Indira and Other Stories/Radharani/Chapter 1
RADHARANI
I.
A little girl called Radharani had been to the village of Mahesh in order to witness the exciting ceremony of pulling the Juggernauth car. She was hardly eleven years of age. Time was when her people had been very wealthy, for the child came of a great family in these parts. But when her father died, a relative brought a civil suit against her widowed mother. The suit involved the whole of the family property. The widow lost her case in the Calcutta High Court. No sooner did this happen than the heartless plaintiff executed his decree and ousted her from the family home. The landed property, amounting to some ten lakhs of rupees, all went to the plaintiff. What money there was in hand, was expended in paying costs and law expenses. Radharani's mother sold her jewels and other movable property, and instituted an appeal before the Hon'ble Privy Council in London. But there was nothing left for the maintenance of mother and daughter. The widow found a precarious asylum in a small cottage on the family estate and endeavoured to earn her living by manual labour. She was unable to set aside a dower for her daughter's marriage.
To add to their misfortunes, the mother fell ill, and was no longer able to work for her living. The pair were in danger of starvation. The mother was too ill to need much food, the child often fasted because there was nothing to eat. On the day of the Car Festival the mother's disease reached a critical stage: medicines and nourishment were necessary. But how was the child to procure them?
With tearful eyes Radharani gathered some jungle flowers and wove them into garlands, thinking to sell them at the fair, which was an incident of the Car Festival. She hoped by this means to get a few pice wherewith to 
buy necessities for her sick mother. But before the ceremony was half over, heavy rain fell and dispersed the crowd. Not a soul bought the girl's simple garlands. Radharani stayed on. What matter if she were soaked by the rain? Perhaps the storm would abate and the spectators would return. But, alas, the rain continued pitilessly. No one came back to the deserted car. Evening drew on, and night fell. The night was stormy and dark, and poor Radharani had to turn weeping homewards.
The night was very dark, the roads were miry and slippery, the child had to feel her way through the growing dusk. Added to that, the heavy rain of the month of Sravan fell on her with a force that made her cower before the storm. Worst and most cruel of all was the thought that she had been unable to make any provision for her mother's needs. Half blinded by her tears, by the storm, by the darkness of the night, the child felt her way, stumbling and falling. The wet locks of her loose hair were blown across her rainwashed face. But the child clung pathetically to the paltry garlands she had woven, and held them tight to her bosom.
As she was struggling bravely along, someone emerged from the darkness and ran up against the child. So far Radharani had not wept audibly. The shock and surprise overcame her childish resolution, and for the first time she could not restrain a piteous wail.
The newcomer asked, kindly enough, "Who is this small person crying in the dark?" It was a man's rough voice, but there was something in its tone that stayed the child's tears. The voice was that of a stranger, but the girl felt instinctively that it expressed kindness and compassion. She stopped crying and said:
"We are very poor people. There is no one now but mother and me."
The man asked, "And where have you been wandering, my little maid?"
"I went to see the Car Festival. I was on my way home. But in the rain and wet I have lost my way."
"And where, pray, is your home?"
"We live at Srirampur", said Radharani.
"That is all right", said the man. "As it happens, I was going to Srirampur myself. Come along with me. You shall tell me as we go in what part of the village you live, and I will see you safely home. Dear me, it is very slippery, isn't it? Here, give me your hand, and then we can hold one another up!"
In such fashion the pair struggled along together. In the darkness it was impossible for Radharani's new friend to know her age, but he guessed from her childish voice and words that she was very young. However he took occasion to ask, "And how old may you be, little maiden?"
"I am between ten and eleven."
"And what is your name?"
"My name is Radharani."
"Well, my friend Radharani, I should like very much to know what induced a young person of your age to tramp off all alone to a Car Festival in a strange village? I am not sure that you are a very prudent young girl."
By degrees, word by word, with kindly and humorous questions, he induced the child to tell him the story of the garlands, and of her disappointed hopes of earning money for her mother. He learned that it was not really to see the Car Festival that our little maiden had gone to Mahesh, but to sell her poor little garlands so as to buy necessaries for her sick mother. And she had not been able to sell her garlands. She was hugging them to her bosom now.
"Well", he said, "this is a wonderful thing. I was just looking for just such a garland for our family idol. The fair broke up so suddenly that I could not buy what I wanted. Will you sell me one of your garlands?"
Radharani was hugely pleased. But, she thought, how can I ask a price of a stranger who has come to my aid so kindly and generously? And again the thought came, "But if I don't, what is poor mother to do for the food she needs?"
With these confused thoughts in her mind, the child handed one of the garlands to her companion.
"Let me see now", he said, "the proper price of this will be four pice. Here is the money all ready."
So saying he handed her some money. Radharani said, "But are these pice? The coins seem very big."
"Little goose, can't you see that I have only given you two? They are double pice."
"But they look very bright, even in the darkness. Are you sure you have not given me rupees by mistake?"
"Not a bit of it. They are new coins, fresh from the mint. That is why they shine so."
"Never mind", said Radharani. "I will light a lamp when we get home, and if you have made a mistake, I will give you back your money. Only you will have to wait a little till I have lighted the lamp, you know."
Presently they reached the cottage where Radharani's mother dwelt. The girl turned to the stranger: "You must please come in and wait while we light a lamp and see whether these are silver rupees or not."
"No", said her companion. "I will wait outside. You go in and change your wet clothes, and then see about getting a light."
Radharani replied, "But I have got no change of clothes at all. My other sari has gone to the washerman. So, you see, I am accustomed to sitting in wet clothes. It does not do me any harm. I will wring out the skirt presently. Now, will you wait a moment while I strike a light?"
There was no oil in the house, so the girl was forced to take a handful of straw from the thatch. This she lighted with flint and steel. All this took some time. When she had procured a light, Radharani saw that she had indeed two rupees in her hand. She ran out, improvised torch in hand. She searched everywhere. The stranger was gone!
Radharani was in despair. She told the whole tale to her mother, and, gazing anxiously in her face, exclaimed, "What are we to do now?"
The mother replied, "What can we do, my child? I cannot believe that he gave the money by mistake. Doubtless he is a generous gentleman, who took pity on us when he heard our story. We are but beggar folk now, my daughter. We must accept the gift without false shame."
While mother and daughter were talking thus, someone suddenly knocked at the door and put them in great confusion. Radharani ran to open the door, thinking that her friend had doubtless returned to claim his money. Alas, it was nothing of the sort. To the girl's dismay, she found only the village draper standing in the doorway.
The cottage was not very far from the bazaar, one of the nearest shops in which was that of Padma Lochan, the draper. It was that worthy tradesman in person who now stood at the door, bearing a lovely pair of newly woven saris from Santipore, which he put into the girl's hands.
"These", he said, "are for Radharani."
Radharani exclaimed, "There must be some mistake! How can these be for me?"
Padma Lochan—who may or may not have deserved the mental disapproval with which the disappointed girl received him—seemed surprised at her question.
"All I know," he replied, "is that a Babu paid for them in hard cash and ordered me to bring them to you."
Radharani exclaimed, "It is he, I am sure it is he! He has bought the cloth and sent it to me. Tell me, Padma Lochan."
I ought to stop here to explain that the worthy cloth-merchant had known the family in the days of their prosperity. On the occasion of Hindu festivals, when it is the custom to make presents of cloth to friends and dependants, often and often had he sold them four rupees worth of cloth at its proper price (on his solemn word of honour) of eight rupees twelve annas and odd pice, and had merely made two annas profit on the transaction! "Tell me, Padma Lochan", the girl said, "do you know the Babu of whom you speak?"
Padma Lochan replied, "What, do you not know him yourself?"
The girl replied, "No."
"Well, I thought he was some relation of yours. I do not know him."
Be that as it may, friend Padma Lochan had once more sold four rupees worth of cloth for eight rupees fourteen annas (including profit), and seeing no need of further discussion, the honest vender departed to his shop with a sense of virtue rewarded.
Meanwhile Radharani herself ran to the bazaar, and changing the rupees, purchased what she required for her mother's needs. She brought home oil, and lighted the lamp. She did the simple cooking required for her mother's simple invalid fare. Before bringing the food to the bedside, she set to work, in the Hindu fashion, of preparing for a meal, to sweep the room. While she was thus engaged, she picked up a piece of paper. Running to her mother with it, she asked, "What is this, mother?"
Her mother examined the paper and exclaimed, "Why, this is a currency note!"
"Then in that case he must have thrown it in through the door."
"Yes, he meant it for a present for you. Besides, look what is written on it. 'For Radharani'."
Radharani said, "Oh, how good of him! Did you ever hear of such a kind person before, mother?"
Her mother replied, "Look, he has written his name on the note, too. Do you know why he has done that? Because people might refuse to change it for fear it was stolen. His name is Rukmini Kumar Ray."
Next day mother and daughter made many enquiries as to who Rukmini Kumar Ray might be. But no one seemed to know of any one of that name in Srirampur or any of the adjacent villages. They did not change the note. They put it carefully away. They were very poor, but they were not avaricious.