After two months, Mohan, a bright student with a cheerful, winning smile, and Amrit were united in marriage. Amrit’s father gave a huge party, and she brought a big dowry. I had never seen a more perfectly matched and deeply in love couple. After one year, they were blessed with a son whom they named Satnam. Mohan’s father threw a big party on the birth of his grandson, and I attended the celebrations. Amrit looked more charming and bewitching than before. Mohan did his M.A. and decided to go to Oxford to do his Ph.D. Amrit was heartbroken, but Mohan promised to return after two years and requested Amrit to complete her B.A.
Mohan flew to England, and Amrit received her B.A. All expected Mohan to come back. Somehow, Mohan was delayed for one more year. Amrit, who taught at the village girl school, was disappointed at the delay, but she was sure Mohan would be true to her.
I suspected Mohan was running after other woman and wrote to him. He wrote to me he was working hard and was being true to Amrit. In those days, polygamy was prevalent in India. The maharajahs had big harems, and the rich could have as many wives as they could afford. Mohan’s great-grandfather and grandfather had three wives, and his father had two women. It was the symbol of their family status. So Mohan had the wrong genes. I prayed for Mohan and Amrit.
After staying three years in England, Mohan returned with a Ph.D. and started teaching at Khalsa College, Amritsar. We were stunned to find a young British girl, Carol, with him. He introduced her to me as his friend, who had come to visit India for a few months. I, however, doubted his words but could do nothing. Amrit remained at Mohan’s village and taught at the village high school. The servants told me that Mohan was sleeping with the visitor, and I confronted him.
“Mohan, why are you not bringing Amrit and your son to stay with you?”
“All right, I won’t lie to you. Carol is my wife. My ancestors all had more than two wives, and my father is proud of my having one more wife.”
“What about poor Amrit?”
“She is content and happy like my mother.”
I was disgusted and left him without saying another word.
I met Amrit in the corridor of the Golden Temple. She never said a word against Mohan and only blamed her Karma. She had become very pious, but she had wrinkles under her eyes, and her charming smile had vanished. I pitied her. As she spoke to me, she clung to her son, who was six years old. I could easily see her inner suffering.
About Raghbir Dhillon
