An extraordinary girl

My Husband’s Solicitude for Me and My Son

By the time I visited the Ashram with my child, my married life had already come to an end, though my husband continued to visit our house in Calcutta.

My child was my only preoccupation now — "the jewel of my eye" as the Bengali expression goes. However, I had unfortunately learned very little about child-care, and neither had my mother, even after Sri Aurobindo enquired during our visit about his complexion, his speech and hearing defects and other physical problems. The crisis came later when my son had a severe attack of diphtheria. As the condition became critical, I could think of nothing better than to telephone my husband and ask him to come to our assistance.

He was furious. "Why are you calling me now?" he demanded. "When I asked you to get the boy vaccinated against cholera, smallpox, diphtheria, polio and the rest, you refused point-blank. Now pay for it. But listen: diphtheria is extremely contagious. Take my advice and send the child to a nursing home to avoid catching the disease yourself."

"What?" I exploded, "I shouldn't nurse my own child? Since when is a mother's life more precious than her son's? How dare you sit at a safe distance and give me this fiendish advice? Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

Despite this outburst, I did send for the doctor; my son's condition was such that I could not do otherwise. He could scarcely breathe and his whole face had turned bluish. But by God's grace the doctor was able to save him.

There was a kinder side to my husband's nature though, which showed itself in the following incident. I was suffering from typhoid. The fever continued for days, but my doctor persisted with his treatment and gave me hope. My husband, somehow hearing of my illness, came to see me, even though I had told my doctor not to inform him or let him visit me.

As soon as my husband saw me he realised that the

treatment was at fault, and that the doctor would have to be changed. Turning a deaf ear to my protests, he called in an eminent physician. The latter perceived at once that the treatment I had been receiving was indeed wrong. My brain had been affected, and had the correct treatment been delayed by two more days the damage would have been irreparable. So it was that my husband saved me, and that too at considerable financial cost.

When I recovered, I asked him why he had bothered about me. He knew full well that after my recovery, my attitude towards him would not change and that I would go on fighting him tooth and nail.

"I know your ingratitude," he replied. "But I couldn't let you die before my eyes." He said this even while our divorce case was still in progress. Such was our curious marital relationship.

My son was also to be a beneficiary of his care and generosity. Aside from his other disabilities, my child had knock-knees and flat feet. He could not stand erect or walk straight. To balance he had to shuffle forward with his feet wide apart. One day his father came to visit us and saw his pitiable condition. He was greatly upset. "What have you done to the child?" he exclaimed, horrified. "Don't you know that if this defect isn't corrected now, the boy will be a lifelong cripple? I am taking him to a doctor immediately — his legs must be put in plaster."

"You'll do nothing of the sort!" I retorted vehemently. "If his feet are put in plaster how will he walk? His life will become miserable — "

"Would you prefer him to be a cripple for life? What kind of misery will he suffer when he will see that he can't stand up and move about with his friends? How do you think he'll feel then? Won't he curse both of us? I can't allow this — he's my child as well as yours. Though you have never listened to me in any matter, this time I'm going to have it my own way."

As my husband had predicted, the doctor had the child put in a plaster jacket from hips to toes. For about two years, my son remained imprisoned in his white sepulchre. When finally the plaster was removed and I saw the condition of his feet and legs I burst into tears. The skin had sloughed off and there were wounds everywhere. The child wept with pain as the injuries were treated with medicine and dressed. Slowly his condition improved, but the doctor was of the opinion that he would have to be put in plaster a second time. As the days passed, however, it became apparent that this would not be necessary — the boy could walk adequately with crutches. Little by little he started to go to school, and after a year he had dispensed with his crutches and could walk normally. What a joy for both father and son! It made even the ten thousand rupees he had spent on his child's treatment fade into insignificance.

Though my husband had many serious faults this one bright spot shone through. He could not bear to see suffering, either in his relatives, his servants, or even in total strangers. He would take up each case and bear the financial burden of the treatment. Such is God's creation! The varied combinations and contradictions of traits found in human beings are both baffling and amazing.

After my son's recovery, I again went against my husband's wishes and had him admitted in St. Xavier's School. He objected, saying that missionary schools spoilt the children's character by christianising them and giving them a foreign mentality rather than allowing them to retain a love for their own religion and their motherland. I replied that there was no alternative as no other good private or government schools were available. My husband pointed out that he had not had a bad education himself even without attending a missionary school, to which I answered that he had been a brilliant student, whereas our child was not. That ended the debate, and for once I believe that my point of view turned out to be the correct one. I had to take my son to school and bring him back every day in my car. I followed this routine for years and came to know the Jesuit Fathers at the School; a friendship grew up with them which turned out later to be most fruitful.