“Go to sleep,” she told him, and he lay down obediently, not wishing to be troublesome. She walked to the front of the terrace with its view of the river; on moonlit nights she could see the water stretching far into the horizon, lambent like the sky itself in its veil of stars. From the other side she overlooked what had once been the eye-surgeon’s house and was now the dance school. The terrace was slightly lower than her own, so that she could see the beds placed there side by side in a row. In the summer, the dance teachers and their musicians slept up there; they were all men, some of them young like Ram and not yet married, the older ones with wives left behind in their home-towns. Even when there was no moon, she could make out the row of beds because each one had a white mosquito net that shone in the dark. She could never distinguish who was sleeping under what net, not even when there was a moon; everything was shrouded and still—except when a sudden dust storm blew up, or it rained, and then they would all start up and there was a confusion of white-clad figures scurrying for shelter. She had no time to linger and watch, for she had to help the old man drag his bed into his tin-roofed shed.
A terrible scandal broke out in the dance school: one of the students from good family was found to be pregnant. It was difficult to imagine how this could have happened in their institution. Their schedule was arranged in such a way that no student was ever alone with a teacher; and after hours, the inmates of the school lived a communal life, almost like monks. Nevertheless, what had happened had happened. The girl was already quite big, and under pressure from her parents admitted that she had been with one of the teachers; and under further pressure, she named Ram. He denied it absolutely, vehemently. The girl was a liar, and anyway much too thin and dark-complexioned for him to bother with her. The other teachers agreed with and believed him; but they were in a dilemma. Although the girl’s family had sent her away to Simla in an attempt to suppress the scandal, news of it might leak out and reach the Ministry of Culture. Then the school’s financial grant would be canceled, forcing them to close and all the teachers to return to their meager, salary-less days. If Ram confessed, he could be made an example of and dismissed. But he refused to confess, protesting his innocence with indignation and with tears.
He tried to hide his trouble from Vijay, but it was not possible. His feelings were too volatile, overflowed too spontaneously—it was part of his artistic temperament—to be concealed from anyone, let alone from Vijay with her mother’s heart for him. He sought refuge in her house more often than ever, but his high spirits were extinguished. He stared dully in front of him, and when she first asked—then urged—then begged him to confide in her, he shook his head in dumb despair. Trying to cheer him up, she took him shopping every day now, and on a bigger scale than before. They went straight to the jewelers’ lane, where they bought many large and shiny items. Fastening an imported gold watch around his wrist, she felt rewarded to see his eyes light up with some of their old sparkle; but this lasted hardly longer than it took to pay and leave the shop, when again he fell into a deep gloom.
On his next visit, Anand found the house changed—dark and dismal, with the servants neglecting their work and his mother too engrossed in Ram to supervise them in her former energetic way. The old man sat silent and alone on the roof; he no longer came down, not even when Vijay, kept out late shopping with Ram, forgot to bring up his meal. As for Ram, instead of tactfully disappearing during Anand’s visit, he stayed close by Vijay’s side, looking at her son with eyes that begged to be allowed to stay. But the worst was when Anand examined his mother’s accounts. Unable or unwilling to explain the enormous increase in her expenditure, she became defiant and shouted at her son. He tried to shush her—“The servants will hear”—so did Ram—“Maji, your health”—but both pleas only incensed her more. “Let them hear, let everyone hear, what sort of a son I have brought into the world!” And on the matter of her health, “So who cares when my own son is making me die from grief and heartache.” The noise she made brought the old man down to see what was happening; but when she told him, “Nothing to do with you,” he turned, silent as always nowadays, and went back to his place on the roof.
When Anand scolded the servants for their neglect, they looked sullen. At first they only muttered, throwing out hints that he should look further than a bit of dust on the furniture. Soon they became more voluble, they spoke of the shopping expeditions, drew his attention to the gold watch and the diamond studs in the new tunics. And the meals that had to be cooked for the visitor, not just one meal now but three a day with cold drinks and snacks in between. But they were not the kind of servants who should be expected to serve this kind of person (a low-caste dancer). Moreover, if they were to reveal what they knew about the goings-on next door, the accusation against him—and then they did reveal it, every detail of the scandal that they had learned from reliable sources like the school’s sweeper woman and the shopkeeper who sold betel and cigarettes and knew everything.
When Anand told his mother, she rejected the information outright. She ran first to the girl’s family—who, anxious only to save their good name, denied everything. Ram too denied everything. She made him swear on what was most precious to him and he swore on her life. Anand took action on his own. He used his influence with colleagues in the Ministry of Culture to institute an inquiry into the affairs of the school. This done, he left for his district and let matters take their course. Thus the scandal was uncovered, and the official report advised the withdrawal of the grant and the closure of the school on the grounds of moral turpitude. However, this verdict was subject to appeal provided the miscreant was exposed and immediate disciplinary action taken against him. Then Ram’s dismissal could no longer be delayed. That very day he had to pack up his belongings in three bundles and leave the school forever.
Carrying his bundles, he went to say goodbye to Vijay. She was deeply shocked, she would not accept the situation. But he was innocent! He hung his head, he said nothing. He was innocent, she cried again—had he not sworn on her own life! For answer, he fell to the floor at her feet and lay there, absolutely still. He resisted all her attempts to make him rise, to speak, to answer let alone assent to her protestations of his innocence. At last realization dawned on her. She said in a cold dead voice, “Get up.” He obeyed; when he glanced at her face, he saw it closed against him as against a stranger. He begged her: “Maji,” but her expression did not change. When he tried to take her hand to hold against his cheek as he had done a thousand times before, she snatched it away. He burst into tears but she continued to sit rigid, with her big knees planted wide apart as if made of stone, and her eyes, fixed on the wall above him, also made of stone.
Although she said nothing, asked nothing, he poured out his confession. He did not try to justify himself: yes, it was the girl who had taken the initiative, had tempted him, but he had followed her lead, and with abandon. Every night he had crept from under his mosquito net and let himself out of the house, so silently and secretly that neither watchman nor sweeper ever caught a glimpse of him. And silently, secretly, he ran to her house three lanes away, where she was waiting to let him in. While the household slept two storeys above them, they had done what they did together right there in her father’s house, on the gold brocade sofa of his drawing room where he entertained his guests; the smell still lingered of the kebabs that had been eaten and the whisky that had been drunk. She knew where the bottles were kept, and not only did they fornicate but they drank alcohol together, till the household began to stir at dawn. And this not once but night after night, for weeks together—those same weeks when he and Vijay walked hand in hand by the river and went shopping in the bazaar. And more, more—for he was now in a confessing mood and all his wickedness came rushing out of him—sometimes they were so overwhelmed by their desire that even in the school, after her class with him, they crept into a cubby-hole where winter clothing was stored in a steel trunk and they lay together on this trunk, in the dark and holding their breat
h if they heard voices or footsteps passing outside.
After he had told her everything, he remained standing before her with his head bowed. He did not dare ask for her forgiveness, nor did she offer it. She remained sitting there as before, stone-like—until suddenly she rose and her arms flailed as she beat him about the head and shoulders. He put up his hands to shield himself but did not utter a sound. When she had finished beating him, she abused him: she called him thief and scoundrel, who had insinuated himself into her house and her heart for what he could get out of her, for the money she spent on him, the jewelry with which she adorned him. When she said that, he said, “No, Maji,” in a still, broken voice. “And you laughed about me with her—with your prostitute—you said wait till you see what the old woman will buy for me.” “No, Maji,” he said again, in the same voice. She slapped his face: “Don’t lie to me! All this time you’ve lied to me and I believed you.” “I never lied to you—” But she slapped him again: “You said you were my son, that you loved me like a son.” “It’s the truth. I love you like a son.” “Liar! Liar!”
Silently, he bent down to his three bundles and untied them. He took out everything she had given him—the clothes, the gold-thread slippers, the ornaments. When he had finished, there was only one little bundle left and he tied it up again. The rest of the things he placed in a pile at her feet; lastly, he took off his new watch and laid it on top of everything. He picked up his remaining bundle and went to the door; there he turned around to her—not as if he hoped to be called back but perhaps for just one word, not even of forgiveness but only one word from her. She said nothing and he left, the mark of her hand still red on his cheek.
During the following days, there were times when she wanted to call him back. She had no idea where he had gone, and when she went to the school to find out, it was as if he had never been. A new teacher was taking his class, an ugly squat pockmarked man whom the girls teased till he lost his temper with them. Ankle-bells still tinkled, drums and lyres played, but now all this was unbearable to her. That day she went to the railway station and picked her way among the crowd to peer at the figures lying asleep on the platform with their cloth bundles of food and their water jugs, waiting for trains that had not arrived or not departed. But Ram’s train, if he ever took one, must have started long ago and he had already reached his home-town and the musicians’ alley with the broken-down house where his mother and sisters lived. Or he was still on the train, crammed into his third-class seat, with his bundle on his knees and the red mark on his cheek, remembering what he had left behind or looking forward to what lay before him.
As for her, she had nothing to look forward to. It was like that time when the old man had first resigned his office and they had had to give up the perks and pleasures of power that she had begun so much to enjoy; and the silent years that followed and her lonely solitude as he withdrew more and more. Now that he had even stopped singing his Vedic hymns, the silence was total; whenever she went up there, she found him perched on his bed, his head sunk low and to one side, like a sorrowing bird. Some days he did not eat his food, but she was too depressed to rally or scold him. There were times when she neglected to take her bath and sat on her crumpled bed with her grey hair hanging loose. At night she wandered around the house, and when she thought the old man was asleep, she went up on the roof. She found him lying on his side with his knees drawn up. She had no thought to spare for him; she came to look over the parapet, not at the river or the sky, both shining and beautiful, but over the other side at the terrace of the dance school. She saw the white mosquito nets standing in a rank that was serried and unbroken. There was no movement, no sign of life, but she knew that under each net a figure lay stretched out, chastely asleep.
But one night there was movement. A net in the middle of the row of beds stirred; a leg was cautiously thrust out, then a man emerged—although everything was flood-lit by an almost full moon, she was too far away to make out whether it was one of the old teachers or a young one. It may even have been the stocky, pockmarked Kathak master who had replaced Ram. She watched him glide past the other beds—perhaps he was only going to the toilet? But the way he moved like a thief he seemed intent on a less innocent excursion; once he stopped stock-still—maybe one of the sleepers had stirred, and he stood there with one foot still raised in the air. Then he continued, crouching low now. She wanted to shout out a warning—was it to the others, or to him, to let him know that someone was watching him? He reached the stairs leading down into the house and disappeared. She waited; if he had only gone to the toilet, he would return. She waited and he did not return.
She continued to stand by the parapet. Her eyes were still fixed on the row of white nets, but in her mind’s eye she was following the other’s stealthy progress—out of the house, down the lane, into the next lane; tonight he would have to be very careful because of the moon. When he reached his destination, there would be someone to let him in. And then what? She let her imagination roam, beginning with what Ram had told her—the brocade sofa and the bottle of whisky: until suddenly she was plunged into her own ocean of memories, and it was not the girl and Ram she saw, but herself and the old man—Prakash! In their marital bedroom, with the door locked and the electric fan whirring furiously but unable to cool their hot bodies; his hand was over her mouth to muffle her irrepressible laughter.
She left the parapet and went to him where he lay curled up on his side. When she touched his shoulder, he sat up immediately, as if he had not been asleep at all. She said, “Why didn’t you eat your food today?” There was something in her voice that made him raise his drooping head. “If you don’t look after yourself,” she said, “what will happen to you? . . . And to me?” She touched his face: “And when did you last shave?” She spoke severely but bent down to his cheek, brushing the grey stubble with her lips. He smiled, toothless, blissful. She sat on the ground by his rickety bed, leaning against it; they talked together and were silent together. Although it was very late when they parted, he was up at dawn and he was singing again. This is what he sang:
As bees pile honey upon honey
O Kama! Thus in my own person
O Kama! Let honey flow
Let lustre, brilliance flow and strength!
UPPER EAST
BEAVER STREET, OFF WALL STREET, NEW YORK CITY
THE TEMPTRESS
All the young people Tammy knew in New York had odd family backgrounds, so it was not necessary for her to give much thought to her own. And unlike many of her friends, she did have a home, or a base, even if there was no one in it except herself and Ross, whom she had inherited from her mother. Again unlike many of the people she knew, Tammy never really felt lonely or adrift: maybe because she was always either looking forward to or looking for something, so what was actually happening in the present wasn’t of overriding concern to her.
In earlier years, when they had been college room-mates, her friend Minnie used to say that Tammy’s serenity came from never having had to worry about money. But now that Minnie too had money—a poor girl with a lot of personality, she had married a rich man—she herself had not attained serenity; on the contrary. When her marriage broke up—her husband had turned out to be a rotten bastard—Minnie was tremendously restless and traveled all over the world, first for pleasure to places like Venice and San Raphael, then further east for enlightenment. Tammy had sometimes joined her on both kinds of expedition and had enjoyed them much more than Minnie. But it was Minnie, all by herself, who found and brought home Ma—though it was Tammy who inherited her, as she had inherited Ross.
Ma was in her sixties: an ordinary Indian housewife with extraordinary powers. By feeling a person’s pulse, she was able to locate a sickness anywhere in the body; she had a clear view over past births, reaching back many centuries, as well as (though this was a power she used sparingly) future prospects in this birth; she could cure snakebite by transmitting a verbal talisman over the telephone; and a number of o
ther such specialties, which however were all secondary to her main work. This was to give peace to people who came to her in need of it; or spiritual enlightenment to those who felt themselves ready for it, as Minnie did. On one of her excursions into India, Minnie had been taken to Ma’s New Delhi home in a row of whitewashed structures, their balconies overhung with a lot of washing. It was a government housing colony, Ma’s husband having been a clerk in the Ministry of Disposal and Supplies; and after his death, no civil servant dared turn Ma out of these quarters, for by that time she had reached something of the status of a holy woman, though without ever laying claim to it. She said she was there for her friends, that was all; that they should feel free to visit and sit with her and talk with her and occasionally to sing and rejoice with her. And that was what happened in her house: people came and, leaving their shoes on the threshold, sat on a sheet spread in her living room, while she spoke sometimes of quite mundane matters, like the quality of the year’s mango crop, and sometimes of higher things. It was not for what she said but for the effect of her personality that people came to her: at first only a few friends from the neighborhood, then more from other neighborhoods, and as news of her spread, they came from farther away, until she was so well-known that even foreign tourists were brought to see her, Minnie among them.
East Into Upper East Page 16