The Householder

by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala

  ‘The man’s eyes!’ Hans cried. ‘All Eternity is there seen like in a mirror!’

  ‘Yes, well, that’s what I used to think,’ Kitty said. ‘Now I’m not so sure. Oh drat it, the milk’s sour again.’

  ‘Oh drat,’ Hans echoed, looking sad.

  ‘It’s because I’m not like the British sahibs and memsahibs of old that he despises me so. He misses it all so much, poor dear—the hordes of servants and the dinner-parties and Simla in the summer and all that.’

  ‘You are too materialistic,’ Hans said.

  ‘Not me, him,’ Kitty said.

  ‘He does not think of such things at all. He has withdrawn himself from the world and contemplates. How sour your tea is always, bah, this is terrible to drink.’

  ‘You want to come to a party with me, dear?’ Kitty. asked Prem.

  ‘He is my guest,’ Hans pointed out.

  ‘Well next Saturday he can be my guest. I’ll take him to Peggy’s party.’

  ‘We must talk!’ Hans cried, thumping his fist on Prem’s knee. ‘Everything must be shared between friends, all thoughts and wishes and adventures, if they are of the body or the spirit!’ Though this was consonant with Prem’s own opinions about friendship, he felt too shy and too bewildered to respond. ‘Without a friend,’ Hans said, ‘to whom I can lay bare my soul, I cannot live.’

  ‘Goodness,’ said Kitty in calm surprise.

  Hans put both his hands on Prem’s shoulders and his pale blue eyes behind the rimless spectacles scanned Prem’s face. ‘Now I must have the truth from you,’ he said sternly.

  ‘Of course,’ Prem murmured. To avoid Han’s searching glance, he slid his own eyes sideways to look appealingly at Kitty, who however was paying no attention. She was bending over the tea-tray, with her big bottom in its black and white cotton dress stuck out at one end and her head at the other; her lips were moving slightly and she looked preoccupied and even a little sinister as she poured all the tea left over in the cups back into the teapot.

  ‘You are my friend,’ Hans said. ‘You must tell me the truth.’ His hands lay heavy on Prem’s shoulders. ‘Do you think a Westerner like me can reach to the spiritual greatness of the Indian yogis?’

  Prem said, ‘Everything is possible if one tries.’

  Hans took away his hands and cried in agony, ‘But I have tried—oh, my God, how have I tried!’ In his agitation he took a few skips round the room on his naked feet, raising them high up so that it looked as if he had stepped on a nail and hurt himself.

  ‘Well that’s something, isn’t it,’ Kitty said.

  ‘In here I have a great longing to feel, to be! You, Prem, are Indian, you understand what is this longing that has come to me—’

  ‘You can pick us up Saturday evening for Peggy’s party,’ Kitty told Prem.

  Hans said, ‘Please tell the washerman to bring back my good shirt for this day.’ He put his arm round Prem’s shoulder and walked him out on to the veranda. ‘So, my friend,’ he said, ‘we have had a good conversation.’ Mohammed Ali was squatting on the top step of the veranda, enjoying a little brown cigarette which he held cupped in his hand. He looked up at them sourly, but made no move to rise.

  When Prem got home, lights were burning in all the rooms of the Seigals’ house and there were visitors and card-playing on the veranda. But upstairs in his own house all was darkness and silence. Indu was lying on the bed fast asleep. The kitchen was empty, though there was still a spark of fire in the grate. Perched on top of the pile of ashes was a pot and on the lid of the pot lay a few dry chapattis. This, he supposed, was his food. He was hungry, so he sat down on the floor of the kitchen and ate. But he knew it was not right for a wife to go to sleep before she had served her husband however late he might come. He considered for a moment whether to wake her up and tell her so. But he did not feel angry enough for that. He was still a little dazed from his visit and kept thinking about Hans and Kitty. Their interest in spiritual matters puzzled him, for he had always thought that Europeans were very materialistic in their outlook.

  The servant-boy appeared and Prem at once began to scold him for going out. As usual, the boy took no notice of him, except to assume a somewhat contemptuous expression. ‘Until the master of the house has taken his food,’ Prem told him, ‘your place is in the kitchen.’ ‘Finished?’ the boy asked and took away Prem’s empty pot for cleaning.

  Prem lay down next to Indu on the bed. He could hear her regular breathing and at once forgot about Hans and Kitty and about everything else. He sat up and looked at her. There was a very dim light in the room, which came from a street-lamp a few houses farther down. He could just make out her shape as she lay there. He had already begun to notice that she had changed, that her hips and breasts, always fine and plump and round, had become burgeoning and luxurious. He supposed it was the baby. Reverently he placed his hand on her stomach and thought about how it was his child in there. But not for long. Soon his hand had found the string at her waist to untie her petticoat. After a while she woke up. She turned her head away to hide her face, but did not try to hide anything else.

  Next morning, though, Prem was in a stern mood with her again. He watched her drinking her tea and noticed regretfully that she was not doing so with the refinement which would be required at Mr. Khanna’s tea-party. He brooded about this for a while, then got up and followed her into the bedroom. She was lovingly dusting a picture of Mother and Baby which she had recently acquired and hung up on the bedroom wall. Baby was very stout, with big folds in its legs, and Mother had a simpering expression and held a sunflower in one hand.

  ‘When you drink tea,’ Prem said, ‘you must hold your little finger up in the air, like this,’ He demonstrated, and she watched him in amazement. Suddenly she gave a very strange sound and continued quickly with her dusting. ‘What is there to laugh at?’ he said crossly.

  ‘Mind yourself!’ cried the servant-boy, lustily swinging a wet floorcloth around Prem’s feet. Prem stepped back hastily; from outside the door he complained: ‘He is completely without respect.’

  ‘He has to clean the room,’ Indu said.

  ‘In my father’s house, the servant never dared to enter the room when my father was there. And when he spoke to my father, he joined his hands and said “Your Honour”. Come out here, I must speak with you.’ But when she came, he did not know what he wanted to say. She stood before him, patiently waiting, with the duster still in her hand. ‘So tell me,’ he said and cleared his throat and looked important while trying to think what she should tell him. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘tell me—you have heard from your mother again?’

  ‘She says when my uncle is in Delhi on business next time——’

  ‘This you have already told me. And I have told you that of course it is impossible for you to go away with your uncle.’

  She went back to her dusting without a word.

  ‘Because my mother is coming to see us!’ he called after her into the room. She gave no indication of having heard him, and the servant-boy swished his cloth in wide sweeps.

  Prem left the house in a stern and rather assertive mood, and this was still with him by the time he reached the college. There were as usual many students clustered outside in the street; they stood together in groups or leant against the walls with their hands in their pockets and a bored and cynical expression on their faces. A girl was passing on the other side of the road. She was a short and stocky Punjabi peasant, not at all pretty, but the boys were bored enough to aim some desultory whistles at her. Prem, in his stern mood, felt instantly outraged. He swung round at one group of boys and demanded ‘Why did you whistle?’ He was not at all sure that it was they who had whistled, but he had to confront someone. ‘Have you no shame,’ he said, ‘to behave in this indecent manner?’

  Other students pressed closer to listen. The accused boys began to protest that it was not they who had whistled, but Prem would not listen to them. ‘What sort of behaviour is that,’ he said, ‘to inju
re and insult innocent young girls?’ He thought of Indu. If she passed, they would whistle at her.

  ‘Come with me instantly to the Principal!’ he shouted. ‘I will see to it that the sternest disciplinary action is taken against you.’

  Still protesting their innocence, the boys accompanied him upstairs to Mr. Khanna’s living quarters. Mr. Khanna was sitting in an armchair with his feet up, reading the paper. He did not look at all pleased to see them.

  Prem was too angry to feel his usual shyness before the Principal. He burst out at once, ‘Sir, these boys were behaving in an indecent manner in the street.’

  Mr. Khanna shut his eyes in weary resignation and laid aside his newspaper.

  ‘They were insulting a girl with whistles,’ Prem said.

  Mr. Khanna turned to the boys and said, ‘This is a very grave charge.’

  ‘It is abominable behaviour!’ Prem cried.

  ‘What have you to say for yourselves?’ Mr. Khanna asked the boys, but before they could reply, Prem cried: ‘I demand the severest punishment for them!’

  ‘Sir,’ said the boys, ‘we did not do it.’

  ‘Go to your class-rooms,’ Mr. Khanna said. ‘I will deal with you later.’ Prem glared at them furiously as they trooped out of the room. ‘It is boys like these,’ he told the Principal, ‘who ruin the good name of our college.’

  ‘You are sure it was they who whistled?’

  ‘Quite sure, sir,’ Prem replied with confidence. He really was quite sure now. Anger had swept aside all hesitation.

  ‘And they whistled only? Nothing else?’

  ‘A disgrace to the college! An example must be made of them!’

  ‘I am glad you reported the matter to me,’ Mr. Khanna said, taking up his newspaper again and trying to locate the paragraph he had been reading.

  ‘It was my duty to do so, sir. We have wives, sisters, daughters—how can we protect their honour if we fail to uproot evil and shamelessness from among us?’ He felt virtuous and grown up. He was a family man, upholding the sanctity of the family against the assaults of immorality. For a moment it struck him that here was an opportunity to appeal for a rise in salary. He could point out to Mr. Khanna that a man with a family to support and protect, such as he was, needed more than 175 rupees a month on which to do so. But he felt it would not be consonant with his present high moral stand to introduce any personal note. ‘It pains me to see that there are such elements in the college,’ he said, assuming a pained expression.

  A bell rang downstairs in the college. Mr. Khanna lowered his paper and said with a pleased look on his face, ‘I think there is the bell for your lesson.’

  Prem was satisfied with himself for the rest of the morning. He felt he had acted like a responsible teacher, with moral fervour and stern solicitude for those in his charge. His father himself, he thought, could not have behaved better. During their breaktime he gave a lecture on discipline to Sohan Lal. ‘We must be like severe though loving fathers to our students,’ he told him. Mr. Chaddha, overhearing Prem’s remark, took interest and pleasure in the subject and contributed a few forceful opinions of his own to which Prem listened with his head held to one side and nodding it from time to time in pleased agreement. Sohan Lal seemed rather embarrassed, but neither Mr. Chaddha nor Prem took any notice of him.

  So when Prem went home for his lunch, he was in a sterner mood than ever. He saw no reason why, now that he was a success as a teacher, he should not be a success as a husband too. He would have been quite pleased if his food had been slightly delayed, but Indu was very prompt with it. He cleared his throat and looked authoritative as he sat down on the floor in front of his brass tray. She kept bringing him more hot chapattis. Everything was going very nicely and he enjoyed his meal. Maybe he was a successful husband already. Even her cooking, it seemed to him, had improved—or was it just that he was getting used to it? When he had finished, he asked her to prepare a betel-leaf. She was very good, he had to admit, at preparing betel-leaves.

  But when he went into the bedroom, he saw that she had taken out her suitcase. It was lying on the bed with the lid open. He called her and pointed at it: ‘What is this?’ he demanded.

  She whipped it quickly off the bed and shut it. ‘I have put it out for airing,’ she said.

  ‘You are intending to go on a journey?’

  ‘Only if my uncle comes.…’

  Prem swallowed hard. He felt it to be right that he should be angry, but he wanted it to be a controlled anger. So he said in a quiet though forceful voice, ‘I have forbidden you.’

  But suddenly it was Indu who was angry and her anger was not at all controlled. ‘Who are you to forbid?’ she shouted.

  This took him aback considerably. The answer to her question seemed to him so very obvious that he could not understand how she came to ask it. But before he could point that out to her, she was shouting some more. ‘Now we have come to the limit! Now he forbids!’ She gave a sound of contempt. ‘He forbids me!’ she snorted and stamped her foot. The servant-boy came running from the kitchen and stared at her. ‘Now we have come to this!’ Indu shouted.

  Prem was very much embarrassed. He glanced at the servant-boy and told Indu in a low voice, ‘Please speak more quietly.’ Quite apart from the servant-boy, there were also the Seigals—supposing they heard, what would they think?

  Indu turned to the servant-boy and shouted at him, ‘Who called you here?’ The boy ran back to the kitchen and immediately began to make a loud and busy noise with pots.

  ‘Please speak more quietly,’ Prem urged her again. ‘We can sit down and discuss quietly.’ He put out his hand as if to pull her down to sit on the bed, but she jumped a step backwards crying, ‘Leave me alone! Don’t touch me!’ Then she ran and locked herself in the bathroom.

  Prem stood there helpless for a while. He did not know what to do and could only wait for her to come out again. When she did not come, he went and knocked very softly on the door. There was no sound from inside. He put his mouth to the door-frame and said in a low voice, ‘Please come out.’ He waited, but there was still no response. ‘We can discuss together,’ he murmured through the door. Inside there was no movement at all, but he heard a slight noise behind him. He turned and found the servant-boy standing there looking at him, so he quickly moved away from the door and pretended to be talking to himself.

  Indu gave no indication of wanting to come out, and it was time for him to go back to his afternoon lessons. He did not like to leave the situation like this, but he had to go. Slowly he went down the stairs; slowly and thoughtfully he walked along the road. He was feeling depressed and very unsure of himself. Perhaps she is right, he thought; who am I to forbid? All his confident thoughts about himself as husband and teacher had gone.

  The road was so hot and still. Even the little shopman, who sold cigarettes, betel-leaves and cold drinks, sat sleeping in his hut of a shop. Prem as he passed looked longingly at the red ice-box in which the cold drinks were stored. The afternoon heat was making him feel very thirsty. But he was at once ashamed of his longing: like a child, he thought, I crave for sweets. If one wishes to control others, one must first learn to control one’s own senses; and he thought about how bad he was at controlling his own senses. How often, for instance, he thought indecent thoughts about Indu, when he saw her lying next to him or moving about the house, and wanted to do things with her which should be reserved only for the dark and the night. And before his marriage, he had not only thought but even talked, with Raj and other friends, about girls and what it might be like to sleep with them. So what sort of a teacher, what sort of an authority, could he set himself up to be? Who was he to censor boys for doing no more than whistle at a passing girl?

  And perhaps it had not even been those boys. Now that he had grown unsure of himself again, he felt unsure of that too. Yet he had asked Mr. Khanna to take the sternest disciplinary action against them. Maybe Mr. Khanna was going to expel them. Maybe he was going to expel these boys
who might be innocent. When he got to the college, Prem did not hesitate. He walked straight up to the first floor and entered Mr. Khanna’s living-room. ‘I must speak with you very urgently, please, sir,’ he said in agitation.

  Mr. and Mrs. Khanna were having their midday meal. They ate in English style, sitting facing one another at a table and using fork and spoon. Mrs. Khanna had just speared a piece of cauliflower pickle on to the point of her fork and she was holding it like a trident while she looked furiously at Prem.

  ‘It is very urgent, sir,’ Prem said. He felt greatly embarrassed and would like to have gone away; but he had to talk to Mr. Khanna straightaway, before it was too late and the boys already expelled.

  ‘It is disgraceful,’ said Mrs. Khanna, depositing the pickle on the side of her plate,’ that the Principal of this college cannot have private time even when he eats his meal.’

  ‘It is about those boys,’ Prem said miserably.

  Mr. Khanna’s head was bent close over his plate and he was engaged in shovelling a great amount of food into his mouth.

  ‘Perhaps I made a mistake,’ Prem confessed.

  ‘Certainly you made a mistake!’ cried Mrs. Khanna. ‘Is this a time to come?’

  ‘Perhaps it was other boys who whistled,’ Prem said. He joined his hands in supplication and said, ‘Please pardon them, sir.’

  Mr. Khanna went on eating without looking up from his plate.

  ‘They are young,’ said Prem. ‘What do they know what is right and what is wrong? We must be lenient with them, sir.’

  ‘What pleasure can there be in food if it is not eaten in peace?’ Mrs. Khanna demanded.