The Householder

by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala

  He had always been rather put out by the boy’s indifferent, indeed almost contemptuous, attitude towards himself, and there had been a time when he would have dearly liked to get rid of him. But lately—in fact, ever since Indu’s departure—he felt that the boy had softened towards him. Not that they ever spoke together or that the boy put himself out to serve Prem. But somehow he made it clear that he no longer regarded Prem as an enemy; and he even managed to suggest that they were allies. Allies against whom and in what common cause Prem did not wish to think. But he did nothing to contradict the tacit suggestion. Thus, when Prem’s mother began to scold in the kitchen, the boy would usually come into the room where Prem was sitting and pretend to have some work to do there. He never appealed to Prem for support, indeed he never as much as looked at him; he had his back to him and made idle dusting gestures or rubbed at a stain on the wall. Prem in return pretended not to notice that he was there. It was only when his mother followed from the kitchen and began to abuse the boy in front of Prem, that Prem made a show of joining in the scolding. But he felt that the boy understood that he had to do it, for appearance sake.

  His days seemed very dull to Prem. He could get no interest out of the college—everything there was every day so very much the same. He no longer felt even the stirrings of ambition. There seemed no point in being a good teacher in a college where the students were only interested in getting into another, better college. Teaching was a job that had to be got through from eight to five every day in order to enable one to collect a salary on the third of every month. That was the way Sohan Lal and most of the other teachers looked at it. Perhaps they too had started off with high ideals the way he had; maybe they even still held them; but it was, he recognized, impossible to reconcile such ideals with the reality of Khanna Private College.

  He thought, vaguely, of looking for another job, in some finer better college where ideals were high and students looked up to their teachers and respected and even revered them, and the teachers loved their students and strove to mould them to the best principles, and the Principal was concerned not with profit but with an ideal of service to youth. But for one thing he did not know where to find such a college, and for another he doubted whether he would be accepted there. He was lucky to have even got into Khanna Private College, for he had only a second-class B.A. and no teaching experience : he knew it was the influence of his father’s friends that had placed him here, and perhaps Mr. Khanna’s willingness to be satisfied with less than others since the salaries he paid out were also less than those of others.

  The question of salary irked Prem less than it had been doing up till now. He even felt too listless to think about it much. And what was the use of thinking about an increase in salary? With Indu away, it was almost as if he had no wife; and with her away, he found it impossible to take the coming of a baby seriously. So the burden of supporting a family, the thought of which had so oppressed him, had lifted from him. But now he missed it. Now that it was gone from him, he craved again for the sensation of being a family man with duties and responsibilities. He thought almost enviously of Raj, who had a wife and daughter to look after, and was frowning and anxious with worrying about how to get the lavatory repaired or pay the school fees in the coming years when his child would have to start going to school. At least with such burdens one was someone—a family man, a member of society, living next to, in rows and colonies with, other such members of society who had the same worries. But Prem—what was he? He was no longer a student living in his father’s house: he had lost interest in his mother and in her cooking and in talk of Ankhpur. But what was he instead? Where did he belong? It seemed to him now that he belonged nowhere, was nothing, was nobody.

  He became daily more depressed, and it was in this mood that he decided to go and visit the swami again. He was not sure quite what it was he wanted or hoped from the swami, but he felt a quite urgent desire to visit him. He did not tell Sohan Lal of this desire, but went quietly, almost furtively, by himself. He thought he knew exactly where the house was, but when he got into the main bazaar, he found he had forgotten which side street it was they had taken. He tried several, but they all turned out to be the wrong ones. It was confusing, for in each of these narrow alleys were the same cloth stalls Prem had remembered from his first visit, with it seemed the same sleek merchants in fine white muslin clothes sitting on mats inside them, smoking hookahs or writing in large ledgers or only staring out with uninterested eyes. The stalls were all large and prosperous and as calm and peaceful as a drawing-room. But though Prem thought every time that this surely was the one, he could never find the archway leading to the courtyard of the swami’s house. There were other doorways and he hopefully went through them, only to find himself once in the precincts of a disused mosque, another time in a large carpenter’s workshop, a third time in a nest of squatters who had settled down in the niches of an old house and cluttered up the courtyard with their cooking-fires, their washing, with their battered tins, their useless stubble-chinned old men and hordes of children.

  But at last he found it. He passed through one arched and fretted old doorway and then through another, and there he was in the courtyard where the cobbler sat under a tree hammering nails into a shoe. Prem walked up the narrow staircase. Now that he had actually got here, he felt shy. He did not know whether the swami would remember him and, if he did remember him, whether he would not reproach him for having stayed away so long. He wished he had come with Sohan Lal, and he could not understand now why he had felt the need to come thus secretly by himself.

  The low arched door which led to the swami’s room stood open. Prem peeped in and saw that the room was empty. A few mats lay askew on the floor and there were some flower petals scattered about and trailed across the swami’s bed lay a piece of orange-coloured cloth. The room was sweet and heavy with incense, and a little wisp of smoke still came from the last smouldering remains of joss-stick which had been stuck into the window-frame. Altogether the room had an air of only just having been abandoned by a crowd of lively people, though apart from the bed and the mats and a little oblong grey tin trunk under the bed, it was quite empty. Prem climbed farther up the stairs. He was sure they must all be somewhere, so he was not surprised when the last landing brought him on to the roof and there they were.

  But what did surprise him was the roof itself, which had been made into a charming garden. The parapet was covered with clusters of red creepers, and there were flowers in pots all round and a little leafy bower under which stood a garlanded image of Vishnu. There was even a tiny ornamental pond built up on stones, with water crystal-clear and many-coloured fish swimming around. The swami in his orange robe was walking up and down the flagged paving with a young man on each side of him and his arms slung around their shoulders. Other young men stood round in groups. It was sunset time, and the sky, which looked very near, had such a strong glow that everything seemed tinted with an orange colour which was just like that of the swami’s robe.

  The swami recognized Prem at once and said, while Prem was respectfully touching his feet, ‘How do you like our garden?’

  ‘It is so beautiful,’ Prem said eagerly.

  ‘Yes,’ said the swami, and he smiled all round as if he were seeing for the first time how beautiful it was.

  A tall handsome young man with a very dark skin and a frown on his face, said impatiently, ‘What need have we of these things?’

  The swami turned his smiling face on him: ‘Why not? It is always nice to see how God sports with flowers and fish and birds in his playful mood.’

  ‘God’s place is in my heart,’ said the young man severely. ‘What do I care for anything outside of that?’

  ‘God has many attributes!’ called one young man in a challenging tone.

  The dark young man turned on him: ‘God has no attributes! He is without shape or Form.’

  ‘Now we have started,’ said another youth in mock despair.

  The swami s
aid, ‘But I only want our friend here to enjoy our garden’; and he smiled at Prem, who answered, ‘Oh I enjoy it very much.’

  ‘What else matters?’ said the swami. He turned to the frowning young man and lightly touched his cheek with his finger-tips: ‘Don’t be angry with me,’ he said in a pleading voice. ‘For some God has attributes, for others He has none, and discussion on this topic can be sharp and everlasting. But in the end all that matters is that we should love Him and enjoy His love.’

  ‘How true!’ Prem cried with pleasure. It was not a problem he had ever really considered, but now that he heard it stated like this, he at once gave it his enthusiastic assent.

  But the angry young man said, ‘You make everything too simple.’

  The swami smilingly bowed his head. He looked ready and even glad to listen to a rebuke, like a father proud to have his opinion corrected by a beloved son. ‘If you make it too simple,’ the young man said,’ fools will come and sit with gaping mouths, and then afterwards they will set themselves up as teachers and astonish other fools with foolery.’

  ‘There was once a village headman,’ the swami said. Prem moved in closer, so as not to lose a word; his eyes were fixed on the swami’s face and there was an expectant smile on his lips. The other young men also drew close, some with their arms clasped round each other’s neck. Someone leant his elbow in a carelessly friendly manner on Prem’s shoulder. Prem felt proud and happy and stood quite still under the weight of this friendly elbow. ‘It was the time of his son’s marriage. He had made a very good match for him with the daughter of a rich man in another village. He was very proud of this match, so much so that when the time came to make preparations for the feasting, he did not consider his friends and relatives good enough to be invited. In the end he invited only the three richest men in his village. But it so happened that on the day they were to set off for the bride’s village, all these three sent excuses to say they could not come. So the village headman had to arrive alone with his son, without relatives or friends or supporters. What shame he felt then before the bride’s family!’

  The angry young man curled his lip and threw back his head; he looked very proud: ‘God shall never want friends,’ he said, and his voice too was full of pride.

  At that moment the temple bells began to ring, and there was chanting and clashing of cymbals in the temples in the city below. ‘You are right,’ the swami said, tenderly looking at the angry young man.

  ‘No,’ said this young man,’ that is not what I meant. God does not need temples or priests or bells.’

  ‘He needs love and a pure heart,’ the swami said. His eyes were now very large and brilliant and his lips were parted in a smile. Then he was singing in ecstasy. He sang ‘O God, let me drink you like wine!’ Soon others had joined in. They were singing and dancing and clapping their hands in joy. The swami turned round and round in a circle, laughing like a child. The angry young man was on his knees, watching him, and from time to time he threw back his head and gave a burst of happy laughter. Someone had begun to play on a flute, and this music too ascended on spirals of joy. Prem stood by and watched. There was great longing, almost like pain, in his heart. He wanted to join in the dancing, but his limbs felt heavy and fettered. He thought that if he could shake off these fetters, then the longing in his heart too would resolve and he would be free to sing and dance and be happy with the others. His eyes filled with tears when he thought of this, and he trembled with the expectation of happiness.

  Indu wrote ‘How are you? I am well. We are all well. Please do not worry at all.’ Her handwriting was like that of a child. Prem read the letter several times, and his mother put on her spectacles and scrutinized it with pursed lips. The servant-boy hovered round, anxious for someone to read it out to him. In the end he asked Prem, ‘What does she write?’ ‘Is there no work for you in the kitchen?’ Prem’s mother shouted. The servant-boy disappeared. After some time Prem followed him into the kitchen and said, ‘She says she is well and not to worry.’

  He left for college in quite a lighthearted mood. He was not at all embarrassed by the students lounging outside the college and he got through his classes without any difficulty. Afterwards he sat with Sohan Lal in the staff-room, drinking Mrs. Khanna’s tea and feeling more contented than he had been since Indu’s departure. He told Sohan Lal ‘Today I had a letter from my wife who has gone to stay with her parents’; he said this in a matter-of-fact tone, as if it were an everyday occurrence for him to get a letter from his wife, and indeed a quite ordinary and accepted fact that she should go and stay with her parents. ‘She says she is well,’ he added. Sohan Lal sat by sympathetically; he looked ready to listen to a lot more. Prem would like to have told him a lot more, but there was nothing he could put into words. So instead he said, ‘Yesterday I went there.’

  An expression of eagerness came on Sohan Lal’s face. ‘Really?’ he said. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He talked about—oh, many things.’

  ‘He sang? He said the name of God?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Sohan Lal with a smile of longing. After a while he said, ‘Who else was there?’

  Prem told him about the angry young man. ‘That is Vishvanathan,’ Sohan Lal said. ‘Swamiji loves him very much for he knows that Vishvanathan thinks about God so much that he has cut all his ties with the world.’

  Prem sighed with admiration. He thought of tall, black Vishvanathan, fierce with love for God, careless and contemptuous of the worldly things other men longed for. ‘How wonderful to see a young man give up everything for God,’ he said with shining eyes.

  But Sohan Lal looked despondent; and when he spoke it was almost bitterly: ‘What is there so much to give up? Who would not turn to God and take pleasure only in thinking about Him, if he could?’ Prem was surprised by the other’s tone, which sounded resentful. ‘It is easy for a young man whose marriage has not been made to vow himself to God,’ Sohan Lal said. ‘What burdens has he, what responsibilities? He is free to do as he pleases.’ Prem nodded in agreement. He was rather embarrassed by Sohan Lal’s outburst, which was too unexpected for him to decide how to react to it.

  ‘Here in our India,’ said Sohan Lal, ‘it is so that while we are still children and know nothing of what we want, they take us and tie us up with a wife and children.’

  ‘True,’ said Prem, nodding sagely.

  ‘So that when we are old enough to know what the world is and what God is, then it is too late, for we have a burden on our back which we cannot shake off for the rest of our days.’

  Prem tried to look wise; but he did not feel particularly stirred by Sohan Lal’s words. He could not help admitting to himself that he rather liked his burden, which was Indu. He thought of her letter with the child’s handwriting and felt like smiling to himself.

  He soon returned to thoughts of how to support his family. He lay on his bed at home, under the two cupids, and frowned with anxiety. But the anxiety was deliberate and he enjoyed it. It made him feel responsible. He thought about asking Mr. Khanna for a rise in salary and about asking Mr. Seigal for a reduction in rent. He told himself that both these tasks must be achieved before Indu returned. Then he got up and opened the drawer and took out the piece of pink satin. He folded and refolded it to feel its softness. She would sit on the floor and sew it into a blouse for herself; and on special occasions—on occasions when she wore her jewellery and her platform-sole shoes and jasmine in her hair—she would put it on and it would fit tight and gleaming over her breasts. He smiled to himself and shut the drawer. Then he got back to serious thoughts.

  After a while he came out into the sitting-room and found his mother sitting on her bed, telling her beads and saying God’s name. In between she sighed. Prem knew at once that she was thinking more of her own troubles than of God. It had always been like that: prayer stimulated her to dwell on the circumstances of her own life and to regret them. Even on happy occasions, such as a wedding or name-givi
ng ceremony or some other festival when prayers were said, she always reverted to feeling sorry for herself.

  Prem distinctly remembered one Diwali, when he was about five years old. They had all gathered in the little prayer-room, he and his father and his mother and his four sisters and an old aunt of his father’s who had been staying with them at the time. His mother and the old aunt were lighting the little lights in front of the garlanded image of the goddess Lakshmi, offering rice and sweetmeats and intoning their prayers. The aunt was still chanting lustily, when Prem’s mother suddenly clasped her hands before her face and began to sob loudly. Prem was shocked and looked from one person to the other for guidance. His sisters sat straight-backed and stared at the goddess and did not dare move. His father was wiping his forehead with a handkerchief as if he were feeling hot from the burning lights; his face had assumed that pompous look it always had when he was embarrassed. The aunt continued the prayers on her own, and when she had finished, she distributed the sweetmeats among them all. Prem’s mother also took one and as she put it in her mouth, she wailed, ‘What is my life? What has become of me?’ Prem’s father wiped his forehead harder and cleared his throat. The four daughters still stared at the goddess; only their jaws moved as they chewed the sweetmeats. ‘Once I was a child in my parents’ house,’ Prem’s mother sobbed. ‘I was as free of worries as this child here,’ and she clasped Prem’s head which he jerked away, for he was rather nervous of her in this mood. ‘Now what has become of me?’ she cried. No one answered. There was no answer, for everyone knew that she was perfectly contented and even proud to be the wife of a Principal and in charge of a household of her own. And after the prayers were over, she herself seemed to forget her outburst. At any rate, she behaved much as usual and came with them to see the Diwali lights in the town, sitting in the horse-carriage Prem’s father had hired for the occasion and apparently enjoying the outing.