Travelers

by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala

“What’s so difficult about Asha?” Raymond asked.

  “I know. It was only an excuse. She hated Indian names, like she hated everything Indian.”

  “She sounds rather a horrible person.”

  “She wasn’t so bad. Sometimes she was quite fun. I think she was just terribly homesick—especially at Christmas time. She hated spending her Christmas in India. But when there were English guests come to stay—like Mr. Timrose, the political agent, or there was a Colonel Freshwater with his wife, Mrs. Freshwater, and a daughter, I’ve forgotten her name, was it Rose? Or perhaps Violet. They always came for shooting. When there were people like that, Miss Hart was very happy. She came down for dinner in an evening gown that was held up with two straps and after dinner she played the piano for them, all English tunes like Gilbert and Sullivan and ‘Tales from the Vienna Woods.’ She spent a lot of time with them in the guest house, complaining about us. But when she left us and went back to England, she cried and cried and gave me her own penholder, which had a view of Brighton in it. . . . Hello, Gopi, I think that costume is too tight for you.”

  Gopi shook himself so that the water came dripping down on Raymond, who pretended to protest. Gopi did it again and said, “Why don’t you come? It’s so nice and cool.”

  “I prefer watching you.”

  “Oh, what’s this?” He took the glass Raymond had ordered for himself and at once began to drink. He finished it all and then ran off, ostentatiously graceful, water trickling down his chest and back and making the hair look silky and matted. Both Asha and Raymond looked after him for some time in silence.

  “Have you known him for a long time?” Asha at last asked and went on straightaway: “Do you like him?”

  “Oh, yes,” Raymond said coolly. “We’re great friends.”

  Asha gave him a sideways look. She ran the tip of her tongue over her wide mouth, which always had too much lipstick on it. She drank her drink while listening to the band playing and watched Lee and Gopi throwing a plastic ball at each other in the pool. Raymond also watched. His hand tapped the side of the deck chair in enjoyment while the band played a very old Beatles song to rather a strange beat.

  “My brother also had an English tutor,” Asha said.

  “And did he hate India?”

  “Oh, no. He was quite different. Quite, quite different. You know, Raymond, shall I tell you—” She squeezed his hand. How strange it was to hold a man’s hand this way and find it lifeless, unresponsive like a woman’s or a friend’s. She smiled to herself and squeezed it once more before giving it back to him. “Yes, it’s true, he was a bit like you. He loved India—he loved being with us, and our food and all the festivals, and he was terribly happy when he was allowed to dress up in Indian clothes. He sat on the floor and listened to our music and ate betel and did everything that everyone else did. All the Indians were very fond of him. But the English people didn’t like it at all, that he should behave like that. Mr. Timrose wanted my father to dismiss him, he didn’t think he was suitable as a tutor. My father didn’t like to disoblige Mr. Timrose but when he told Peter—that was his name, Peter Kingsley—and asked him to go back to England, Peter got terribly, terribly upset. He begged my father—he begged like an Indian person—with his hands folded—and do you know he even got down to touch Papa’s feet? Everyone was quite shocked. But he didn’t care what he did or what anyone thought of him, just so long as he was allowed to stay.”

  The huge plastic ball, thrown skillfully by Gopi, came bouncing on to Raymond. Gopi bobbed up and down in the pool, clapping his hands and shouting, “Come on, throw it back! We’re waiting!” Raymond threw it back. Asha half lowered her heavy lids over her eyes and sucked Coca-Cola like a sphinx.

  Raymond said, “If someone were to tell me now that I must leave, I think I’d do the same. Yes, I’d touch his feet to let me stay. I think I would,” he said.

  “You see, I told you Peter was like you.” But then she sighed: “Poor, poor Peter. It was a tragedy. . . . You see, the reason why he wanted to stay so badly, he was involved with someone.”

  “I see.”

  “Not a girl.”

  Raymond was silent.

  “I don’t know what he saw in him. He was very ordinary—a clerk attached to the palace guest house—a quite uncultured person who couldn’t appreciate Peter at all. I mean, Peter was intellectual—sensitive—like you, Raymond. . . . A tragedy,” she said again, in a voice full of dark memories.

  Shyam Gives Notice

  Gopi was in a bad mood. He was often, indeed usually, in a bad mood early in the morning, especially when he had to go to classes. He was getting sick and tired of his college. At one time he had quite enjoyed going there—not to the classes, which had always bored him, but to meet his friends and sit around with them in the canteen; but now that he was with Raymond and was leading a different kind of life, these friends no longer seemed so interesting to him.

  “Don’t go, then,” Raymond said, seeing how reluctant and cross Gopi was: and he looked tired—no wonder, since they had all been up to the early hours of the morning. Asha had come in her car, and she had brought some very sweet Russian champagne and carried them off for a midnight picnic in a ruined summer pavilion.

  “Yes, it’s nice for you to talk,” Gopi said, looking malevolently at Raymond, who was still in his silk dressing gown and sipping his coffee at leisure. How easy life was for Raymond, how difficult for Gopi! Gopi felt harassed. There was nothing he wanted more than to cut his early-morning class but he had been doing it too often lately; if this went on, the college authorities would complain to his family and all sorts of unpleasant consequences would follow. Raymond could have no idea, he said, what it was like in a family such as his. Everyone bothered him all the time—not only his mother and his sisters but all his other relatives too. One uncle in particular was a constant torment to him. This uncle was an inspector in the public works department and in consequence considered himself a very important person whose achievement should be emulated. He wanted Gopi to enter government service and become a divisional officer like himself. “I don’t want to be like him,” Gopi said. “You should see him,” he added gloomily. Then he said, “I think I will go away to Benares.”

  “Why?” Raymond asked, who hated it when Gopi said anything about going away.

  “To stay with my other uncle. He is in business and I like it there very much. No one tells me do this, do that—go to college, pass your exams—” He held his head and groaned.

  “Well, anyway, eat your breakfast,” Raymond said soothingly.

  “Where is my breakfast? Shyam! Hey, Shyam!”

  After some more shouts, Shyam came in with something on a plate which he placed in front of Gopi. “Thank you, Shyam,” Raymond said. Gopi stared at the plate, and when Shyam had already got to the door, he said in a voice of thunder, “I asked for puris.”

  Shyam stood at ease in the doorway. He said these were eggs, scrambled eggs, such as sahibs ate for breakfast. He was used to cooking for sahibs only and if this did not suit Gopi then there were other places he could go to—plenty of little shops in the bazaar where he could get the kind of Indian food he was used to.

  Gopi wasted no time. He was across the room in an instant and struck the servant across the face. He called him some bad names and struck him again. Shyam cried out and put his arms up to protect himself, for Gopi looked as if he intended to continue hitting him. Perhaps he would have done so but Raymond held his arm. Raymond said, “Stop that, Gopi.”

  Gopi struggled but Raymond held on. After a while Gopi said, “All right, let me go, I won’t hit him again.” But Shyam cried, “Sahib, Sahib, hold him!”

  Gopi saw that Raymond was seriously angry and began to defend himself. He said such insolence from a servant was not to be tolerated. When Raymond continued to look displeased, Gopi said it was all Raymond’s fault—hadn’t he warned him over and over again that Shyam was a bad servant and should be dismissed? Here Shyam chimed in and
said that it was not possible for him to continue working for Raymond as long as Gopi was in the house, and Gopi cried yes, let him go, let him go today at once, now, now! And Shyam said he would go now.

  Raymond turned away from both of them. He told Gopi in a weary voice that it was time for him to leave for his college. Gopi went in to get ready. He was very quiet. Shyam too was very quiet; he went into the kitchen and no sound was heard from there.

  “I’m going now,” Gopi said. But he lingered, glancing anxiously at Raymond’s face. He said, “How could I let a servant insult me like that, how could I allow it? Please understand my feelings also.”

  “And his feelings?”

  Gopi had a flash of pride: “Are you putting him on a level with me?” But when Raymond did not respond, he became soothing again: “But now it’s all right, we won’t quarrel about him any more. Because you won’t let him stay, you’ll dismiss him, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not me dismissing him—he doesn’t want to stay. You heard him.” He added, “You’ll be late for your classes.”

  Gopi went very slowly as if waiting for Raymond to call him back. But although Raymond knew that Gopi wanted this very much, he remained silent.

  Usually, when there had been a scene between Shyam and Gopi and Shyam gave notice, Raymond would go to seek him out in the kitchen, to soothe him and persuade him to stay. Today he could not bring himself to do so. He felt the offense had been too great and that it would be an additional insult to ask him to stay. But he became aware that Shyam was waiting for him in the kitchen. Shyam moved about and coughed. Finally, when Raymond did not go to him, he came into the room. Raymond did not look up. Shyam began dusting. He moved slowly and dusted noisily. Then he began to sigh and make other pathetic noises. Raymond had to look up. He also sighed. Out of a full heart he said, “I’m very sorry, Shyam.”

  “Yes, sir,” Shyam said. After a while he said, “How can I stay, Sahib? It’s not possible for me to stay.”

  “I know, Shyam,” Raymond said. “I do quite understand.”

  They remained in stricken silence.

  “I’m very happy with your service,” Shyam said in a broken voice. “My whole family is happy. We are all very happy.” He cried out: “And now where are we to go? Where else can such a sahib like you be found? And such a fine quarter to live in.”

  Raymond winced. The fine quarter consisted of one airless room in a tenement facing a service lane. Shyam had once taken him there. He lived in a room on the first floor. It smelled of cooking oil and urine and was crammed with women and children and a sick old man lying on a mat in a corner. Everyone had smiled and smiled at Raymond. The sick old man had been raised to a sitting position to enable him to salaam. Even when they had pointed out certain deficiencies to Raymond—such as a burst drain and some dangerously exposed electric wiring—they had continued smiling as if their discomfort was of small consequence and they were only drawing his attention to it in case he might (without inconvenience to himself) be able to assist them.

  “And now she is expecting again,” Shyam confided. “In four-five months, yes, Sahib, there will be one more, what to do.” But he beamed.

  Raymond saw that it was his duty to beg Shyam to stay. They began their usual dialogue on the subject. Raymond said he understood Shyam’s position perfectly and that in fact Shyam was quite right to want to leave, but that nevertheless as a personal favor to himself Raymond would be much obliged to him if he would stay. Shyam gave himself time to think this over, but finally shook his head and said how could he, it was impossible. So they carried on for a while. The outcome was a foregone conclusion. Raymond realized that, in view of other things, it was not as impossible to overlook the insult to Shyam’s honor as had at first appeared.

  Gopi Leaves

  “No, don’t, Gopi,” Lee said.

  Gopi was taking her to Raymond’s flat and, as she walked before him up the stairs, he pinched her—not so much out of desire as out of bravado. He had gone to fetch her in the hope that Raymond would be glad to see her and they would all three of them have a good time together and then everything would be forgotten and Raymond would be happy with him again. He pushed open the door and shouted: “See whom I have brought!”

  Raymond was glad to see her; and even more to see Gopi in such a good mood. He had been thinking of him all day. He remembered how Gopi had lingered before going out, hoping that Raymond would say something kind. Raymond had reproached himself all day for saying nothing. How glad he was now to be able to make up for that! When he saw that he was forgiven, Gopi’s spirits soared. He pinched Lee again and laughed uproariously when she slapped him away.

  “I think she is a very cold-hearted girl,” he told Raymond. “She cares nothing for love, only for food.”

  “I am hungry,” Lee admitted.

  “You see!” Gopi flung himself with a great laugh on to a sofa and in his exuberance punched a cushion.

  Raymond said, “I believe Shyam’s baked a cake.” After every reconciliation Shyam baked a cake. They were not very nice cakes—rather hard and tasting of baking powder—but of course it was the spirit in which they were offered that was important.

  Lee exclaimed with pleasure and went straight out into the kitchen. But Gopi’s face clouded. He said in rather a hard voice, “When is he leaving?”

  Raymond blushed. He said, “No, he’s not.” And in answer to the look that Gopi hurled at him, he began to stammer: “How can he, Gopi, be reasonable.”

  Lee returned with Shyam behind her. He bore his cake aloft. It looked squat and a bit blackened but it sat proudly on Raymond’s best hand-painted plate. Shyam placed it in the center of the table with a flourish. There was triumph in the way he did not glance in Gopi’s direction.

  Gopi got up and went into the bedroom, banging the door. Shyam solicitously helped Lee to cut the cake. He asked Raymond also to taste a piece but Raymond didn’t hear him; he was looking at the closed bedroom door. After a while he went in there.

  Gopi was opening drawers and pulling out his things. He kept quite a few of his clothes in the flat; now he was flinging them one by one on to the bed. “What are you doing?” Raymond asked with a beating heart.

  Gopi did not answer but redoubled his activities. He kicked a pair of sandals that got in his way.

  “Gopi, please. Listen to me.”

  “There is nothing to listen. Your servant insults me and you stand by and laugh. Very good. I understand.” He pushed past Raymond, viciously pulling a pair of trousers off a hanger.

  “How can I send Shyam away? Do you know how many people he has to support? He just can’t afford to lose his job—I mean, his family would starve. Literally starve, Gopi.”

  “What do I care for his family!”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  Gopi cried, “Yes, you care for his family, but my family, you laugh at and despise them.”

  “I don’t know how you can talk like that.”

  “I saw with my own eyes that day. You didn’t want to eat the food my mother prepared for you and you didn’t like our home, it was not good enough for you. You made this face.” He showed which, with much exaggeration.

  “I didn’t, I didn’t.”

  “No? Then perhaps I’m blind and stupid. And you despised my mother also because she is only a simple lady and can’t speak English—”

  “This is too bad of you, Gopi. You shouldn’t say these things to me.” Raymond felt himself blushing again and again.

  Gopi had now pulled out all his possessions and was roughly bundling them together. “But it’s all right. I’m going now and you need never see me again. You can sit at home with your Shyam and eat all your English dishes he will prepare for you.”

  He slung his bundle over his shoulder and was ready to leave. Raymond got between him and the door.

  “Aren’t you my friend? Aren’t we friends? Aren’t we, Gopi?”

  “No. You are not my friend. You care nothing for me. All righ
t, why should you care? I’m not such a very wonderful person. Let me pass.”

  “How can you hurt me like that? Saying these things to me.”

  “You think I’m not hurt. You think I feel nothing.”

  He opened the door. He went out and Raymond went after him, still pleading. He didn’t care that Lee and Shyam were there, listening; he cared only for Gopi and somehow to prevent him from leaving. But Gopi didn’t even look back at him; with his bundle slung over his shoulder he walked straight out of the flat. Raymond called hopelessly down the stairs: “At least take a suitcase for your things. Please, Gopi!”

  Gopi stood still for a moment on the stairs. He looked up at Raymond with dignity. “You may keep your suitcase. I want nothing from you.”

  Raymond Attends a Supper Party

  The house was in the residential compound of the British High Commission. It was fully air-conditioned and tastefully furnished. The dining table was also set very tastefully. There were fourteen guests seated round it, some English, some Indian. Raymond was between a British Council wife and a stout, richly dressed Indian lady. The food was, like the guests, a judicious mixture of English and Indian and was served by bearers in white gloves. The party was going very well. The host, a counselor in the High Commission, had been in the diplomatic service since his university days and his wife with him, so both knew how to conduct a social occasion of this nature. Conversation was lively and general and ranged over many interesting topics.

  “Say what you like,” said the host, twinkling cordially at one of his Indian guests, “but you can’t persuade me there’s no special relationship.”

  “You’re talking through your hat, Gerald,” said this Indian guest, a joint secretary in the Ministry of External Affairs. He wore Indian clothes but spoke with a very English accent. “You’re nothing more to us now than, say, the Dutch or the French or any other ex-colonial ex-power.”

  “Come now, Deepak, you can’t deny that, in spite of everything, you still have a soft corner for us. It’s like a family bond—don’t we all sometimes want to shake off the family? But it can’t be done. We just have too much in common.”