Ajit stopped to buy a pan to chew. The panwallah carefully wrapped the tobacco, lime and spices into a green leaf, at the same time chatting to Ajit who was evidently a regular customer. Ajit asked him to make up a very small pan for me, which I took and trustfully put into my mouth, only to spit it out again with a fine disregard for good manners.
‘It was so bitter,’ I moaned, wiping my mouth with a handkerchief.
The panwallah grinned, and Babu looked regretful at such waste.
The panwallah’s wife was squatting before the fire, slapping dough into rounds between her hands, preparatory to cooking it on an iron plate. She said something to her husband.
The man looked worried and spoke rapidly to Ajit, while Ajit chewed his pan and nodded now and then.
‘What did he say?’ I asked curiously.
‘He warned me that a dacoit leader was believed to have come from Kathiawar to the Criminal Tribe village near our house. He said I should be careful that you are not kidnapped.’
‘Kidnapped?’ I laughed. ‘Surely not in these days.’
‘Robbery is more likely. This dacoit, Vallabhai, must have come so near to a big town for a special reason. He must know of some travellers passing through or an isolated wealthy house to rob. You must keep the doors locked while I am away, however, and I will tell Chowkidar that he must stay near the flats.’
It sounded like an excerpt from a comic opera, and I could not feel frightened about it; but I promised to keep the doors bolted.
Babu had, of course, heard the warning, and he said mournfully: ‘Sahib, tell Memsahib to put away her silver ornaments, not leave them on a shelf. Silver will bring Vallabhai to our dwelling like a vulture to a dead camel.’
Ajit translated. I was amused.
‘I am not going to bury our pretty things when the flat badly needs something to make it look more pleasant.’ I glanced at Babu. ‘Babu is quick to notice. I have only had time today just to unpack – never mind arrange the silver. There is nothing very valuable, anyway.’
Ajit said to Babu that what we had was of little value, and Vallabhai would never know what our house contained.
Babu sulked.
That night while we slept Babu packed his creaky tin trunk with his few clothes, his sacred picture of the Lord Krishna, a tin of cooking fat, a tin of tea, most of our precious wheat ration, and seven rupees and five annas of the housekeeping money. Some time in the early morning he let himself out of the back door, and, with his trunk balanced on his head, he loped away back to his village. Either my mania about insects or fear of Vallabhai or Ajit’s complaints about bad washing of the veranda or, perhaps, just a desire to see his mother, had proved too much for him, and away he went, never to be seen by us again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Nulini had visited Bimla Chand Rana on the same day on which Mrs Singh gave Ajit the three saris for me. When she returned home she left Bimla seated on a cushion under a mango tree in her father’s courtyard stabbing murderously at a piece of embroidery. Bimla’s face was contorted with rage. So, she thought, Ajit has married an English woman, a dirty, casteless English woman. She cursed him with curses that scandalised her long-suffering and bewildered Ayah.
‘Do not use such words,’ said Ayah. ‘They are unbecoming to Rana Sahib’s daughter.’
‘I know what is becoming,’ screamed Bimla, her high Punjabi temper in full vent, and she shoved her needle in and out of the cloth as if it was Ajit she was impaling. ‘Go away!’
Ayah had no inkling of what had caused her charge’s outburst, and she went and sat a few yards away while she thought about it.
‘I, Bimla Chand Rana,’ muttered Bimla, as she savagely bit her embroidery silk at the end of a line of cross stitch, ‘the handsomest woman in the district, to be bypassed by that pudding head of an Ajit in favour of a vulgar Western female!’
She threw her embroidery at a squirrel, who scuttled up the tree in fright, and sat and sulked. She did not wish to betray Nulini, so she did not go to her father, feeling sure that Ram Singh would be communicating with Kasher Chand Rana about the marriage; but the day came when her Ayah said that Ajit was leaving for Shahpur, and still she had heard nothing from her father. Finally, she could endure the suspense no longer, so one morning she put on her best veil and a new shirt and strode to her father’s room, Ayah fluttering after her and longing to know what was amiss.
Swallowing hard, she knocked and entered. Her father was alone, working on his private account book. Taking an old servant’s privilege, Ayah slipped into the room as well.
Kasher Chand Rana looked up nervously and pushed his spectacles further up his nose. Both his wife and daughter had high tempers and shrill voices, and there were times when he expressed the opinion that a dumb woman would be a priceless pearl. Mercifully, both women had also a full allowance of Punjabi charm and just enough self-control not to shriek at him in public. He was, therefore, under the illusion that nobody knew that he was third in command in his house. Unfortunately, his servants kept his friends’ servants well informed and he was famous as a thoroughly henpecked husband.
He clasped his small, clawlike hands before him and lifted up a face on which trepidation was clearly written.
‘Well, daughter?’
The story poured out. Kasher Chand Rana was surprised but not angry. In the background Ayah punctuated the recital with horrified exclamations.
‘It is not Dr Singh’s fault,’ he said. ‘It is Ajit’s. We must tell your mother – she will not like it.’ He sighed and twiddled his wispy moustache. ‘And your grandmother, I suppose – what will she say?’ He sighed again at the horrid prospect before him. ‘How did you find out?’
Reluctantly Bimla told of Nulini’s visit.
‘How did she know? It may be only a rumour.’
Bimla’s loyalty to Nulini made it impossible for her to say how Nulini probably got her information, so she said: ‘I don’t know. You should go and see Dr Singh.’
‘I will inquire,’ he said.
‘Go now-please, Father,’ demanded Bimla.
‘Yes, yes, child,’ said her father resignedly, and he got up from his chair and shuffled about looking for his slippers. Ayah found them and put them on his feet. ‘I will go now – although it is already hot.’
Satisfied, Bimla left him. Ayah brought him water, while he was waiting for his carriage.
‘Ayah, no one must know of this yet.’
‘Sahib,’ she said reproachfully, ‘I have served you faithfully for forty years.’
‘I have malaria, Ayah. My hands are shaking. And I shall have to start marriage negotiations all over again. It is trying, very trying. And where did Nulini Singh get this gossip – it may well be gossip, Ayah.’
‘It is truth, I think, Sahib. Nulini Singh is likely to know the truth.’
‘Why?’
Ayah shrank away.
‘I demand to know,’ said Chand Rana sharply.
Ayah whispered into his ear.
He looked shocked. ‘Ridiculous,’ he said. ‘How dare you say such a thing – you are not to purvey such damaging gossip in my house – I am surprised at you.’
‘I have seen him look at her with love, Sahib,’ said Ayah defensively.
‘Absolutely ridiculous,’ said Chand Rana. ‘Probably her husband told her.’
The carriage came.
Kasher Chand Rana spent half an hour discussing politics and drinking tea, before he could gather courage enough to ask Ram Singh about his son’s marriage, and just as he broached the subject Mrs Singh came into the room followed by Thakkur bearing a special sweetmeat which she desired Kasher Chand Rana to try. The servant retired, but Mrs Singh showed no signs of going away again, so he was forced to speak in front of her and to nibble the confection with which she presented him.
He mentioned that he had heard a rumour, a most extraordinary rumour which he felt was unlikely to be true, but as his own family was involved, would Ram Singh be so good as
to confirm or deny it?
Ram Singh could not imagine how Chand Rana had heard about the marriage, but it was the only source of rumour which could possibly have driven him to visit his friend in the middle of the hottest afternoon of the year.
‘My friend – er – this distresses me very much – er – I cherish your friendship very much – I – er …’
‘I understand,’ said Chand Rana glumly and absentmindedly took another sweet.
Mrs Singh covered her face with her sari and the study was silent. It was a difficult moment for them all.
At last Ram Singh said: ‘I am sure you will have no difficulty in finding another husband for Bimla. However, if you would care to consider another boy from our family, my brother has a son of the same age as Bimla – a fine young man, who will inherit a share in his father’s silk mill. He is a handsome boy, nearly six feet tall and of good proportions. If you would … if I might suggest …’, and he looked at his friend slyly, ‘I would be very pleased to act as mediator.’
Chand Rana, who had been imagining the screaming fury of his wife when he broke the news of Ajit’s marriage to her, was immediately interested. It would be something with which to placate her.
‘Six feet tall, did you say?’ he asked hopefully, ‘and of what kind of nature?’
Ram Singh knew all about the distaff side of his friend’s family, and he said: ‘Of a most determined nature. He was very disappointed when it appeared that Ajit would marry Bimla. He has seen her here – and I think he would be delighted to have the honour of marrying her. My brothers also would find pleasure in an alliance with your respected family.’
The two men grinned at each other, and behind her veil Mrs Singh giggled with relief.
Chand Rana nodded his bald head. ‘Will you arrange a meeting with your respected brother?’
‘Certainly.’
They talked a little longer and then Khan was sent to fetch Chand Rana’s carriage. Ram Singh accompanied his friend to the front door and paused on the threshold. A little anxiously, he said: ‘My friend, at this time, the marriage of my son is a source of anxiety to me and we have decided not to make it known for the time being. May I count on your discretion in this matter?’
‘Of course – and I will instruct my family not to mention it until you announce it.’
Kasher Chand Rana told Bimla as gently as he could that Ajit had indeed married someone else. Bimla wept and Mrs Chand Rana’s voice reached new heights of shrillness as she held forth on the stupidity of the man that her parents had made her marry.
Kasher Chand Rana waited patiently until Bimla’s tears of frustration ceased and his wife’s upbraiding had been reduced to a recitation of the foolish things he had done in the past, and then he mentioned casually that he had heard that a most handsome young man was secretly in love with his pretty daughter.
The pretty daughter pushed her ruffled hair back from her face, and with a thread of excitement in her voice demanded to know his name.
Her father settled himself more comfortably on the mattress on which he had deposited himself, and added dryly that the young man would one day be very rich.
His wife’s voice snapped off as sharply as if she had been turned off like a radio, and she became very attentive.
‘The young man is very handsome indeed,’ said Kasher Chand Rana.
The women forgot about Ajit and clamoured to know more.
He refused to say who it was, but promised to make further inquiries, and in the meantime they were to keep Ajit’s marriage a secret, for the sake of Dr Singh, who was, after all, their very good friend.
‘If a rumour of this marriage comes to me from any corner,’ he said threateningly, ‘I shall know who started the gossip – and I shall stop all negotiations regarding Bimla’s prospects with the young man of whom I have heard.’
At such a dreadful threat, both Mrs Chand Rana and Bimla quailed and promised faithfully that neither of them would mention the subject, and Bimla went back to her embroidery which lay under the mango tree. There she sat down to dream of an admirer as beautiful as a Rajput prince; and her Ayah marvelled at the unaccustomed peace.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Babu’s departure was a blow to me, but Ajit took it more philosophically.
‘They all do it sooner or later,’ he said. ‘I expect he has just gone home.’
‘Gone home – without notice?’
‘Without giving notice,’ he said, sitting on the edge of the bed and rumpling his hair wearily.
‘We must manage for a few days,’ he added, ‘until I can find another boy. Just make the simplest of food.’
I bit my lips. I had seen very little of Babu’s activities in the kitchen, and had no idea as yet how to cook even simple Indian food. Without at least eggs, English food seemed out of the question.
‘I’ll light a cooking fire for you, before I take my bath,’ Ajit said.
He looked so harassed that I bent and kissed him, and told him not to worry, that I would manage. I knew that the amount of work he was doing was growing with the power house and that the Chief Engineer was down with malaria; his load was enough, without domestic difficulties being added to it.
I improvised a breakfast and sent him off to work looking quite happy, but I felt far from happy myself.
The cooking fire had gone out, so I washed the dishes by scrubbing them with sand and rinsing them under the tap, as I had seen Babu do. The water, unconfined by any sink, splashed over the floor and over my sandals. I kicked off the sandals and thereafter went barefooted. I tore up an old sheet and mopped up the water.
My legs ached from squatting on my heels as I washed the dishes, but the rest of the house was full of sand and dust, so I took Babu’s bunch of rushes and swept the floors in a kneeling position. The ache extended to my back.
With a stiffer rush broom I scrubbed the bathroom floor, again squatting on my heels. The water from the tap was already warm from the sun.
Leaving a trail of wet footprints across the rooms, I went back to the kitchen. Heat was already invading the house, and my hair was wet with perspiration. My cotton frock was already dust laden and the hem was soaked from my scrubbing efforts in the bathroom. I went to the water cooler for a drink, but it was empty. I remembered then that Babu boiled water in the evening and let it cool overnight; he had evidently not done so the previous evening. I set the clay vessel under the tap and filled it.
To hoist a two-gallon pot from floor level to shoulder height requires some skill. I lifted the pot by the rim, but it was too heavy for me, and I had just decided that I must empty it, put it back on to the stand and then ladle water into it, when the pot settled the question by bursting at the bottom and flooding the newly cleaned kitchen.
‘Damn,’ I said.
After wringing the water out of the skirt of my dress, I painstakingly swept the pools on the floor down the drain in the corner of the room.
It was getting late, and Ajit would soon be home for lunch, so I hastily piled charcoal into the cooking stove and lit some newspaper under it, then lifted the stove with the tongs and placed it outside the back door so that the wind could fan the charcoal into flame. The wind merely blew the charred paper out of the stove, through the kitchen door and on to the damp floor.
I tried not to cry, but the tears came. How I longed for even an old-fashioned English kitchen range.
More paper was stuffed into the recalcitrant stove. I lit it and it blew out again, and more charred newsprint was added to that already stuck on the kitchen floor.
I sobbed quietly and prepared to try again. I was kneeling on the sand outside the kitchen door, tearing up yet another newspaper, when I realised that someone in that lonely place was watching me. Slowly I looked round.
Almost immediately behind me stood a tall, thin man dressed in the red turban, white jacket and loincloth of a countrymen. He lacked, however, a countrymans’ moustache and the face was hard, seamed and very dark. The thin lips we
re curled in cynical amusement, and, as he stepped up beside me, he fingered a wooden-handled dagger, half concealed in his silver belt.
I jumped up and backed towards the door, but the man lifted his hand from the dagger and made a conciliatory gesture. Slowly he laid his staff against the wall. His eyes, which were almond-shaped and light like a goat’s, looked me up and down insolently, as he squatted down in front of the stove.
I stood ready for flight while he lifted half the charcoal off the fire and at the same time addressed me. Although his language was something akin to Gujerati I did not understand it, and he glanced up at me with a keen, hard glance. I was again reminded of a goat.
He half-smiled. I doubt if he had ever seen such a dishevelled Memsahib as me.
Pronouncing the words carefully, he said: ‘Bring kerosene.’
‘Of course. Why had I not thought of it before? Comforted by the English words, I ran to the storeroom and after sniffing at several bottles found one with kerosene in it. I took it to him and he sprinkled it over the charcoal and lit it. Deftly he set the stove so that it caught the wind and in a few seconds a fire was roaring. He picked up the pincers and handed them to me, so that I could lift the stove into the kitchen. For a second his fingers touched mine. His face was close to me, and my words of thanks died on my lips. I saw the peculiarly light eyes flicker, and sudden fear gripped me. He made a half step towards me.
With the pincers I snatched up the blazing fire and whipped it between us. In that moment I was more afraid than I had ever been in my life.
‘Namaste, Memsahib,’ said Udharbhai, as he rounded the corner of the building.
The stranger moved smoothly away from me, picked up his staff, raised his hand in salute, and then, mopping his face with his sweat rag, he passed Udharbhai and swung swiftly down the path to the Criminal Tribe village.
Udharbhai watched him go.
‘Who is he, Chowkidar Sahib?’ I asked Udharbhai, my voice trembling.
‘He is a stranger, Memsahib. The Mem must door lock. Strangers no safe.’
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