Thursday's Child

by Helen Forrester

  ‘I will,’ I said feelingly, and I took the stove indoors and shot the bolt.

  I did not tell Ajit about the stranger, because he had warned me to keep indoors as much as possible and would surely upbraid me. As it was, he was delighted with the lentil soup and boiled rice which I had made and hugged me till my aching back throbbed with pain.

  Ajit again consulted the village headman about finding another servant, but the headman was ashamed that the boy his brother had recommended had left so quickly, and he was diffident about recommending anyone else. Ajit asked his friends, but they also were finding it hard to get servants. ‘The mills take them all,’ they sighed. I suggested that we advertise in the local newspaper, but Ajit pointed out that it would be unwise to take into our home a boy not personally vouched for by someone we knew. ‘He might open the door to robbers,’ said Ajit.

  So I learned to keep house by myself, and since there was no one to teach me, although Ajit did his best, I learned the hard way. The fact that we were so far from a bazaar made it even more difficult for me.

  Once a week I walked two miles through broiling heat to the ration shop to buy our wheat and rice. I took this home, spread it on a tray and spent several hours painstakingly picking out all the stones and other debris. Then I walked back to the miller, who lived next door to the ration shop, and handed him the precious wheat ration for grinding. I dared not entrust this task to anyone else since they would surely steal part of the ration. It was Kamala, however, who showed me how to avoid being swindled in another fashion. She happened to be in the mill one day and she showed me how to feel the flour from time to time, as it poured out of the grinder into the bag, in order to be certain that I was given wheat flour, instead of some inferior flour from a cheap grain already placed in the machine.

  At first, Ajit accompanied me to the bazaar, but as he was on his feet all day, to go into town in the evening became a burden. Further, the city had now relapsed into its usual calm and the police put away their rifles and returned to their traffic direction. Every other day, therefore, I made the trip to town for vegetables and fruit. I soon learned to bargain – but it took hours, and the walk from the bus stop to the flat seemed to get longer as the days passed and the heat and humidity increased.

  No washerman was prepared to come so far out of town to collect our laundry, so I learned to wash the clothes, sitting on my heels in the bathroom and pounding the garments on the stone floor; and I got used to wielding an iron while sweat rolled off me.

  Life seemed to be an endless circuit of work to be done and heavy loads to be carried; pain in my back and legs from doing all my tasks while squatting on my heels became my constant companion. I searched in vain in the bazaars for dishpans and brooms with handles – no one had ever heard of such peculiar things. Then dysentery struck at me, and with it came a lassitude that made a walk across a room seem too great a task to be undertaken.

  Ajit had not been able to show me how to make chupaties properly. It was an art which eluded both of us, with the result that as long as the rice ration lasted, we ate rice with our meals. When that was finished, we made different kinds of fried breads although these were too rich for daily consumption. Kamala showed me how to make village chupaties, but this heavy, indigestible bread was meant for men who worked all day in the fields and was not very palatable to us.

  One afternoon, sickened at the idea of again eating rice for dinner, I tucked myself into a sari and went to the city.

  The heat was a raving animal that clawed at my hair and clung to my legs so that it was hard to drag one after the other, and I was exhausted by the time I crawled into the bus, but I was determined to buy some European bread, which I knew was sold free of ration coupons in the Muslim bazaar if one was prepared to pay enough for it.

  The Muslim baker, whose shop was on the edge of the bazaar, knew me because I had bought biscuits and cake from him once or twice before, and when I said I wanted bread but had no coupons, he merely looked resigned, gave me two loaves and charged me double the usual price.

  The loaves smelled delicious and I took up the parcel lovingly and turned towards the door. The door seemed to recede from me, the floor spun under my feet and I fainted.

  I heard a man’s voice in the distance shouting: ‘Ma ji, Ma ji.’ Far away, there was a heavy flip-flap of sandals, I was lifted up, and a long time afterwards there was the feel of water on my face.

  ‘Allah be praised,’ said a voice in my ear.

  I opened my eyes. Three faces floated before me – a bearded man’s, a fat female’s swathed in dirty veiling, and the Madonna herself.

  I shut my eyes again – I was so tired. Someone chafed my hands.

  Wearily I forced my eyes open. I could not remember where I was, but I did not care much. If only I could sleep.

  Above me was a low, dark ceiling, smothered with cobwebs.

  The woman clucked with satisfaction and exclaimed over the light colour of my eyes.

  I lifted myself on one elbow. The Madonna became a young girl with a face so innocent that it was not surprising that I had mistaken her for the Mother of God. She was heavy with child, her shirt pulling tightly over her swollen figure.

  An old lady was rubbing my hands, her bracelets and earrings jingling as she worked. She smiled like the sun when she saw that I was recovering, her pan-stained teeth gleaming blackly in the poor light.

  The man with the beard was, of course, the baker and he retreated to the shop immediately I raised myself up.

  I was lying on some sacks in a grain storeroom, and I hastily swung my feet to the floor and made as if to get up, but the two women restrained me firmly.

  With their hands upon me, I remembered that I was a Hindu woman in the Muslim quarter, that my value in the white slave market was enormous and that no one knew where I was.

  I pushed the women aside and jumped to my feet, but the room dissolved around me and I must have fainted again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  When Ajit arrived home from work and saw the big padlock on the front door, he realised at once I must be out. I had never failed before to be at home when he returned from his work, and while he unlocked and entered he was already anxious about my absence. He guessed that I had gone into the city – and he remembered the smouldering unrest there. He prowled into the kitchen – no sign of cooking – I must have been gone for some time. His throat went dry, as he remembered the panwallah’s warning about the presence of dacoits from the east; it would be easy to kidnap a woman walking by herself in the bush. A sweat of fright redamped his shirt.

  He went to the veranda to peer down the track to the city, and reproached himself bitterly for failing to accompany me to the bazaar. There was no sign of me along the path. He looked at his watch – the next bus from the city was just due to arrive at the Pandipura terminus, and, as I might be in it, he decided to wait for fifteen minutes before setting out in search of me – it would take that long for me to walk from the bus stop to a point where he would be able to see my approach from the veranda.

  Far away, down the track, two moving clouds of dust appeared above the thorns.

  ‘Bullock carts-or tongas,’ thought Ajit. ‘I can ask if they have seen a white woman anywhere along the track – or perhaps she has hired herself a tonga.’ His fear turned to annoyance – I should have told him I was going out. Irritably, he kicked off his sandals.

  To fill in the time until the tongas should approach nearer, he prepared a cooking fire for me, and got out the vegetables and spices from the store cupboard ready for the preparation of the evening meal. If only electricity was cheaper, he thought, he could buy an electric stove and I would be saved so much labour. But our electricity bill was already heavy, for light and the running of the fan. Only when the power house was complete could we hope for cheaper power.

  The first vehicle, a tonga, arrived quicker than he had expected; and when he heard its bells, he ran down the steps so fast that his next-door neighbour
s, the three Misses Shah, who were descending from it, were quite overwhelmed by such an enthusiastic reception on their return from holiday.

  When he saw who had arrived, all his fear for me returned and his anger was quenched. Courtesy demanded, however, that he should help the ladies, so he advanced and called as cheerful a greeting as he could.

  He was immediately enveloped in a whirl of gaily coloured saris and flying pigtails. How was he? How was his wife? They had had a wonderful rest in the hills; dear papa and mama were happily settled up there. Had he any change with which to tip the tongawallah? Would he mind lifting that trunk out of the way of the wheels?

  It was not surprising that he failed to hear the jingling of the second vehicle – another tonga; and he jumped when a horse neighed close to him and a vaguely familiar voice called: ‘Sahib.’

  To the disgust of the eldest Miss Shah, her best tin trunk was dropped into the sand as if it was a bomb, and their neighbour leaped to the back of the second tonga.

  ‘Peggie,’ he cried, ‘Peggie, are you all right? Ramji, you do look white. What has happened?’

  I was laden with newspaper parcels and I dimpled wickedly at Ajit’s discomfiture, as I waited for Mohamed Ali to open the door.

  ‘Of course I’m all right, love,’ I said. ‘Just help me down and pay this man – he has been very kind.’ I handed out to Ajit a large parcel and said cryptically: ‘Forbidden fruit – be very careful how you handle it.’

  Mystified, he laid it and the other parcels in the sand and helped me down. I was still rather unsteady and clung to him for support, while the Misses Shah, silenced for once, watched with interest.

  Ajit produced four rupees from his pocket and handed them to the driver.

  Mohamed Ali’s beard twitched as if he was smiling and he salaamed, then he shouted to the other tongawallah to be careful while he turned. I hastily grabbed my precious parcels before they were trampled by the horses, and looked expectantly at the other ladies.

  Ajit introduced them, and in perfect English they chorused their welcome to Shahpur.

  They were plain women, their hair drawn stiffly back from their faces into long pigtails. No flowers were tucked into the pigtails and no jewellery relieved the solidarity of their square faces; and yet they had charm. Unlike most Indian women, they looked at me straightly. No side glances or coquetry for them; plain honesty had written itself into their expressions.

  I assured them that I was most pleased to have such pleasant neighbours, and I motioned to Ajit to move their luggage on to their veranda, while I invited them into our flat for tea before they unpacked.

  After a polite flutter of refusals, they were persuaded into our living-room where they hopped about like budgerigars from one English ornament to another, while I put the water to boil and brought in cups and saucers. I still felt dizzy and occasionally the floor heaved under my feet, but I was enjoying the sudden feminine invasion very much.

  They declared the English method of making tea far superior to their own and smacked their lips appreciatively as they sipped, although I doubt if they really liked it.

  Finally, armed with a water pot of cooled water from our kitchen and some boiled milk, they departed to unpack, and I was alone with Ajit.

  He also had enjoyed the fresh company, but occasionally I saw him glance at me anxiously over his teacup, and now the flat was quiet again, he asked: ‘What happened, old girl?’

  I told him, and finished up by saying: ‘I thought they were trying to keep me by force and I was terrified, but they were only making tea for me and wanted me to rest until it was ready. They brought me English fruit cake and a cup of spiced tea, and sat on the floor of the granary and talked so sweetly while I ate.

  ‘They afterwards sent for a tongawallah, who is a relation, and it turned out to be the same man who brought us here. He recognised me. The old mother said that it was he who was beaten up, that he had been attacked while driving back from our flat. He believed the attack was made by thieves from the Criminal Tribe village – unfortunately the rumour went round the bazaar that the Sikhs had done it, so some young rowdies burned down a Sikh house. The police made a lot of trouble about it.’

  ‘Thank God you are safe,’ said Ajit fervently. ‘Anything could have happened in such a situation.’

  ‘I was perfectly safe. No two women could have been more ingenuous. The baker seemed upset at their telling me about the attack on Mohamed Ali – just annoyance over the chattering of women, I suspect –’ and I looked at Ajit with a twinkle in my eye.

  Ajit did not laugh. He said: ‘You are now to get into bed and I will cook a dinner. The dysentery and hard work have damaged you – tomorrow I will obtain a doctor.’

  And in spite of protests, to bed I went. It was a blessed relief to lie down and I must have fallen into a light sleep, because it seemed no time before Ajit was standing in front of me with a hot dish of rice and lentils.

  He looked tired, but when we had eaten together sitting cross-legged on the bed, he felt better and said he would walk for a few minutes in the breeze outside. I agreed and lay back on the bed. He lit his pipe and went outside.

  The eldest Miss Shah must have been sitting on the steps of her flat because I heard her ask: ‘Where is Mrs Singh?’

  ‘She is sleeping,’ said Ajit, in English. ‘She is not very well.’

  ‘Can I help her?’ asked Miss Shah.

  Ajit hesitated and said: ‘I think not, thank you. The transition from one kind of food to another has upset her.’

  ‘I will come and see her in the morning,’ said Miss Shah.

  My heart warmed to my new neighbour.

  Ajit had told me about the three sisters, whose acquaintance he had made during his first week in the flat. When the University closed for the summer months, they went away to visit their parents at a small hill station. The family were refugees from West Pakistan. The girls had no brothers or uncles to help them, and the two elder sisters maintained their parents and the youngest sister by lecturing in English. A small cottage in the hills was all that remained of their ancestral property after the partition of India, and there they had established their aged parents, who would have found the heat of Shahpur hard to bear.

  Although the sisters lived in Shahpur without the protection of a male relative, they were respected by their neighbours and few scandalous stories had been invented about them.

  Ajit came in, kissed me and took the dishes away to wash. I knew that to him the washing of kitchen vessels was a humiliating task, beneath the dignity of a member of his caste and family, and I loved him for doing it.

  Afterwards, as I was still awake, he brought pen and paper to my bed and sat cross-legged by my feet while he wrote his weekly salutations to his mother, adding that I was far from well. I protested that he should not bother her with such news, that I would be well by morning, but he insisted that his parents should know something of the struggle I was having.

  I must have fallen asleep in the middle of the argument, because the next thing that I remember was awakening to broad daylight and the sound of peasant voices in the kitchen.

  The long sleep had done me good, and I got out of bed and wrapped a shawl round me. I saw that a mat had been spread in a corner of the bedroom and a rumpled sheet on it indicated that Ajit had slept on the floor rather than disturb me by getting into the bed.

  In the kitchen Ajit was talking to Kamala and a bent, old woman. It appeared that they had just come to an agreement, because Kamala said: ‘All right,’ with some satisfaction.

  A fire was burning and a closed pot on it gave out a bubbling sound. Beside the little stove, on the floor, was a plate of buttered toast and a vessel of hot milk.

  ‘Darling,’ I said, a catch in my voice.

  Ajit turned. ‘Hey, Rani, you are supposed to stay in bed.’

  I smiled at him and at Kamala. ‘I feel better. What are you talking about to Kamala?’

  ‘I saw her passing early this morning an
d told her you were ill, so she brought this woman – she is a sweeper and has agreed to sweep the house, wash the vessels, clean the grain and take it to the miller, and make your lunchtime cooking fire. Kamala says that now Miss Shah is back, a sweeper will come daily to clean the lavatory and remove the rubbish, and a washerman will come to collect in a day or two, when the other families get back.’

  I was so pleased, and it was arranged that the old woman would return later. Apparently she worked in this manner for several families in the block of flats, and she would go to Miss Shah’s first.

  I lifted the lid of the pan on the fire. Two eggs were bouncing merrily in it. Ajit had discovered the forbidden fruit with which I had returned the previous evening. I had put the parcel in the cupboard and forgotten about them in the arrival of the Misses Shah. I closed the lid quickly, before Kamala and my new servant saw the eggs. I did not want to lose a friend and a servant at one stroke.

  The two women went away, and Ajit made me sit on the kitchen stool while he served me with egg, toast and tea, after which he ate himself. His consideration for me was touching, and I could not eat until I had given him a hug that would have put a grizzly bear to shame.

  He asked me where I obtained the eggs, and I told him that while I was drinking tea in the baker’s granary a man had come in bringing a great basketful, and I had found my mouth watering and had been unable to resist the temptation to purchase some from the baker. He had offered to supply me regularly.

  Ajit looked perplexed. He feared that if it was discovered that we had eggs in the house we would lose our tenancy and have difficulty finding other accommodation.

  ‘I could dry the shells, grind them and throw them out with the ashes from the stoves,’ I suggested.

  ‘I suppose that would be all right,’ he said reluctantly.

  I sent him off to work that day with assurances that I was much better, but in truth my legs felt as if they would dissolve under me at any moment and the dysentery was threatening a fresh onslaught.