This hung on the air and did not cease to do so after she replied “You’re jealous, Harry, that’s what it is. Yes you are!” She laughed. “You want to be the only one – I mean,” she said, “in the Palace, the only guest there.” She said this last bit quickly but not quickly enough. She was blushing now and felt entangled.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll go.”
He got up and moved to the door, putting on his solar topee. She felt that now – out of pride, or to prove her innocence – she ought to be the one to hang back. She hesitated for a moment but found that she did not, after all, have enough pride (or innocence) for that. She followed him quite quickly to the car.
That journey was uncomfortable, and not only because of heat and dust. They hardly spoke, as if angry with each other. Yet Olivia was not angry, and once or twice she did try to talk to him but what came out might as well have been left unsaid. She could not bring herself to speak about what was disturbing her – she was afraid that, if she did, she might say more than she meant; or he might misinterpret whatever it was she did mean.
Suddenly Harry said “There he is.”
A red open sports car was parked across the road. As they approached, the Nawab, wearing a checked cap and motorist’s goggles, stood up in it and made traffic policeman gestures. They stopped, he said “Where have you been? I have been waiting and waiting.”
He had come to meet them because he wanted to go to Baba Firdaus’ shrine. He was tired of being shut up in the Palace, he said. He invited them to climb into his sports car which he was driving himself. When Harry said he didn’t feel like it, he wanted to go home, the Nawab wasted no more time on him but said “You come, Olivia.”
She too wasted no time on Harry but got in beside the Nawab. They drove away in one direction while the chauffeur drove Harry in the other. He could be seen sitting alone at the back of the limousine, looking pale and cross.
“Why is he so cross?” the Nawab asked Olivia. “Do you think he is ill? Is he ill? Has he said anything to you?”
He was deeply concerned and continued, for most of the way, to talk about Harry. He said he knew Harry was often homesick and wanted to go back to England to see his mother; and the Nawab wanted him to go but at the same time – “Olivia, can you understand this, does it sound very selfish”-he could not bring himself to part with him. “I can see you think I am very selfish,” he concluded sadly.
She knew it was not necessary to contradict. Her role was to listen and she was content with that; also to be next to him and sometimes to steal a look at him where he sat dressed up in cap and goggles and steering his car.
“Often I have wanted to say to him: ‘Harry, your Mother wants you at home, you also want to be with her: go.’ Sometimes I have said. Once everything was done, his berth booked, his baggage packed. At the last moment I broke down. I could not tolerate this parting. Then it was he who said ‘no I shall stay’ . . . Now we have to get out and walk, will it be too hot for you, Olivia?”
He led the way up the rocky path to Baba Firdaus’ grove. He went on talking and she listened to him and so did not much feel the sun beating down.
He said “There are certain people who if they are absent life becomes hard to bear. Once I asked a fakir from Ajmere (a very holy person): ‘Why these people? Why they and not others?’ He gave me the following reply which I like very much: ‘These are the people who once sat close to you in Paradise.’ It is a beautiful idea, isn’t it, Olivia? That we sat close to each other once in Paradise.”
They had arrived in the grove. He parted the branches for her, they entered. But just as they did so, some men emerged from the shrine. Olivia had a shock. They were rough and armed and for a moment they stared dangerously at the Nawab and Olivia. But next moment, realising who it was, they fell at the Nawab’s feet.
He told Olivia to sit under a tree. She watched him talk to the men. He was easy and familiar with them. They stood before him in an attitude of humility and with a look of adoration on their desperado faces. She was quite sure they were desperadoes. She studied them – they looked like mediaeval bandits – but not once did they dare glance in her direction. The Nawab dismissed them quite soon, then called her into the shrine.
“Look what I have brought,” he said.
He held two lengths of red string. She tied hers first, then he tied his. Afterwards he asked “What did you wish?”
“Is one supposed to tell?”
“If there is only one person there with you . . . You know what women come here for? What they wish? Is that what you wished also?”
“Yes, “she said.
“Ah.”
There was a silence; then he said: “It is all superstition. But perhaps it is true. It may be true; there are many stories of miracles that have happened. You have heard the story of the Husband’s Wedding Day? Of course it is all quite unscientific, and educated people like you and I –”
“Still we did tie strings.”
“Only for fun.”
“Who were those men?”
He didn’t answer at once, and when he did, it was with another question: “Who do you think they were?” He gave her one of his shrewd looks, then laughed: “I suppose you think they are bad men. You must have heard many stories, I think, isn’t it, and you believe they are true.” Again she felt she did not have to defend herself or answer him.
“But if they are bad men,” he went on, “I think they can’t be so very bad because look what they have come here for.” He pointed to the mound in the shrine on which some fresh garlands had just been laid and sticks of incense were still smouldering. “You see, they did not come for any bad purpose but to pay their devotions.”
He looked at her as if testing her reaction. But she had no reaction, only some very strong physical sensations. The vast simmering plain of heat surrounding the grove trickled here and there through the leaves. The Nawab’s overwhelming presence was concentrated now on her alone.
“Come,” he said. “Sit with me.”
Both sat on the step leading into the shrine. He spoke to her in a gentle, reasoning voice: “Yes perhaps they are outlaws, it is true, but still they are human beings who come here – you see – to pray and tell their wishes. Like you and I also.” He was silent for a while, as if to let her feel the truth of his words; or perhaps the communion between himself and her, to let that sink in.
“When we go from here, Olivia, will you go back to Satipur and say yes, the Nawab is a bad person, now I have seen with my own eyes that he meets with outlaws, dacoits – he is hand in glove with them. You will go back and say that, Olivia?”
Now he was really waiting for an answer, and she did not hesitate to give him one. “Do you really believe I’d do that,” she said with such sincerity – indeed, indignation – that he was satisfied with her. He respectfully touched her arm with his finger-tips.
“No I don’t believe,” he said. “And this is why I open my heart to you and tell you everything . . . Don’t think please that I want you to say only he is a very good person, a fine and noble soul. Not at all. Of course I would like to be a fine and noble soul – it is necessary for all of us to strive for this – but also I know how far I am from such a goal. Yes very far indeed,” he said and looked discouraged.
“Who isn’t,” Olivia said. He touched her arm in the same way as before, and partly she wished he wouldn’t and partly she longed for him to do it again.
“You are right. We are all far from it. But there are some people – many people,” he said, pausing to let her think who they were: “They make themselves into judges over others, saying this is good, this bad, as if they are all-knowing. Who is Major Minnies that he should say to me don’t do this, and don’t do that, who has given him the right to say this to me? To me!” he said, incredulously pointing at himself. “To the Nawab Sahib of Khatm.” He was speechless for a moment.
“Do you know how we got our title? It was in 1817. My ancestor, Amanullah Khan, ha
d been fighting for many, many years. Sometimes he fought the Mahrattas, sometimes the Rajputs or the Moghuls or the British. Those were very disturbed times. He went from place to place with his men, wherever there was fighting and booty to be picked up. They had to live, all of them! Sometimes, when he did not have the wherewithal to pay his soldiers, they mutinied against him and then he had to flee not from the enemy but from his own men, can you imagine! But when things picked up for him again, they all came back and others also joined him. So sometimes he was very up and sometimes quite down. Such was his life. Olivia: I envy him. His name was feared by everyone – including the British! When they saw they could not subdue him by any means, then they wanted him for their ally. Oh they were always very cunning people and knew which way to take out their own advantage. They offered him the lands and revenues of Khatm and also the title of Nawab. And because he was tired at that time, he said yes all right and he became a Nawab and sat down here. Because he was tired.” He became gloomy. “But I think you can get tired also sitting in a palace. Then you feel it would be better not to have anything but to fight your enemies and kill them. You feel you would like to do that very much. Don’t you think, Olivia, it is better to meet your enemies in this way than to have them secretly plotting against you and whispering slanders? I think it is very much better!” he cried, suddenly very upset.
She put out her hand and laid it on his chest as if to soothe him. And really he was soothed; he said “How kind you are to me.” He laid his hand on top of hers and pressed it closer against his chest. She felt drawn to him by a strength, a magnetism that she had never yet in all her life experienced with anyone.
“Listen,” he said. “Once it happened that a Marwar prince did something to displease him. I think he did not offer opium out of the correct silver chalice – it was only a very small thing, but Amanullah Khan was not the man to sit quiet when insulted. Not like me.” When she began to protest, he said “I have to, what can I do. I am helpless . . . He invited this Marwar prince and all his retainers to a feast. A ceremonial tent was put up and all preparations made and the guests came ready to eat and drink. Amanullah Khan greeted his enemy at the door of the tent and folded him to his heart. But when they were all inside, he gave a secret sign and his men cut the ropes of the tent and the Marwar prince and all his party were entangled within the canvas. When they were trapped there like animals, Amanullah Khan and his men took their daggers and stabbed with them through the canvas again and again till there was not one enemy left alive. We still have that tent and the blood is so fresh and new, Olivia, it is as if it had happened yesterday.” He must have felt that she was trying to remove her hand from his heart so he held it against himself tighter. She could not escape him now, even if she had wanted to.
“Not here,” he said. He led her away from the shrine and they lay together under a tree. Afterwards he made a joke: “It is the secret of the Husband’s Wedding Day,” he said.
“Then what did you make me tie the string for?” she asked.
He laughed and laughed, well pleased with her.
31 July. Maji has informed me that I am pregnant. At first I didn’t believe her – how could anyone possibly tell so early, even if it were true – but she was absolutely certain. Moreover, she has warned me that I had better be careful because soon all the midwives in town would come to me to offer their services. They always know, she said, long before anyone else does. They can tell by the way a woman walks and holds herself. That is their business and they are always on the look-out for custom. There is no doubt, she said, that soon they would get on to me.
She was so positive that I have begun to believe her. I assumed that she knew by some kind of second sight – it always seems to me that she has powers that others don’t. Once I had a headache and she put her hand on my forehead and I can’t describe the strange sensations transmitted to me. They lasted for days. So I thought that nothing about Maji would ever surprise me – until she told me, quite casually, that she knew about me because she herself had been a midwife. That surprised me more than if she actually had revealed supernatural powers.
She laughed at my reaction. She said what did I think, that she had always led this idle life of hers? Not at all. She had been a married woman and had had several children. Unfortunately her husband had not been much of a breadwinner – he had preferred his toddy and the company of friends gathered around the toddy shop – so the burden of looking after the family had fallen on her. Her mother had been a midwife and so had her grandmother and both had taught her all they knew. (I wondered about her mother and grandmother – they might have been the women who had attended Olivia! It was possible.) But after her husband died and her children were settled, she gave up her profession and spent several years going to holy places to pick up whatever instruction she could. Finally she had come back here to Satipur and built herself this little hut to live in. Her friends have been looking after her ever since, bringing her what food she needs so she doesn’t have a care in the world. Her children all live rather far away, but sometimes one or other of them comes to visit her or writes her a letter.
I was so surprised to hear all this – having never thought of her as having had a worldly life – that I quite forgot what she had told me about myself. It was she who reminded me; she laid her hand on my abdomen and asked me what I intended to do. She said she would help me if I wanted help – I didn’t understand her at first, and it was only when she repeated it that I realised she was offering me an abortion. She said I could trust her completely, for although it is many years since she has practised professionally, she still knows all there is to know about these matters. There are several ways to procure an abortion and she has at one time or other performed all of them. It is a necessary part of an Indian midwife’s qualifications because in many cases it is the only way to save people from dishonour and suffering. She told me of various abortions she has performed in this good cause, and I was so fascinated that again I forgot all about my own case. But later, on the way home in the rain – the monsoon has started – I did think about it. Then my sensations were mainly of amusement and interest, so that I went skipping in and out of puddles, laughing to myself when I trod in them and got splashed.
15 August. Chid has come back. He is so changed that at first I could not recognise him. He no longer wears his orange robe but has acquired a pair of khaki pants and a shirt and a pair of shoes. Beads and begging bowl have also gone and his shaved hair is beginning to grow back in tiny bristles. From a Hindu ascetic he has become what I can only describe as a Christian boy. The transformation is more than outward. He has become very quiet – not only does he not talk in his former strain but he hardly talks at all. And he is ill again.
Apart from trips to the bathroom, he is mostly asleep in a corner of my room. He hasn’t told me anything about how or why he parted company with Inder Lal’s mother and Ritu. Nor do I have any idea what happened to him to change him this way. He doesn’t want to talk about it. The most he will say is “I can’t stand the smell” (Well of course I know what he means – the smell of people who live and eat differently from oneself; I used to notice it even in London when I was near Indians in crowded buses or tubes). Chid can’t bear Indian food any more. He will only accept plain boiled food, and what he likes best is when I make him an English soup. The smell of Indian cooking makes him literally cry out with nausea and disgust.
Inder Lal is very disappointed in him. He keeps waiting for the fireworks of high-flown Hindu doctrine to start again, but there is nothing like that left in Chid. In any case Inder Lal is not pleased with Chid’s return. I ought to explain that, after our picnic at Baba Firdaus’ shrine, there has been a change in my relationship with Inder Lal. He now comes up to my room at night. For the sake of the neighbours, he makes a pretence of going to sleep downstairs but when it is dark he comes creeping up. I’m sure everyone knows, but it doesn’t matter. They don’t mind. They realise that he is lonely and misses his fa
mily very much; no human being is meant to live without a family.
After Chid moved back in again, Inder Lal at first felt shy about his nightly visits. But I have assured him that it is all right because Chid is mostly sleeping. He just lies there and groans and it is difficult to believe that it is the same person who performed all those tremendous feats on me. Inder Lal and I lie on my bedding on the opposite side, and it is more and more delightful to be with him. He trusts me now completely and has become very affectionate. I think he prefers to be with me when it is dark. Then everything is hidden and private between us two alone. Also I feel it makes a difference that he cannot see me, for I’m aware that my appearance has always been a stumbling block to him. In the dark he can forget this and he also needn’t feel ashamed of me before others. He can let himself go completely, and he does. I don’t mean only physically (though that too) but everything there is in him-all his affection and playfulness. At such times I’m reminded of all those stories that are told of the child Krishna and the many pranks and high-spirited tricks he got up to. I also think of my pregnancy and I think of it as part of him. But I have not told him about it.
I have tried to tell him. I specially went to call for him at his office and took him across the road to the British graveyard, that being the most secluded spot I could think of. It is not a place he is at all interested in; in fact, he had never even bothered to go into it before. The only thing to make any impression on him was the Saunders’ Italian angel which can still be seen rearing above the other graves: no longer in benign benediction but as a headless, wingless torso. Inder Lal did not seem put out by this mutilation. Probably it seemed natural to him – after all, he has grown up among armless Apsarases and headless Sivas riding on what is left of their bulls. In its present condition indeed the angel no longer looks Italian but quite Indian.
I showed him Lt. Edwards’ grave and read out the inscription: ‘“Kind and indulgent Father but most conspicuous . . .’ It means,” I told Inder Lal, looking round at him, “he was a very good husband and father. Like you.”
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