death of the boy entails no widowhood on the girl. It
is an agreement purely between the parents, and the
children have no concern with it. Often they are not even
informed of it. It appears that I was betrothed thrice,
though without my knowledge. I was told that two girls
chosen for me had died in turn, and therefore I infer
that I was betrothed three times. I have a faint
recollection, however, that the third betrothal took
place in my seventh year. But I do not recollect having
been informed about it. In the present chapter I am
talking about my marriage, of which I have the clearest
recollection.
It will be remembered that we were three brothers. The
first was already married. The elders decided to marry my
second brother, who was two or three years my senior,a
cousin, possibly a year older, and me, all at the same
time. In doing so there was no thought of our welfare,
much less our wishes. It was purely a question of their
own convenience and economy.
Marriage among Hindus is no simple matter. The parents
of the bride and the bridegroom often bring themselves to
ruin over it. They waste their substance, they waste
their time. Months are taken up over the preparations in
making clothes and ornaments and in preparing budgets for
dinners. Each tries to outdo the other in the number and
variety of courses to be prepared. Women, whether they
have a voice or no, sing themselves hoarse, even get ill,
and disturb the peace of their neighbours. these in their
turn quietly put up with all the turmoil and bustle all
the dirt and filth, representing the remains of the
feasts, because they know that a time will come when they
also will be behaving in the same manner.
It would be better, thought my elders, to have all
this bother over at one and the same time. Less expense
and greater eclat. For money could be freely
spent if it had only to be spent once instead of thrice.
My father and my uncle were both old, and we were the
last children they had to marry. it is likely that they
wanted to have the last best time of their lives. In view
of all these considerations, a triple wedding was decided
upon, and as I have said before, months were taken up in
preparation for it.
It was only through these preparations that we got
warning of the coming event. I do not think it meant to
me anything more than the prospect of good clothes to
wear, drum beating, marriage processions, rich dinners
and a strange girl to play with. The carnal desire came
later. I propose to draw the curtain over my shame,
except for a few details worth recording. To these I
shall come later. But even they have little to do with
the central idea I have kept before me in writing this
story.
So my brother and I were both taken to Porbandar from
Rajkot. There are some amusing details of the
preliminaries to the final drama e.g. smearing our bodies
all over with turmeric paste but I must omit them.
My father was a Diwan, but nevertheless a servant, and
all the more so because he was in favour with the Thakore
Saheb. The latter would not let him go until the last
moment. And when he did so, he ordered for my father
special stage coaches, reducing the journey by two days.
But the fates had willed otherwise. Porbandar is 120
miles from Rajkot, a cart journey of five days. My father
did the distance in three, but the coach toppled over in
the third stage, and he sustained severe injuries. He
arrived bandaged all over. Both his and our interest in
the coming event was half destroyed, but the ceremony had
to be gone through. For how could the marriage dates be
changed? However, I forgot my grief over my father's
injuries in the childish amusement of the wedding.
I was devoted to my parents. but no less was I devoted
to the passions that flesh is heir to. I had yet to learn
that all happiness and pleasure should be sacrificed in
devoted service to my parents. And yet, as though by way
of punishment for my desire for pleasures, an incident
happened, which has ever since rankled in my mind and
which I will relate later. Nishkulanand sings:
'Renunciation of objects, without the renunciation of
desires, is short-lived, however hard you may try.'
Whenever I sing this song or hear it sung, this bitter
untoward incident, rushes to my memory and fills me with
shame.
My father put on a brave face in spite of his
injuries, and took full part in the wedding. As I think
of it, I can even today call before my mind's eye the
places where he sat as he went through the different
details of the ceremony. Little did I dream then that one
day I should severely criticize my father for having
married me as a child. Everything on that day seemed to
me own right and proper and pleasing. There was also my
own eagerness to get married. And as everything that my
father did then struck me as beyond reproach, the
recollection of those things is fresh in my memory. I can
picture to myself, even today, how we sat on our wedding
dais, how we performed the Saptapadi how we, the
newly wedded husband and wife, put the sweet Kansar
into each other's mouth, and how we began to live
together. And oh! that first night.Two innocent children
all unwittingly hurled themselves into the ocean of life.
My brother's wife had thoroughly coached me about my
behaviour on the first night. I do not know who had
coached my wife. I have never asked her about it, nor am
I inclined to do so now. The reader may be sure that we
were too nervous to face each other. We were certainly
too shy. How was I to talk to her, and what was I to say?
The coaching could not carry me far. But no coaching is
really necessary in such matters. The impressions of the
former birth are potent enough to make all coaching
superfluous. We gradually began to know each other, and
to speak freely together. We were the same age. but I
took no time in assuming the authority of a husband.
|
