Travelers

by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala

  Still looking away from her, he muttered, “I got your letter.”

  “I’m very happy with Banubai. She and I talk of so many things. All spiritual things,” she said with a sigh. Then in a different tone—“When did you get my letter?”

  “Two-three days ago.” He was still muttering.

  “I sent it four weeks ago.”

  “The post nowadays is terrible.” But he saw himself that this wouldn’t do and continued quickly, “I’m staying with my uncle. There is some family business, I have been very busy, every day I said today I will go but every day my uncle—and there is my aunt also—”

  “You have been here all the time?”

  “—and many cousins—”

  “And only today you come to me? And here I sit waiting and waiting!”

  He looked up at her. Her eyes were flashing, and now truly she looked like Asha again, and her voice too was like Asha’s. He kept quiet, letting her scold him and not really listening—and indeed, she herself no longer quite knew or cared what she was saying, so that after a time the words died away and they both were silent. They were almost alone on the steps. It was late in the morning and there were just two shaven-headed old widows, one of whom stood in the river washing her length of cloth while the other was spreading hers out to dry. Smoke rose from a little stone hut in which a hermit lived and was cooking his midday meal. There was such peace and calm, it was like a presence and one that recalled Asha to herself.

  She said, “I only wanted to see you to tell you that I’m a different person now.” Except that having him there beside her again, she realized how far she still was from her goal. She shut her eyes. She said, “You had better go away.”

  “All right.” He got up at once. He wanted to obey her and cause her no further pain. But he too was sad. He walked away from her sadly with his head down. He walked down the steps, toward the river, not thinking much but vaguely hoping that a boat would come quickly and take him away. He stood waiting on the same step as the old widow drying her cloth.

  Asha called him back. She told him “Come tomorrow.” She saw the surprise flitting over his face and it irritated her. She said, “Banubai wants to see you. . . . I want her to see you. It will be very good for you to meet with such a person.” She spoke rather severely.

  When Banubai first saw Gopi, she clasped her hands together in delight and gazed her fill at him; then she beckoned him close to her and pinched his cheek and finally—a very special treat reserved only for very special favorites—she opened the tin in which she kept her best sweetmeats and popped one into his mouth. “What about me?” asked Asha jokingly. “Don’t I get a nice sweetie?” “Certainly not,” Banubai joked back. “You’re not a pretty little son like he is.” And she ruffled his hair with a loving hand, and both she and Asha smiled and smiled at him while he, embarrassed but pleased, lowered his eyes so that his long lashes tickled his blushing cheeks.

  Banubai encouraged him to come again and again. If he missed a day, she reproached him and told him how her heart had been restless for him. She said, “Now that I have found you again, I can’t bear to be without you.”

  It appeared that Gopi had been her son not only in one but in many previous incarnations. They had been born under all sorts of different circumstances—once as queen and prince, another time merely as potter’s wife and son—but always, throughout the ages, as mother and son: so was it any wonder that the moment she saw him she knew him again and that she felt for him the way she did. Gopi was greatly impressed by this information and gladly agreed to call her Ma and to treat her in every way like a mother—of course not like his own mother with whom he tended to be brusque and irritable but with all the reverence that a son traditionally owes to his mother whose blessing he craves more than food.

  He went to visit her whenever he could and she rejoiced at the sight of him and often refused to see her other visitors when he was there, even those that had come with very grave problems. Asha of course was always there with them. It seemed to her that, under Banubai’s influence, her own relationship with Gopi was also changing and that her feelings for him were beginning to be transformed into purely maternal ones. She enjoyed cooking tasty dishes for him and she loved touching him the way Banubai did—ruffling his hair or patting his cheek or holding his hand in hers; and it seemed to her that she was quite satisfied with that and wanted nothing more.

  Gopi enjoyed their company and would have liked to spend a great deal of time with them. But it was not always easy for him to get away from his uncle’s house, and especially not from his cousin Babloo. Babloo wanted to be with him all the time and accompany him everywhere. Whenever Gopi wanted to go off to see Banubai, he had to invent lies and excuses for Babloo or sneak away as best he could. Babloo soon guessed that Gopi was hiding something from him, and at once assumed that it was something to do with girls. This idea excited him unbearably so that day and night he nagged and teased in order to discover the delightful secret. He did not succeed, but he remained convinced that there was one. He especially enjoyed hinting at it when there were others present and indulged in nudges and winks which Gopi found both embarrassing and dangerous.

  The situation was further complicated by the fact that there was now a lot of talk in the uncle’s family about the proposal that had come for Gopi and his sister. All agreed in thinking it a very fine one and did their best to overcome Gopi’s resistance. They were more subtle than Gopi’s mother and Delhi uncle had been and, refraining from getting angry or cajoling, confined themselves to throwing out remarks of a more general nature. For instance, when Gopi sat relaxed with the other men in the sitting room, enjoying a game of cards and the delicious refreshments brought in by the women, then someone would begin to talk about the advantages of a happy, settled domestic life. All agreed that it was the only state of true contentment known to man. Examples were cited of the miseries of those who, perhaps through their own fault or, more often, due to an unpropitious fate, had to drag themselves through life unmarried and uncared for. Gopi did not take part in the conversation, neither was he expected to. But everyone was very nice to him. When he played a card, it was greeted with exclamations at his cunning and skill. Only Babloo kept winking at him and throwing out cryptic remarks. No one knew what he was talking about, and Gopi tried not to hear him—in fact, he tried not to hear any of them but concentrated with all his might on the cards he was holding, which he arranged and rearranged to their best advantage.

  At first Gopi didn’t know whether he was glad to see Raymond or not, but quite soon he decided that he was. It was good to have someone to whom he could talk almost quite freely. He went to visit him in his hotel, and the two of them were together as before with Gopi half lying across a sofa and Raymond intent on making him comfortable and stirring the ice around in Gopi’s Coke to make it really cold.

  Gopi told him all about the marriage proposal. He very seriously propounded the many advantages that were attached to it. In the end he said, “They are quite rich.”

  Raymond was appreciative.

  “They want me to go into their business. Sugar mills,” he added in a tone of respect.

  “What about your college?”

  Gopi did not look happy. He never did look happy when his college was mentioned. He said, “Yes.”

  “Aren’t you going back there?”

  He made a helpless gesture with his hand.

  “Your finals are coming up, aren’t they?” When Gopi made the same gesture, Raymond asked, “You don’t think you’ll pass?”

  Gopi shrugged indifferently. He said, “And what if I pass? Yes, all right perhaps I can get a government job like my uncle in Delhi, four hundred and fifty rupees a month with increment every five years.” Suddenly he became passionate: “You don’t know what it’s like—not to have enough money—you have never had to live like that. At the end of every month before her allowance comes my mother has to send to the neighbors. Usually she asks only for rice and
flour, but sometimes she has to ask for money also. When I was small, she sent me to ask. I didn’t like the face people made when they gave. Naturally, they don’t like to give, no one likes to give when you’re in need.”

  Raymond said gently, “Yes, I think it’ll be nice for you to get married.” He added, “And I’m looking forward to the wedding of course.”

  “It will be very big and costly. I’m glad you will be able to see a real Indian wedding.”

  “Your real Indian wedding,” Raymond said. After a while he added, “When it’s over I’ll go home.”

  “Oh, no! You must come with us to Kashmir. How can you leave India without first seeing Kashmir? Never. I wouldn’t permit it.”

  “You’re going to Kashmir?”

  “For my honeymoon. Why are you laughing?”

  Raymond’s laughter was full of affection. He was content. He felt everything was working out well. Gopi would get married, and after that picturesque event, Raymond would go home. It would be a fine note on which to leave. Of course there would be the sorrow of parting but even that would have its own sweetness.

  Then Gopi said, “Asha is here.”

  “Have you seen her?”

  “Of course. I often visit her.”

  Although Raymond did not ask any questions or make any comment, Gopi suddenly said with great energy: “Everything is quite changed now. Asha is staying with a very saintly lady and under her influence Asha also. . . . She is like a mother to me.”

  “Who?”

  “The saintly lady. . . . And Asha too.” Suddenly he got angry and shouted, “You understand nothing! Nothing! I don’t want to talk to you.” He struggled up from the sofa.

  Raymond said, “What did I do? Please sit down and tell me what I did.”

  Gopi said, “No, I’m going,” but nevertheless sat down again, looking indignant. “I can see from your face you don’t understand! You don’t know anything. You have no idea of our culture. In your culture there is nothing—only sex, sex, sex—so how can you understand what it means to be mother and son, what a beautiful relationship it is for us.”

  Raymond made no comment but asked instead, “What’s the date of your wedding?”

  Gopi shrugged in ill humor.

  “I’d like to know so that I can arrange about going home. Buy my ticket and all that.”

  But Gopi had no interest in Raymond’s plans.

  An Unsuccessful Meeting

  The day Gopi took Raymond to Banubai she was in a very tender mood. There were some people with her, seeking her guidance, but as soon as Gopi entered she broke off her conversation with them and, raising both her hands, cried, “Here he is! My own little son!” She made him sit beside her on the bed. She asked him if he had slept well and what he had eaten for his breakfast; while he answered, she smoothed his hair and caressed his face. She was completely engrossed in him as a mother in her favorite child. She had no time to spare for anyone else. When Gopi introduced Raymond to her, she hardly acknowledged him beyond throwing a swift glance in his direction. This glance reminded Raymond of Swamiji, who looked at people in the same way.

  Asha came in with some food she had cooked for Banubai. She too did not have much time to spare for Raymond but greeted him quite casually and as if they had met just yesterday and under similar circumstances. Banubai began to eat, but before every bite she took she first put a morsel into Gopi’s mouth. He allowed himself to be fed, opening his mouth with the innocent, helpless air of a child. All the people in the room looked on with admiration. They said that Banubai had made Gopi her son the way the Lord Krishna was the son of his mother Yashoda: that indeed she saw and worshipped the Lord Krishna in Gopi and that all her playing with him was really an act of devotion. They felt privileged to be allowed to witness this act. Only Raymond did not feel privileged—in fact, he was embarrassed and did not like to look at the charming tableau being enacted on the bed but stared in frowning concentration at the tips of his own feet.

  Although Raymond did his best to hide these feelings, it seemed that nothing could be hidden from Banubai. She was very cold to him. Even when her other visitors had left and she and Gopi had finished their meal, she continued to ignore Raymond. But Asha now became very keen to talk to him. She drew him out of the room and said eagerly, “You see, you see how everything has changed.”

  Raymond said, “You’ve changed.”

  “That’s nothing,” she said, impatiently tugging at her coarse cotton sari. “That’s just outward—nothing—of no importance at all.” She regarded him with clear shining eyes.

  “You look very well.”

  “Look, look! That’s all you can think of. What can I say to you? You don’t understand anything, only the outer person.”

  Raymond did not try to defend himself. He thought that perhaps it was true, perhaps he really did not understand anything. Gopi had also said so.

  Anxious to change the subject, he said, “I’ve been seeing Lee.”

  Gopi came out of Banubai’s room. He said, “She is calling.” And Banubai herself called from inside the room in rather a testy voice, and when they went in she looked at them suspiciously and asked Asha, “Where did you go? What are you doing?”

  “Just think,” Asha said, “Raymond has met Lee.”

  Both Gopi and Banubai were interested. Banubai asked, “Is she still with—that person?” She addressed herself to Asha as if Raymond were not worthy of being spoken to.

  “Is she?” Asha asked him. “Still with that Swamiji of hers?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And is she happy with him?” Banubai asked.

  Raymond hesitated for a moment, then he said, “I think so. Or rather, she thinks so. So I suppose she must be.”

  Banubai was interested, but she still didn’t address herself directly to Raymond. Instead she continued to use Asha as an intermediary. “How does she think herself to be happy?” And when Raymond could not think of a definite reply quickly enough, she went on impatiently, rapping out her words—“How? In what way? Like someone who is satisfied and has found what she is looking for?”

  Raymond tried his best to answer truthfully. It was not easy for him, since he couldn’t really tell what was the truth from Lee’s point of view, or from Banubai’s either. He spoke with English slowness and caution. “She may have found what she was looking for. I couldn’t be sure. Yes, perhaps she has.”

  Banubai flung up her hands in exasperation. “Such things are not may—they are not perhaps! They cry out like a trumpet! With a royal sound! A godly sound! They cry out yes! And again, yes!” Her hands remained raised in the air; she looked and sounded like a prophetess. To Gopi and Asha she was an inspiring figure but Raymond found himself embarrassed again.

  Banubai leaned forward keenly. She said, “You can see Asha and my little boy, how they are with me. There is no need to ask are they happy. There is no may here, no perhaps.” This time she addressed herself directly to Raymond and she looked at him directly too. And again, as he met her penetrating glance, he was reminded of Swamiji, and it seemed to him that like Swamiji she was good at reading other people’s thoughts.

  She seemed at any rate to have read his. She behaved as if he were no longer there. She began to engross herself in her prayers. The beads slipped through her fingers, her lips moved, her eyes filmed over. Asha made a respectful sign to Gopi to lead Raymond away. Gopi too looked very respectful and he tiptoed up to Raymond and took his arm to lead him outside.

  “What do you think of her?” Gopi asked as soon as they were outside, but answered himself: “She is a great spiritual person. You know what she is doing now? She is going into samadhi. She is in direct communication. Her spirit is merging with the One. She is a saint,” he said, aglow.

  “I don’t think she thought much of me.”

  Gopi waved this aside: “Saints are different from others. You cannot interpret their actions. Of course she likes you, what do you mean? She loves you.”

  “O
h, does she?”

  “She loves everyone. She is my mother. She is everyone’s mother.”

  A Reading in the Ashram

  Lee was sitting cross-legged on the floor of her hutment, meditating. She didn’t take any notice of Raymond. Margaret was lying on a bed and she also took no notice of him. However, since she did not appear to be meditating, he spoke to her. He said, “Aren’t you feeling well?”

  She answered in a distinct voice, spacing her words: “I—am—not—ill.” She said it as if it were a gramophone record she had put on for the benefit of people who had been bothering her with such questions.

  When Lee had finished, she got up off the floor. She greeted Raymond with “When did you come?” but obviously she wasn’t interested in an answer, so he didn’t give any. He said, “Asha wants to see you.”

  That too failed to interest Lee. She was about to leave the hutment when Margaret called out to her, “Where are you going?”

  “Why don’t you just rest,” Lee said and went out. Raymond stayed by Margaret’s bed. He put out his hand to feel her temperature but she pushed him aside.

  “I’d like to bring a doctor,” Raymond said.

  She began to cry; tears rolled down her sick face. She said, “Get out, leave me alone.”

  Raymond caught up with Lee. He said, “She’s very ill.”

  “That’s what I keep telling her.” She went on walking. Raymond caught her arm and said, “Wait a minute.” She didn’t want to but she stopped still. Raymond said, “We’d better get a doctor out from town.”

  “She doesn’t want to see anyone. She says she’s all right.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”