There were comparatively few Indian students in England forty years ago.
It was a practice with them to affect the bachelor even though they
might be married. School or college students in England are all
bachelors, studies being regarded as incompatible with married life.
We had that tradition in the good old days, a student then being
invariably known as a brahmachari1.
But in these days we have child- marriages, a thing practically
unknown in England. Indian youths in England, therefore, felt
ashamed to confess that they were married. There was also another
reason for dissembling, namely that in the event of the fact being
known it would be impossible for the young men to go about or flirt
with the young girls of the family in which they lived. The flirting
was more or less innocent. Parents even encouraged it; and that sort
of association between young men and young women may even be a
necessity there, in view of the fact that every young man has to
choose his mate. If, however, Indian youths on arrival in England
indulge in these relations, quite natural to English youths, the
result is likely to be disastrous, as has often been found. I saw
that our youths had succumbed to the temptation and chosen a life of
untruth for the sake of companionships which, however innocent in
the case of English youths, were for them undesirable. I too caught
the contagion. I did not hesitate to pass myself off as a bachelor
though I was married and the father of a son. But I was none the
happier for being a dissembler. Only my reserve and my reticence
saved me from going into deeper waters. If I did not talk, no girl
would think it worth her while to enter into conversation with me or
to go out with me.
My cowardice was on a par with my reserve. It was customary in families
like the one in which I was staying at Ventnor for the daughter of
the landlady to take out guests for a walk. My landlady's daughter
took me one day to the lovely hills round Ventnor. I was no slow
walker, but my companion walked even faster, dragging me after her
and chattering away all the while. I responded to her chatter
sometimes with a whispered 'yes' or 'no', or at the most 'yes, how
beautiful!' She was flying like a bird whilst I was wondering when I
should get back home. We thus reached the top of a hill. How to get
down again was the question. In spite of her high-heeled boots this
sprightly young lady of twenty-five darted down the hill like an
arrow. I was shamefacedly struggling to get down. She stood at the
foot smiling and cheering me and offering to come and drag me. How
could I be so chicken hearted? With the greatest difficulty, and
crawling at intervals, I somehow managed to scramble to the bottom.
She loudly laughed 'bravo' and shamed me all the more, as well she
might.
But I could not escape scatheless everywhere. For God wanted to rid me of
the canker of untruth. I once went to Brighton, another
watering-place like Ventnor. This was before the Ventnor visit. I
met there at a hotel an old widow of moderate means. This was my
first year in England. The courses on the menu were all
described in French, which I did not understand. I sat at the same
table as the old lady. She saw that I was a stranger and puzzled,
and immediately came to my aid. 'You seem to be a stranger,' she
said, 'and look perplexed. Why have you not ordered anything?' I was
spelling through the menu and
preparing to ascertain the ingredients of the courses from the
waiter, when the good lady thus intervened. I thanked her, and
explaining my difficulty told her that I was at a loss to know which
of the courses were vegetarian as I did not understand French.
'Let me help you,' she said. 'I shall explain the card to you and show you
what you may eat.' I gratefully availed myself of her help. This was
the beginning of an acquaintance that ripened into friendship and
was kept up all through my stay in England and long after. She gave
me her London address and invited me to dine at her house every
Sunday. On special occasions also she would invite me, help me to
conquer my bashfulness and introduce me to young ladies and draw me
into conversation with them. Particularly marked out for these
conversations was a young lady who stayed with her, and often we
would be left entirely alone together.
I found all this very trying at first. I could not start a conversation nor
could I indulge in any jokes. But she put me in the way. I began to
learn; and in course of time looked forward to every Sunday and came
to like the conversations with the young friend.
The old lady went on spreading her net wider every day. She felt interested
in our meetings. Possibly she had her own plans about us.
I was in a quandary. 'How I wished I had told the good lady that I was
married!' I said to myself. 'She would then have not thought of an
engagement between us. It is, however, never too late to mend. If I
declare the truth, I might yet be saved more misery.' With these
thoughts in my mind, I wrote a letter to her somewhat to this
effect:
Ever since we met at Brighton you have been kind to me. You have taken
care of me even as a mother of her son. You also think that I should
get married and with that view you have been introducing me to young
ladies. Rather than allow matters to go further, I must confess to
you that I have been unworthy of your affection. I should have told
you when I began my visits to you that I was married. I knew that
Indian students in England dissembled the fact of their marriage and
I followed suit. I now see that I should not have done so. I must
also add that I was married while yet a boy, and am the father of a
son. I am pained that I should have kept this knowledge from you so
long. But I am glad God has now given me the courage to speak out
the truth. Will you forgive me? I assure you I have taken no
improper liberties with the young lady you were good enough to
introduce to me. I knew my limits. You, not knowing that I was
married, naturally desired that we should be engaged. In order that
things should not go beyond the present stage, I must tell you the
truth.
'If on receipt of this, you feel that I have been unworthy of your
hospitality, I assure you I shall not take it amiss. You have laid
me under an everlasting debt of gratitude by your kindness and
solicitude. If, after this, you do not reject me but continue to
regard me as worthy of your hospitality , which I will spare no
pains to deserve, I shall naturally be happy and count it a further
token of your kindness.'
Let the reader know that I could not have written such a letter in a moment.
I must have drafted and redrafted it many times over. But it lifted
a burden that was weighing me down. Almost by return post came her
reply somewhat as follows:
'I have your frank letter. We were both very glad and had a hearty laugh
over it. The untruth you say you have been guilty of is pardonable.
But it is well that you have acquainted us with the real state of
things. My invitation still stands and we shall certainly expect you
next Sunday and look forward to hearing all about your
child-marriage and to the pleasure of laughing at your expense. Need
I assure you that our friendship is not in the least affected by
this incident?'
I thus purged myself of the canker of untruth, and I never thenceforward
hesitated to talk of my married state wherever necessary.