She stepped closer to the mirror – her sari lying carelessly where it had fallen round her feet – and looked at herself, drawing her hand over her skin. Yes, she was still soft and smooth and who could see the tiny little lines, no more than shadows, that lay round her eyes and the corners of her mouth? And how fine her eyes still were, how large and black and how they shone. And her hair too – she unwound it from its pins and it dropped down slowly, heavy and black and sleek with oil, and not one grey hair in it.
As she stood there, looking at herself in nothing but her short blouse and her waist-petticoat, with her hair down, suddenly another image appeared behind her in the mirror: an old woman, grey and shabby and squinting and with an ingratiating smile on her face. ‘I am not disturbing?’ Bhuaji said.
Durga bent down to pick up her sari. She began to fold it, but Bhuaji took it from her and did it far more deftly, the tip of her tongue eagerly protruding from her mouth.
‘Why did you come?’ Durga said, watching her. Bhuaji made no reply, but went on folding the sari, and when she had finished, she smoothed it ostentatiously from both sides. Durga lay down on the bed. As a matter of fact, she found she was quite glad that Bhuaji had come to see her.
She asked, ‘How long is it since they married me?’
‘Let me see,’ Bhuaji said. She squatted by the side of the bed and began to massage Durga’s legs. ‘Is it fifteen years, sixteen . . . ’
‘No, eighteen.’
Bhuaji nodded in agreement, her lips mumbling as she worked something out in her head, her hands still skilfully massaging.
‘Eighteen years,’ Durga said reflectively, ‘I could have been—’
‘Yes, a grandmother by now,’ said Bhuaji, smiling widely with all her empty gums.
Durga suddenly pushed those soothing, massaging hands away and sat upright. ‘Leave me alone! Why do you come here, who called you?’
Instead of sitting in her courtyard, Durga was now often to be found pacing up and down by the door which led to the staircase. When Govind came down, she always had a word for him. At first he was shy with her and left her as quickly as possible; sometimes he waited for her to go away before he came down or went up. But she was patient with him. She understood and even sympathized with his shyness: he was young, awkward perhaps like a child, and didn’t know how much good she meant him. But she persevered; she would ask him questions like: ‘You go often to the cinema?’ or ‘What are you studying?’ to prove to him how interested she was in him, interested like a mother or a favourite aunt, and ready to talk on any topic with him.
And slowly he responded. Instead of dashing away, he began to stand still at the bottom of the steps and to answer her questions; at first in monosyllables but soon, when his interest was stirred, at greater length; and finally at such great length that it seemed pointless to go on standing there in that dark cramped space when he could go into her house and sit there with her and drink almond sherbet. He kept on talking and told her everything: who were his friends, who his favourite film stars, his ambition to go abroad, to become an aircraft engineer. She listened and watched him while he spoke; she watched and watched him, her eyes fixed on his face. She became very familiar with his face, yet always it was new to her. When he smiled, two little creases appeared in his cheeks. His teeth were large and white, his hair sprang from a point on his forehead. Everything about him was young and fresh and strong – even his smell, which was that of a young animal full of sap and sperm.
She loved to do little things for him. At first only to ply him with almond sherbet and sweetmeats, of which he could take great quantities; later to give him money – beginning with small amounts, a rupee here and there, but then going on to five- and even ten-rupee notes. He wanted money badly and his parents gave him so little. It was wrong to keep a boy short of money when he needed a lot: for treating his friends, for his surreptitious cigarettes, for tee-shirts and jeans such as he saw other boys wearing.
It became so that he got into the habit of asking her for whatever he wanted. How could she refuse? On the contrary, she was glad and proud to give – if only to see the look of happiness on his face, his eyes shining at the thought of what he was going to buy, his smile which brought little creases into his cheeks. At such moments she was warm and sick with mother’s love, she longed to cradle his head and stroke his hair. He was her son, her child.
That was exactly what his mother told her: ‘He is your son also, your child.’ Mrs Puri was glad to see Durga take such an interest in the boy. She taught him to say thank you for everything that Durga gave him and to call her auntie. She made pickle very often and sent it down in jars. She also came down herself and talked to Durga for hours on end about her family problems. So much was needed, and where was it all to come from? Mr Puri’s salary was small – 175 rupees a month plus dearness allowance – and he spent a lot on betel and cigarettes and other pleasures. And what was to become of her poor children? Such good children they were, as anyone who took an interest in them was bound to find out. They needed a helping hand in life, that was all. Her boy, and her two girls who ought to have been married a year ago. She sent the girls down quite often, but Durga always sent them quickly back up again.
Towards the beginning of each month, when the rent was due, Govind came down every day with pickle and after a while Mrs Puri would follow him. Dabbing with her sari in the corner of her eye, she would give an exact account of her monthly expenditure, what were her debts and what she had in hand, so that Durga could see for herself how impossible it was to impose any demand for rent on such an overburdened budget. And though Durga at first tried to ignore these plaints, this became more and more difficult, and in the end she always had to say that she would not mind waiting a few days longer. After which Mrs Puri dried her eyes and the subject of rent was not mentioned again between them till the first week of the following month, when the whole procedure was repeated. In this way several months’ rent accumulated – a fact which, had it been brought to their notice, would have surprised Durga’s previous tenants who had not found her by any means so lenient a landlady.
The relatives were much alarmed at this growing friendship with the Puris, which seemed to them both ominous and unnatural. What need had Durga to befriend strangers when there were all her own relatives, to whom she was bound in blood and duty? They became very indignant with her, but had to keep a check on their tongues; for Durga was short-tempered with them these days and, if they touched on subjects or showed moods not to her liking, was quicker than ever to show them the door. But something obviously had to be said and it was Bhuaji who took it upon herself to say it.
She began by praising Govind. A good boy, she said, that she could see at a glance, respectful and well mannered, just the sort of boy whom one ought to encourage and help on in life. She had nothing at all against Govind. But his mother now, and his sisters – Bhuaji, looking sideways at Durga, sadly shook her head. Alas, she knew women like that only too well, she had come across too many of them to be taken in by their soft speech. Greedy and shameless, that was what they were, self-seeking and unscrupulous, with their one aim to fasten upon and wring whatever advantage they could out of noble-hearted people like Durga. It was they, said Bhuaji, coming closer and whispering behind her hand as if afraid Mrs Puri would hear from upstairs, who incited the boy to come down and ask for money and new clothes – just as a feeler and to see how far they could go. Let Durga wait and in a short time she would see: saris they would ask for, not ten-rupee notes but hundred-rupee ones, household furniture, a radio, a costly carpet; and they would not rest till they had possessed themselves not only of the upstairs part of the house but of the downstairs part as well . . .
Just then Govind passed the door and Durga called out to him. When he came, she asked him, ‘Where are you going?’ and then she stroked the shirt he was wearing, saying, ‘I think it is time you had another new bush-shirt.’
‘A silk one,’ he sa
id, which made Durga smile and reply in a soft, promising voice, ‘We will see,’ while poor Bhuaji stood by and could say nothing, only squint and painfully smile.
One day Bhuaji went upstairs. She said to Mrs Puri: ‘Don’t let your boy go downstairs so much. She is a healthy woman, and young in her thoughts.’ Mrs Puri chose to take offence: she said her boy was a good boy, and Durga was like another mother to him. Bhuaji squinted and laid her finger by the side of her nose, as one who could tell more if she but chose. This made Mrs Puri very angry and she began to shout about how much evil thought there was in the world today so that even pure actions were misinterpreted and made impure. Her two daughters, though they did not know what it was all about, also looked indignant. Mrs Puri said she was proud of her son’s friendship with Durga. It showed he was better than all those other boys who thought of nothing but their own pleasures and never cared to listen to the wisdom they could learn from their elders. And she looked from her veranda down into the courtyard, where Govind sat with Durga and was trying to persuade her to buy him a motor scooter. Bhuaji also looked down, and she bit her lip so that no angry word could escape her.
Durga loved to have Govind sitting with her like that. She had no intention of buying him a motor scooter, which would take more money than she cared to disburse, but she loved to hear him talk about it. His eyes gleamed and his hair tumbled into his face as he told her about the beautiful motor scooter possessed by his friend Ram, which had many shiny fittings and a seat at the back on which he gave rides to his friends. He leaned forward and came closer in his eagerness to impart his passion to her. He was completely carried away – ‘It does forty miles per hour, as good as any motor car!’ – and looked splendid, full of strength and energy. Durga laid her hand on his knee and he didn’t notice. ‘I have something for you inside,’ she said in a low, hoarse voice.
He followed her into the room and stood behind her while she fumbled with her keys at her steel almira. Her hand was shaking rather, so that she could not turn the key easily. When she did, she took something from under a pile of clothes and held it out to him. ‘For you,’ she said. It was a penknife. He was disappointed, he lowered his eyes and said, ‘It is nice,’ in a sullen, indifferent voice. But then at once he looked up again and he wetted his lips with his tongue and said, ‘Only 1,200 rupees, just slightly used, it is a chance in a million’ – looking past her into the almira where he knew there was a little safe in which she kept her cash. But already she was locking it and fastening the key back to the string at her waist. He suddenly reached out and held her hand with the key in it – ‘1,200 rupees,’ he said in a whisper as low and hoarse as hers had been before. And when she felt him so close to her, so eager, so young, so passionate, and his hand actually holding hers, she shivered all over her body and her heart leaped up in her and next thing she was sobbing. ‘If you knew,’ she cried, ‘how empty my life has been, how lonely!’ and the tears flowed down her face. He let go her hand and stepped backwards, and then backwards again as she followed him; till he was brought up short by her bed which he could feel pressing against the back of his knees, as he stood, pinned, between it and her.
She was talking fast, about how alone she was and there was no one to care for. Yet she was young still, she told him – she invited him to look, look down into her face, wasn’t it a young face still, and full and plump? And the rest of her too, all full and plump, and when she was dressed nicely in one of her best saris with a low-cut blouse, then who would know that she wasn’t a young girl or at least a young woman in the very prime of her life? And she was good too, generous and good and ready to do everything, give everything for those she loved. Only who was there whom she could love with all the fervour of which her heart was capable? In her excitement she pushed against him so that he fell backwards and sat down abruptly on her bed. At once she was sitting next to him, very close, her hand on his – if he knew, she said, what store of love there was in her, ready and bursting and brimming in her! Then it was his turn to cry; he said, ‘I want a motor scooter, that’s all,’ in a hurt grieved voice, trembling with tears like a child’s.
That was the last time he came down to see her. Afterwards he would hardly talk to her at all – even when she lay in wait for him by the stairs, he would brush hurriedly past her, silent and with averted face. Once she called after him, ‘Come in, we will talk about the motor scooter!’ but all she got by way of reply was, ‘It is sold already,’ tossed over his shoulder as he ran upstairs. She was in despair and wept often and bitterly; there was a pain right in her heart, such as she had never experienced before. She longed to die and yet at the same time she felt herself most burningly alive. She visited Mrs Puri several times and stayed for some hours; during which Mrs Puri, as usual, talked a lot, and in the usual strain, and kept pointing out how her children were Durga’s too, while the two daughters simpered. Evidently she knew nothing of what had happened, and assumed that everything was as it had been.
But, so Durga soon learned, Mrs Puri knew very well that everything was not as it had been. Not only did she know, but it was she herself who had brought about the change. It was she who, out of evil and spite, had stopped Govind from coming downstairs and had forbidden him ever to speak to Durga again. All this Durga learned from Bhuaji, one hot afternoon as she lay tossing on her bed, alternately talking, weeping and falling into silent fits of despair. She had no more secrets from Bhuaji. She needed someone before whom she could unburden herself, and who more fit for that purpose than the ever available, ever sympathetic Bhuaji? So she lay on her bed and cried: ‘A son, that is all I want, a son!’ And Bhuaji was soothing and understood perfectly. Of course Durga wanted a son; it was only natural, for had not God set maternal feelings to flow sweetly in every woman’s breast? And now, said Bhuaji angrily, to have that God-given flow stopped in its course by the machinations of a mean-hearted, jealous, selfish woman – and so it all came out. It was a revelation to Durga. Her tears ceased and she sat up on her bed. She imagined Govind suffering under the restraint laid upon him and yearning for Durga and all her kindness as bitterly as she yearned for him. There was sorrow upstairs and sorrow downstairs. She sat very upright on the bed. After a while she turned her face towards Bhuaji, and her lips were tight and her eyes flashed. She said, ‘We will see whose son he is.’
She waited for him by the stairs. He came late that night, but still she went on waiting. She was patient and almost calm. She could hear sounds from upstairs – a clatter of buckets, water running, Mrs Puri scolding her daughters. At the sound of that voice, hatred swelled in Durga so that she was tempted to leave her post and run upstairs to confront her enemy. But she checked herself and remained standing downstairs, calm and resolute and waiting. She would not be angry. This was not the time for anger.
She heard him before she saw him. He was humming a little tune to himself. Probably he had been to see a film with friends and now he was singing a lyric from it. He sounded gay and light-hearted. She peeped out from the dark doorway and saw him clearly just under the lamp-post outside the house. He was wearing an orange tee-shirt which she had given him and which clung closely to him so that all his broad chest and his nipples were outlined; his black jeans too fitted tight as a glove over his plump young buttocks. She edged herself as close as she could against the wall. When he entered the doorway, she whispered his name. He stopped singing at once. She talked fast, in a low urgent voice: ‘Come with me – what do your parents ever do for you?’
He shuffled his feet and looked down at them in the dark.
‘With me you will have everything – a motor scooter—’
‘It is sold.’
‘A new one, a brand-new one! And also you can study to be an aircraft engineer, anything you wish—’
‘Is that you, son?’ Mrs Puri called from upstairs.
Durga held fast to his arm: ‘Don’t answer,’ she whispered.
‘Govind! Is that boy come home at last?’ And the tw
o plain sisters echoed: ‘Govind!’
‘I can do so much for you,’ Durga whispered. ‘And what can they do?’
‘Coming, Ma!’ he called.
‘Everything I have is for you—’
‘You and your father both the same! All night we have to wait for you to come and eat your food!’
Durga said, ‘I have no one, no one.’ She was stroking his arm which was smooth and muscular and matted with long silky hair.
Mrs Puri appeared at the top of the stairs: ‘Just let me catch that boy, I will twist his ears for him!’
‘You hear her, how she speaks to you?’ whispered Durga with a flicker of triumph. But Govind wrenched his arm free and bounded up the stairs towards his mother.
It did not take Bhuaji long after that to persuade Durga to get rid of her tenants. There were all those months of rent unpaid, and besides, who wanted such evil-natured people in the house? Bhuaji’s son-in-law had connections with the police, and it was soon arranged: a constable stood downstairs while the Puris’ belongings – the velvet armchair, an earthenware water pot, two weeping daughters carrying bedding – slowly descended. Durga did not see them. She was sitting inside before the little prayer table on which stood her two Krishnas. She was unbathed and in an old crumpled sari and with her hair undone. Her relatives sat outside in the courtyard with their belongings scattered around them, ready to move in upstairs. Bhuaji’s old husband sat on his little bundle and had a nap in the sun.
At the End of the Century Page 5