Secondly, I would say that my letter should not have sounded angry because I was not angry. I was only terribly afraid of having a nervous breakdown. As you know, I have had to learn an entirely new job and at the same time carry on as best I could as Mr Wilkinson’s secretary, because his secretary was away ill, and also do half Miss Hunt’s work as she was ill. This strain was so great that, in that alone, I was nearly at breaking point. Then I was worried to death about you and thirdly I had, on a day when I came home nearly reduced to tears, your letter about the ICI Fellowship. I expect it is this sort of piling up of trouble which has made your poor head so tired, and I shall be so glad to get to you so that, at any rate, if I do nothing more constructive, I can make your home pleasant.
Now I think I shall write to you something of the good things I think this marriage will bring at any rate to me but first I must tell you that all my life, except the last two or three years, I have been tossed about all over the country with no continuity or feeling of safety. There has hardly been a moment of peace except on two or three holidays – apart, of course, from the lovely holidays we took [in the Lake District]. I have always held jobs which demanded infinite work and, on top of that, my miserable education had to be supplemented by night after night of night school for years.
My last engagement was spent in a mental cold sweat knowing that if Eddie survived the fighting I was hardly likely to survive the bombing; so that you will see I have never been able to relax at all. So many other things have happened too. When I marry you I shall be able to relax just a little in the company of one who loves me very much, with someone who will help my mind to flower along lines it never had time to explore before, will encourage me to take care of my body as it has not been taken care of before, who will teach me the gentleness of life like sending a little English girl balloons and saying my prayers at night.
No marriage of any kind is ever built without slipping and sliding along a narrow path, each hauling the other up when one partner falls, enjoying the good times and struggling through the bad ones with as much good humour as possible and, in a little leisure, doing together something which is of interest to both. I don’t think our marriage will be any worse than any other and, it may be, if we try hard, one of the loveliest of unions. We cannot know for certain, but we can have a very good go! This must sound very unromantic but I have tried not to let my bubbling affection for you colour the picture too much.
She continued on the same theme in her letter of 1 April.
It is true that if we live all our lives in India I shall sometimes long to see England again, but I would not mind betting that if after, say, five years in India, I spent quite a long time in England, I would begin to remember all the good things about India and the friends I had made and would come to realize that, like a transplanted flower, my roots had dug deeply into their new soil and there was my home. After all, I am by no means the first Englishwoman to live in India or the first woman to marry an Indian and live an Indian life! If you can get used to having me about the place, I think with thought and care and time I can do the rest! If, as you say, I can have enough physical freedom to be able to potter round and shop, it means that my mind will be always a little interested in all I see, and, as you know, my favourite occupation is to observe small things as I trot round – how many nature talks have you had to endure already!
As for the Indian mode of thought and ways of looking at life, that will come slowly to me, I feel sure, from being with you, reading Indian authors, and listening to discussions among your friends. I am afraid my thoughts will tend to always be a little solidly practical, but that is my nature, and I suppose there must also be practical Indian women otherwise no children would ever get properly brought up. You know, our life in England very often is in opposition to our natural instincts and I think this accounts for the terribly high number of nervous breakdowns here, so that it is quite possible that once I have got used to the Indian outward forms of doing things, I may find many of the fundamental desires of living far better satisfied than I have ever had them satisfied in my life. It is, for example, against nature to stay single and chaste for 30 years of one’s life, to have to control men at work – it is very difficult when you are a woman, to have no religious belief and not be able (to jump from one end of the problem to the other!) to eat meals regularly, and so on, many of which things will be settled for me by life in India.
’Owever, as the Lancashire people say, I feel I can have a jolly good smack at it and for your sake I’d do more than that.
On 28 March, Avadh wrote:
I am afraid I have revealed to you my most unwholesome side of character in the last few letters – but I am less sorry for exposition than for the fact it must be hurting you a lot. I hope you will forgive me for it and tell me that you still love me. Darling I promise you I will bear almost anything to be able to love you.
My dearest sweet, I will not ask you to cancel the passage – you need not be afraid – unless I win a prize of £300 or £400 on a crossword puzzle – in which case I shall ask you to fly – but that is a wild dream, but I do want to see you as soon as it can be arranged.
On 2 April, with just over two weeks to go until her departure, Helen wrote:
You asked me in one of your more recent letters whether I had not sometimes got to the stage when I felt I must give up the idea of marrying you, but I must tell you that, despite all the difficulties which have beset us, I have never got quite to that stage, because the thought of life without you is, and has been, so intolerable that my mind refuses to contemplate the idea. I freely admit that I have felt like cussing everything and everybody from here to kingdom come with the frustration of it all, but wash my hands of you – never!
[I] heard of a girl sailing to India in November to marry a man from Lahore. Two girls sailed last week to marry Egyptians. It is no wonder that our first export is often said to be wives for the rest of the world. It is very true that our girls do go all over the place, so I am merely following in the footsteps of many.
I am quite sure, however, that none of them will have a more dear husband than I. I look forward terribly to living with you and sharing all your ups and downs and having a good laugh over most of them. Do you remember Christmas shopping with me once – that was something I simply loved – no Englishman would have done it except under the most terrific persuasion. I was so happy to have you with me – I could have hugged you in the street. How good it will be to do small things together again, never mind the pleasure of being married to each other.
She sounds blissfully happy as she looks forward to seeing her husband-to-be in just a month’s time. However, nothing had been straightforward in their courtship to date and more problems were about to emerge before she was due to sail.
First of all, on Wednesday 29 March, Avadh wrote that Professor Fröhlich had said it would be a pleasure to have him back in his department at the University of Liverpool and that he would, at once, write a letter in support of Avadh’s ICI fellowship application.
[Professor Fröhlich] has put me in a great pickle, or rather, due to my own actions, I have put myself in the pickles and chutney. From his letter, as far as I can see, I stand a good chance of getting the ICI fellowship. I suppose, if I get it, I shall risk this job in Ahmedabad, but in three years time if we wanted to come to India, I should surely get some job. But living on the ICI fellowship will mean that you will have to do both housework and at least part-time work, for I will never be happy if I did not send something to Kashi. That’s a responsibility which we cannot shirk; I hope you will agree with me. My father will, of course, be a bit angry with me and particularly with you for he will naturally think that it was you who has uprooted me – how true?
After that Avadh did not write for several days because bad news was piling up. He confessed he had started many letters and let them remain unfinished and unposted, but finally he wrote a letter over a few days, finishing it on Sunday 2 April.
In question hour in the Indian Parliament on Thursday, the Prime Minister of India replied to the effect that an Indian officer [civil servant] has to take permission from the Government before he can marry a foreigner. Technically, I am not a Government Officer, but indirectly I am, for the post in which I am, is the one sanctioned by the Atomic Energy Commission which is a Government Body. If for one reason or another, they try to do something against me, they may.
Under normal circumstances of our marriage, the British Authorities would have said nothing but the fact that you will have to become a Hindu first and then marry me, I do not know what attitude the British Consul in India will take.
India is in a very sort of explosive atmosphere where its rulers, in theory, have very high minded principles – what they do in practice – they are able to keep it hidden – an ordinary middle class man cannot even feel secure if he does what he thinks to be the right thing.
He was also concerned because Doctor Brother reported that Kashi’s family had dug in their heels again over a settlement and her father was refusing to engage.
[I am worried] about the possibility of Kashi’s people trying to put a case in the court, in which case, the court, which will consist of some old crony, will in all probability grant a maintenance to such an extent that we may become financially crippled. Many a marriage has turned out to be a failure because of financial difficulties. I am not talking to frighten you but the situation is nothing better than this – Kashi’s people are much more adamant than I ever imagined – and at a time when the feelings in the country are so much roused – that anything like what we are going to do might have more serious consequences than in normal times.
Darling do not think that I don’t love you, for I do love you, only under the circumstances, I somehow feel that our marrying you just now is not advisable. Of course, I know that you have made so many arrangements – and these too for the second time but if you can bear being pickled for a little while – we might save the situation. Do not think that I shall leave you, for I will definitely come to England, and as you will say, either live with or without you; and then I shall try to get a divorce from Kashi.
He also said that he had told Professor Fröhlich that he was willing to take any work in Liverpool just to sustain himself, until such time he could get a better post, and continued:
I know that I am writing to you at the last moment, and you may think me a cruel ass, but I cannot help it. I love you so much and yet I am afraid, for one reason or another, our financial liability may become so great and unbearable and then of what use shall remain our marriage?
I promise to you that this is my last letter in which I am going to say anything about changing decisions, for I realize fully that it must be getting on your nerves. If you feel, in spite of my letter, and my sense, that you should come, you can come, and we shall make best of what we can. However, if you can do the other way, I think we shall in the long run be much more happy.
Unfortunately the first page of Helen’s response is missing but the tone of her letter of 7 April suggests that she was not going to be distracted by Avadh’s last-minute panic, no matter how distressing it must have been for her.
My only love, please do understand that it is not lack of money which is driving me to come to India but the utter ruin of my own life here. The only way I can ever hold my head up in Liverpool again is with you by my side married to me.
Of course, things may not turn out nearly so badly as we think, but we will try and plan out for both eventualities, and in the meantime just do the best you can with [marriage] arrangements and don’t worry yourself sick.
You will know best if the following is the right thing to do, but if I were you, I would at least write and tell your father that for my sake you are having to take action, if you have no opportunity of seeing him personally. Do make it clear to him that it is not just that I shall be without money, it is that my whole life is completely in a hopeless mess, and, quite frankly, I am not prepared to go on living without you here – I just must come. I cannot go on living like I am.
I know you love me, my heart, and I simply adore you, and it grieves me to go against your wishes and against my better judgment, but I think, if we take refuge in England for a few years, that the tumult and the shouting will die down and, if you wish, we can then go back to India. In the meantime, I beg of you to let me come and marry you – I will do all I can to minimize the damage that my coming may do. It is possible that someone you know might be able to give me accommodation in Bombay or might suggest where I might start looking for work.
The whole situation must have been incredibly difficult for everyone involved. Kashi faced an uncertain future with her young child, my half-brother. For my dad the stress must have been nearly unbearable. For my mum, it must have been desperately difficult to deal with my dad’s worries by letter and cable without being able even to speak on the telephone, never mind her own troubles, as the days ticked by until the sailing she had booked. On 8 April she wrote:
I looked so awful today – because I was worried as you will understand – and my mother asked me what was the matter, which made me weep. I told her that I was afraid of being stranded in India if something went wrong and I wanted to get back to this country, and she told me that in a last resort I could come back as a distressed British subject, paying my fare back to the authorities as best I could after I got home. This did comfort me a little because it is possible that you could get here having your fare paid by some organization like ICI but if I was left I could not make it home.
My mother says if we come home suddenly, she will give us a room in which to stay until we can find a room or flat near the University. Mum would not charge us much, if anything, for our room, as long as we did not stay too long.
I can almost hear all the various people attached to you telling you why you should not marry me and, of course, there are sound reasons for not doing anything – even eating!
I am 6000 miles away, but I feel if I was with you, nothing people could say would deter you from your purpose. Darling, Darling, please don’t be put off from your purpose.
Dearest one, please write to me even if you are angry with me. I’d rather be poor with you than middling well-off without you, and I will try not to grumble when things do not go well.
Always and always your adoring,
Chutney
She wrote again on 9 April.
As long as I have you by my side and it is apparent that I really have been to India to be married, I can soon re-establish myself in Liverpool and could get a job. If I put off coming to India again, I shall be looked on as a woman of ‘doubtful character’ – someone who tells lies and associates with foreigners and, therefore, is not fit to associate with other girls in an office. It is funny that one can marry a foreigner, but if you just go about with them and then are left alone by them, you are socially damned. Even Mr Wilkinson, knowing all of the facts of the case could not reinstate me in the eyes of head office. That is why I am so desperate to sail, even if I come back in September with a load of debt round my neck.
If we are prepared, my love, and I certainly am, to battle hard for a year or two with our finances, we can establish ourselves quite firmly, but it means we must be very close to each other and a little patient and we must not in the meantime lose our heads and be stampeded into actions we do not want to take, unless we are of course absolutely cornered – as I am at the moment.
My love, do write to me and tell me I have not damned you utterly by coming to India. My heart is nearly breaking at the thought of the damage I may be doing, but I can’t help it – and it may not be too damaging anyway – I pray not.
On Monday 3 April, Avadh penned a short note on one of the airmail letters that he had started and abandoned the previous week. These letters came with a printed stamp so they could not be allowed to go to waste.
All I want is to go on saying, ‘I love you, I love you’. I am sitting in the labo
ratory and there is a radio in the adjoining room which has been put on BBC and some band music is filtering through the walls to my room. I do not know what has happened to me but at times I just feel sad and I cannot even explain why for I do not have any reason. But I am quite well; you should not worry about me. Depressions are my hobby, which God has granted me as a special gift. This was one that I received in a steel box, while the rest in a sieve, so that by now they have all drained off.
On the 11th, Helen replied:
Thank you for your funny little letter of April 3 – with a bit crossed out at the beginning. I hope the depression has lifted a bit – everybody gets depressed at times, petkins; it is one of the afflictions of humanity and being in a hot climate always intensifies it. Living by oneself does not help either – I am sure I should be miserable in the same circumstances. We will try hard to make life pleasant for both of us in India and in England and you will find that as your worries lessen, so the depressions will lessen. Even at the very worst, our worries are not insurmountable. Someone once told me when I was little that the easiest burdens to tackle were financial ones. I did not believe her at the time but I know from experience that it is true. As long as one has health and strength one can work and patient work will produce money.
If you could have seen my efforts in the last few days to buy a cheap parasol, you would have laughed. First I tried every shop in Liverpool, Birkenhead, Moreton, Hoylake and West Kirby. They always did think I was a little mad in Moreton, and now they are quite sure. Who ever heard of anyone buying a parasol so far north! Then I started on all the old ladies of my acquaintance – a parasol used always to be part of the equipment of an old lady. I drank gallons of tea with them and spent some interesting hours (even found one whose first husband was a Siamese) but no parasol. After that, I staggered into the office of the local paper and put a one shilling advertisement in the ‘wanted’ column. I now await the result – if any. Probably thousands of parasols will descend on my head! The things I do for love!
Passage Across the Mersey Page 19