Travelers

by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala

  There was a change in Gopi. Even Shyam noticed it, and it made him ready to serve Gopi with better grace. It was not exactly that Gopi had become more considerate toward him, but he now behaved more as if he were used to servants like Shyam and no longer felt it necessary to assert his own superiority. Gopi’s attitude toward Raymond himself had changed too. He had always had his moments of tenderness, but they had been fleeting. Now they were there almost all the time and he was so kind and considerate that Raymond didn’t know what to do to show his gratitude.

  Raymond was quite prepared to accommodate himself to Asha. If it was not possible to see Gopi alone, then he was ready to join him and Asha in any outing to which they cared to invite him. And they did invite him quite often—at least Gopi did, he thought it was nice for all three of them to be together. Sometimes, for reasons he didn’t analyze, it was even a relief to him to have Raymond there and not have to be alone with Asha. So it was that the three of them went for long drives together in Asha’s car, or booked seats for the matinee show at the cinema. Or sometimes Asha went on one of her marathon shopping expeditions, with both Raymond and Gopi walking behind her to carry her parcels. She went from shop to shop, buying insatiably till she was exhausted and then they all three went back to the hotel and she flopped down on the sofa with her feet resting in Gopi’s lap; and he would massage them to soothe her so that she sighed with gratitude while Raymond sat apart from them in an armchair and looked down into his drink.

  A Quarrel

  Sometimes, when Asha did not feel like going to the hotel, she would summon Gopi to Rao Sahib’s house. The family and the servants were used to rather odd people coming to visit her so Gopi was by no means a surprise: on the contrary, compared with some of the others, he stood out in an agreeable way.

  He himself was not always pleased with Asha’s other guests. Once he found her sitting on the veranda entertaining a group of men friends; these included a musician, a dancer, and a big burly wrestler. When Gopi came, she made everyone shift their chairs so that he could sit beside her. She cupped his face between her hands and kissed him tenderly. He felt terrible with all these people looking on and suppressing their smiles at what they saw. But Asha noticed nothing or, if she did, she didn’t care. She was taken up with talking to her guests and reminiscing with them over happenings in the past. These were all amusing, and Asha was laughing and slapping her own and other people’s knees.

  Afterward, when they had gone, Gopi reproached her. “What sort of friends are these for you to have?”

  She shrugged: “Anyway, they’re good fun.”

  “Tcha,” Gopi said in deep disgust. “And such dirty talk you made with them.”

  “It’s all just talk,” she soothed him. “That wrestler, what a big strong fellow he is, but he can’t do anything with a woman, I have it on best authority. And the other one, the dancer—you saw how he was looking at you—” She burst out laughing.

  Gopi didn’t want to hear. He snatched up a magazine and engrossed himself in its pages. He frowned and scowled. Asha stopped laughing. Her mood changed completely. After a while Gopi heard her sigh and give out other signs of a disturbed mind.

  When he went on reading, she said, “I had another letter from Lee. She wants me to come there.” She added, “I want to go.”

  Gopi turned the pages of the magazine.

  “Lee says we shouldn’t go running after material enjoyments, that there is never any true satisfaction to be found there. Yes, she is right. For a short time you loved me but now you don’t care anything for me. You care only for Raymond.”

  Gopi looked in amazement over the top of the magazine.

  “It’s true,” she said.

  “You’re mad.”

  “But of course I’m mad! Who wouldn’t be mad! My God, when I think of my life I wonder at myself that I’m still here and not locked away in some lunatic asylum or dead from suicide.”

  “But you said you like Raymond.”

  “Yes, I like him.”

  “You said you want him to be with us.”

  “Poor boy, what should he do? Nature is to be blamed, no one else.” She fetched another great sigh from the center of her being and then she said, “Where were you last night?”

  “I was with Raymond.”

  “In his flat?” She looked at him narrowly but he had his magazine up again. “You shouldn’t stay with him at night, it gives a bad impression. And I was thinking so much of you yesterday, I thought if only he would come to me now. But of course you were with Raymond, so how could you come to me. Put that away!” she cried, and snatching the magazine out of his hands, flung it far out into the garden.

  Gopi jumped up in a rage. His eyes fell on the empty whisky glasses left behind by her friends. He raised his hand and swept it across the table. The glasses broke on the stone floor of the veranda and splintered into many pieces. There was a smell of whisky dregs. Asha had also jumped up. She looked at the broken glass, she looked at Gopi standing there enraged. A sort of exultation rose in her. She stepped up close to him and raising her face challengingly to his said, “Why don’t you hit me! Go on, hit me!”

  Gopi’s fury subsided. He stepped back from her but she came up close again. “Why don’t you?” she urged. Her eyes flashed with desire and seemed to be devouring him so that suddenly he felt afraid of her.

  Transience

  Lee walked away from the evening devotions, feeling exalted and purified. She always felt that way after singing hymns with Swamiji. Over the hutments, over the snake holes, over the flat, barren landscape stretched the evening sky—an opalescent texture tinted in the most delicate and unexpected shades of pink, orange, even pale green. It seemed to Lee that it shone with the same glory with which the singing of hymns had filled her heart. She had intended to do some long-delayed sewing on her neglected underclothes, but now she felt she could not do this, it was not possible for her to sit there like a quiet, rational creature. Instead she went to the hut in which Swamiji lived. The door was always kept open so that the devotees could go in to him whenever they felt in need of him. Today, as Lee went in, there were as usual quite a few people with him, but the moment he saw her he said, “Ah, yes, I was expecting you.”

  Of course, she might have guessed: he always knew what she was going to do before she herself knew it; or perhaps it was he who guided her or compelled her in the direction he meant her to go.

  “Come here,” he said. “No, nearer. Here.” He tapped the floor beside himself and she happily sat there. Evie was on the other side of him, with her pen and the notebook in which she took down his thoughts. She was so pale and weak and blonde that she was almost invisible. Swamiji with his dark, weathered skin and his orange robe glowed beside her. But he glowed anyway—anywhere—beside him anyone would become invisible.

  “Evie and I are having one of our violent quarrels,” he told Lee. “Now you’ve come you can decide between us. Evie is a very, very obstinate person.”

  “Swamiji,” Evie deprecated mildly in her mild voice.

  “She insists that ‘transience’ is spelled with an ‘e’ and not an ‘a.’ What am I to do? Everyone knows what fine English she speaks whereas your poor Swamiji, how can I open my mouth before her when the whole world knows that I’m only a very ordinary babu.” He laughed and made them all laugh with him. He often referred to the fact that, while still in worldly life, he had held a position as clerk in the income tax office. “Now I’m very happy that you have come, Lee, because I hope you will please come out in my favor with regard to the matter of transience.”

  “Well—” hesitated Lee.

  “You see! You see!”

  “I can’t help it,” laughed Lee in apology.

  “You can help it,” teased Swamiji. “If you really love me as you pretend to do then how small a thing would be an ‘a’ or an ‘e’ to you.” He was still smiling, but everyone realized that what he was saying now was on a different level. They strained forward, and
Evie’s ballpoint was poised ready. “In real love the things that are thought to be impossible turn out to be not only possible but so easy that it is little children who can do them the best. In the world of love two and two do not have to make four—transience does not have to be spelled with an ‘e’—” Someone gave a little cry of admiration and Evie bent over her copy book and scribbled joyfully.

  “Okay,” said Lee. “With an ‘a.’”

  “Ah, no, you’re cheating. You are pretending to believe but if you really believed you wouldn’t have to pretend, it really would be an ‘a.’ . . . Where are your friends? Why aren’t they here yet?” He looked at her with his half smile and his forehead pushed into quizzical wrinkles so that his cap rode up on his scalp. He always wore this cotton cap to cover his head, which was almost bald.

  “You haven’t written to them,” he accused her.

  “I did write—I showed you—”

  “You forgot to post the letters.” His narrow eyes were fixed on her, through her, shrewdly. She knew he could see right into her and it both thrilled and frightened her.

  “Truly not, Swamiji.”

  “You are telling me lies,” he said without relaxing his gaze.

  “As if I could tell you lies,” Lee said quite indignantly. She dared to look back at him but could only do so for a little while.

  “Lee, Lee, you know I’m teasing.” Now he was infinite gentleness. How he knew her, knew how to deal with her, handle her, make her his: and that not in private just between the two of them but before a whole room full of people.

  Music at Rao Sahib’s

  There was another big party at Rao Sahib’s to which Asha invited both Raymond and Gopi. It was like all Rao Sahib’s big parties with a lot of rich people in beautiful clothes interspersed with one or two politicians in plain white homespun. Rao Sahib was pleased to see Raymond again and introduced him to the guest of honor who, this time, was a lady minister of state, a big woman in a thick cotton sari and huge, fat, naked arms. She was holding forth on the beauties of the simple life of which she herself was a strong adherent. Rao Sahib explained to Raymond that, before reaching her present eminence, she had been in charge of a communal center known as Shantinivas. It had been run entirely on Gandhian principles. Everyone spun their own clothes and drank goat’s milk and pure water drawn from the well.

  She looked at Raymond in a kindly manner and asked him at once whether he spoke Hindi.

  “We had a Norwegian girl at Shantinivas, she learned to speak our language so beautifully. How she took to our ways! She always wore our sari and ate our vegetables cooked in our Indian way. Of course no tea or coffee—no one at Shantinivas takes tea or coffee. I would like you to visit Shantinivas,” she told Raymond. “But please don’t expect any of your Western luxuries—if you want those, then please don’t come to Shantinivas, you may stay here at Intercontinental Hotel.” She laughed, so did others. “Everyone gets up at five and after our ablutions and bathroom we sing our hymns. Beautiful! Then our simple breakfast. Everything at Shantinivas is simple and healthy. We have the old type of privies, and it has now been proved by German doctors that these are the best type for health, especially for women who are carrying.”

  Asha came and rather unceremoniously took Raymond away. “There is some trouble,” she said. She took him out into the garden, where there were carpets spread on the lawn with cushions and bolsters for the recital of Indian music that was to follow. The musicians had already arrived. The accompanists were seated on the rug arranged for them, tuning their instruments, but the soloist was arguing with Sunita. He looked respectful but distressed. She cut him short, she said, “Of course your fee will be paid in full,” and swept away. Asha stopped her just as she was entering the house to rejoin her party. “What can I do?” Sunita defended herself. “We must respect her wishes.”

  “What wishes?”

  “She doesn’t want the musicians. She wants us all to sing hymns, like at Shantinivas.”

  “To sing hymns? All that lot in there? Oh, my God!” Asha gave a shout of laughter.

  Sunita said haughtily, “Rao Sahib and I think it is a very fine idea.”

  “You must be mad. Completely dotty.” Sunita tried to get away but Asha wouldn’t let her. “What about the musicians?”

  “They will be paid.”

  “Paid! And their feelings?”

  Sunita managed to get past Asha without making any comment about their feelings. Asha was indignant. She went straight up to the musicians, who were indeed very much upset. The accompanists were packing up their instruments with a sad, resigned air while the soloist paced up and down waving his arms so that the sleeves of his delicate white kurta flapped like angry wings.

  “This is the way artistes are treated in this country today!” he shouted at Asha. “I will show you my press cuttings from foreign tours, then you will see what appreciation is shown abroad. Pack up!” he yelled at his accompanists. “Why are you waiting? Go home! There is no place for you in India today.”

  “Wait,” Asha said. She picked up some cushions and began to stagger away with them. She shouted for servants to come and help her. She ordered them to roll up the carpets and pick up the bolsters and carry them to another part of the garden. They were reluctant but did not dare disobey her, especially as she herself was working with such vigor. Raymond tried to restrain her but she wouldn’t hear him. Loaded down with cushions, she said that those who wanted to listen to music could listen to music and those who wanted to sing hymns could sing hymns. When he asked where the hymn singers were going to sit now that she was carrying all the arrangements away, she laughed crazily and said they could sit on the grass, what else, what did he think, that there were carpets and cushions at Shantinivas?

  “We’re starting now,” she said. “Go in and tell them.”

  Raymond hesitated, but when she said, “All right, I’ll go myself,” he went to prevent worse from happening. He didn’t know whom he should appeal to. Sunita and Rao Sahib were inviting people to come outside so that the hymn singing could start. No one seemed very eager, and they tended to linger over their drinks and wherever they could to help themselves to new ones from the trays that the bearers were still carrying around. Raymond made his way through the crowd, skirting the circle that surrounded the lady minister. He found Gopi in a quiet corner at the back of the room; he was sitting on a small brocade sofa with an extremely attractive girl in gold tissue whom he appeared to be entertaining very well. It seemed a pity to disturb them.

  “Asha’s calling you,” Raymond said.

  “This is Promila,” Gopi said. “She is called Pam for short and she is studying psychology at Miranda House. She has promised to psychoanalyze me.”

  “Oh, no,” said the girl. “I wouldn’t like to hear your dreams.”

  “They are beautiful dreams,” Gopi said, looking into her eyes. She giggled and shifted a bit farther away from him, setting up myriad little tinkling noises from her earrings, her bracelets, her anklets, her toe-rings, and tiny bells inserted into her hair.

  “Asha’s calling you.”

  “I think I would be a very interesting subject for you,” Gopi told the girl.

  “Yes, I can see very well what sort of a subconscious you have. Oh, bearer, bearer!” she cried to a passing figure with a tray. “I’m dying for another lovely apple juice.” The man stopped and she stretched out her hand for it. But she withdrew it again, for just then Sunita came up and announced that the hymn singing was about to start.

  Strains of music sounded from the garden. Raymond saw Sunita’s hostess smile fade and give way to a look of amazement and premonition. She hurried out and Raymond followed her. They found the sitar player at the expository stage of his recital. His accompanists sat behind him, swaying their heads to the music and nodding significantly at each other whenever he plucked a particularly exquisite note. Asha, the sole audience, had disposed herself regally in the middle of a carpet; she leaned against a bols
ter and with an extra cushion propped under her elbow for comfort. When she saw Sunita, she at once shut her eyes and was too absorbed in the music to see or hear anything.

  The guests came streaming out of the house. Their party clothes glittered under the illuminations from the trees. The lady minister clapped her hands and they all sat in a circle on the grass. Sunita, with a last despairing look at Asha and the musicians, hurried to join them. But Raymond stayed behind; there was nothing he could do, so he thought he might as well enjoy the music.

  It was very enjoyable. Liquid notes melted out of the sitar and trembled on the night air. There were no illuminations in this part of the garden, only moonlight; the fine white clothes of the musicians glimmered and so did the white flowers that bloomed like jewels on surrounding bushes. The raga had now reached the stage where the maestro was showing his skill at ornamentation. He strung and restrung his notes like pearls and each pearl had been rounded by generations of artistry. Such music demanded a quality of the ear as refined and a sensibility as delicate as the music itself. Raymond desired to give these but could not help being distracted by what was happening in the lit-up part of the garden.

  Led by the lady minister, they had begun to sing hymns. They started off with Gandhiji’s favorite hymn—a rousing tune and heartening words about the Oneness of God whether worshipped as Ishwar or as Allah. Unfortunately most of the guests did not know these words and they trailed behind the leader, who sang in a loud, manly voice, sometimes clapping her hands to rally the others along. They kept tripping up and some of them giggled at their own ineptitude, which made others sing louder in order to cover up. They sounded terrible.