The Moneylenders of Shahpur

by Helen Forrester

  The waiter departed, not too sure how to make English tea, but hoping the cook would know. He brought a cloth to sponge the skirt, and Miss Armstrong removed the worst of the stickiness.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘I’m a wreck anyway.’

  John was inclined to agree with her but had sufficient diplomacy to stop himself saying so. He just twiddled his cold pipe which he had taken out of his pocket, and wondered what to talk about.

  Miss Armstrong leaned her head against the wall of the cubicle and hoped she would not faint. She had certainly walked too far and too fast that morning. This John Bennett, though he was something of an oddity, was very kind and she was overwhelmed with gratitude at his bringing her into the restaurant and his concern at her spoiled skirt. She wished suddenly that she was beautiful, charming and amusing so that she could really entertain him with witty conversation. The ceiling gave a sudden swoop and was obliterated by a cloud of darkness for a second.

  ‘I think you had better sip some water.’ His voice came from far away, though he was bending over her and holding a glass, clinking with ice, to her lips.

  She sipped gratefully and the faintness receded. John’s lined, red face, topped by its unruly brush of dark hair, came into focus.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said with a wobbly smile, ‘I am all right now.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re working too hard,’ ventured John. ‘Surely Ferozeshah doesn’t expect you to work all the hours God sends?’

  ‘Oh, no. He’s very reasonable – though he works like a machine himself.’

  She leaned forward and put her elbows on the stained, battered table, and ran her fingers across her eyes. Her shirt was open at the neck. John found himself a little flustered by a glimpse of lace barely masking full, incredibly white breasts. It had been a long time, he thought depressedly.

  Unconscious of the stir she had caused in her companion, Miss Armstrong relaxed in the welcome gloom of the restaurant. The dark, varnished wood partitions and the smoke-blackened ceiling gave it an air of shabby, homely comfort.

  ‘There’s so much to do here – for a nurse,’ she said, a note of compassion in her voice.

  John sought uneasily for a further source of conversation. Finally, to bridge the growing gap of silence, he asked abruptly, ‘Were you visiting someone sick, just now?’

  ‘No – this is my spare time. I don’t have to be in the operating room until eleven, today. However, some of the big Jains here are trying to do a real survey of the city. They want to find out how many people live in each district, what water supplies they have, what parks or playgrounds for children. It’s an awfully difficult job. I’ve been counting refugees from Pakistan camped out on the pavements round here.’

  John’s bushy eyebrows shot up in surprise.

  ‘That’s a departure – for Jains. They’ve always believed that suffering is brought upon oneself. I didn’t realize they cared how the other half lived. What’s the idea?’

  ‘To raise funds to provide some amenities in the worst slums.’

  Miss Armstrong rubbed absent-mindedly at a water ring on the table. She looked up at John’s strong, calm face.

  ‘Humph,’ grunted John. ‘Times they are a-changing!’ His wide, thin mouth broke into a grin. ‘Jains are usually more interested in protecting animals than humans – charity is simply giving to monks and beggars.’

  ‘I know,’ replied his companion. ‘That’s why I want to help them.’

  She removed her elbows from the table, so that the waiter could put down the tea tray. When he had gone, she seized the teapot in a small, strong hand and poured out the tea.

  John took the proffered cup and himself added sugar and milk, while Miss Armstrong sipped eagerly at the black brew in her own cup. She sighed. ‘That’s better. Mind if I smoke?’

  ‘Not at all. Do you mind if I smoke a pipe?’

  Miss Armstrong dug a packet of Capstan out of her shirt pocket. After he had given her a light, she began to look a little less flushed and her skin took on its more normal appearance.

  ‘Cream velvet powdered with freckles,’ reflected John in some surprise. ‘She can’t be much over thirty.’

  He told himself hastily to stop thinking like a naive youth, and he dragged his mind back to the prosaic subject of the proposed map. ‘I know Shahpur quite well,’ he told her. ‘I was actually born here, and I think I could draw a map of most of it. I’m sure that a proper one doesn’t exist, particularly since the influx of refugees – they’ve built all kinds of shanties – I’ve watched them go up.’ He laughed a little grimly. ‘I bet the postmen are the only ones who really know Shahpur.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘It would save a lot of time, if you had a map – and, believe me, I could fill in a great deal of detail – mosques, temples, ruins, fountains – what few gardens there are …’

  ‘Would you really draw one?’ Miss Armstrong asked eagerly. Her face was alight, the mouth a trifle open to show the tip of a tongue as narrow as a cat’s. ‘Could I tell Lallubhai – he’s the Chairman – about your offer?’

  ‘Certainly,’ replied John, and wondered what possessed him to undertake such a monumental piece of work. ‘Do you want a wall-sized map – or sections?’

  She looked doubtful and then quickly glanced at her watch. ‘I’m not sure. Look, I’ve got to be in the operating room by eleven.’ She picked up her bag. ‘Could we meet somewhere to talk about it?’

  John was immediately appalled at this complication. There was not a single European restaurant in the city. He could not very well ask her to his room. A vision of Ranjit’s horrified face floated before him – an English Memsahib in his room would probably ruin her reputation. He had no idea where she lived or with whom. What a fool he was to get involved.

  He fumbled with his pipe, matches and stick, at the same time trying to open the swing door of the cubicle for her. She waited patiently while he sorted himself out and thought of an answer to her question.

  ‘Perhaps you should first talk to your Chairman, Mr Lallubhai,’ he temporized, as he finally managed to push the door open with his elbow. ‘If a student or artist would volunteer, I’d be glad of a little help. Any map I draw is not going to be technically perfect, but it’ll save your Committee a lot of work.’ He paused outside the cubicle, and then asked, ‘I wonder if Mr Lallubhai has thought of asking the City Engineer for a look at his maps. He’ll have some showing drains, waterpipes …’

  Miss Armstrong’s little white teeth flashed in a quick smile. ‘I’m sure none of the Committee has thought of it. I’ll suggest it. I’ll write to you – your address is in Dr Ferozeshah’s file.’

  As they moved through the crowded restaurant, customers paused in their conversation to watch them pass. At the bottom of the narrow entrance steps, they were besieged by beggars. Miss Armstrong ignored them. She looked up at John, and said, ‘You’re a brick to offer to help – it’s a big job – are you sure you want to do it?’

  She looked anxiously at him, and he could not say to her that he wished he had not volunteered, and said instead, ‘I shall enjoy it – it will be a change for me. Now, can I get you a tonga?’

  She was dismissed and, in spite of his affirmative reply, felt unaccountably a little hurt.

  ‘No, thank you,’ she muttered, ‘I’ll walk. Goodbye – and thank you.’

  She turned stiffly on her heavy, flat-heeled shoes, and in a moment was lost in the jostling crowd.

  John waved at a passing tonga, and the driver drew into the pavement.

  ‘University Road,’ said John, ‘How much?’

  ‘Eight annas, Sahib,’ said the driver outrageously.

  ‘Four annas and not a pice more.’

  ‘Sahib,’ the voice was full of reproach.

  ‘Four annas.’

  ‘Six annas,’ said the driver, ‘and not a pice less,’ and he lifted his whip to start his horse, to indicate that he would rather go without a fare than reduce his price
further.

  ‘All right,’ said John, and clambered in through the door at the back of the carriage. A little boy, who had been sitting by the driver, scrambled down, ran round the tonga and locked the door after John.

  John smiled at the boy and gave him an anna. But behind the smile he felt cross. In two days two new people had entered his life, if one counted that Miss Armstrong had previously been only a pair of hands passing papers to Dr Ferozeshah. They both seemed to be people who would disrupt the peace of his life; Dr Tilak appeared likely to seek his advice quite often and Diana had momentarily disturbed his usual composure.

  Since his dismissal by his fiancée, he had tried to avoid women, swearing that he would never let himself be hurt again. Almost every time he walked, he was reminded of the repugnance in his fiancée’s eyes, when she saw how crippled he was; and then he would damn all women.

  He told himself not to be ridiculous. Nevertheless, by the time he was deposited at his compound gate, he had worked himself into a thoroughly bad temper. When Ranjit saw him, he scampered out to his own veranda, from which he did not stir until he had listened to the typewriter pounding steadily for more than half an hour.

  Later, when he crept into the room to ask the Sahib what he would like for dinner, he was surprised to find him leaning his head disconsolately against the typewriter, looking as miserable as he had when first he returned to Shahpur.

  ‘Sahib?’ queried Ranjit, his wizened face full of concern. ‘Are you well?’

  The Sahib did not raise his head from its hard resting place, but he smiled up at Ranjit out of the corners of his eyes, and with a jolt Ranjit was reminded of the small boy John had once been who wept and raged his frustrations out of himself.

  ‘I am all right now, Ranjit. Sometimes I get fed up because I don’t walk very well.’

  Ranjit scratched his jaw, and wondered if that was the only trouble. He decided, however, that this was not the time to probe further, and said, ‘Your legs improve daily, Sahib. Don’t get depressed.’ Then in a cheerful managing voice, he asked, ‘What would you like for dinner? I have some good lady’s fingers, succulent and green.’

  ‘I’d rather have them smooth and white,’ said John with sudden spirit, while Ranjit looked at him aghast.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It was about three weeks later that John was again reminded of an uneasy sense of unwanted change in his life.

  Ranjit came in to tidy his room and, seeing that he was not working, sat down on the floor to gossip.

  He regaled John with a detailed description of the contents of Tilak’s baggage, Mrs Tilak’s disgruntlement at the poor lodgings provided for her son by the University, Dr Tilak’s hot temper and, by comparison, the quiet character of his sister, Damyanti. Mrs Tilak was a widow, he said, and she and her daughter normally lived with her elder brother-in-law in Bombay.

  John lay resting on his wooden couch and laughed at Ranjit. He lay on his back, with one muscular arm curled round his head, and Ranjit, as he watched him, thought that he must be much taller than he seemed when standing. When on his feet, he tended to stoop and put a lot of weight on his stick. A strong man, however, and very virtuous, though, in Ranjit’s opinion, he was too young to live in quite the sagelike manner that he did.

  ‘It defeats me, Ranjit,’ remarked John, ‘how you manage to find out all these things.’

  ‘Sahib,’ replied Ranjit primly, ‘I do but listen to the conversation of others. Ramji told me himself that Mrs Tilak upbraided him personally because, she said, the lavatories were filthy, and, you know, Sahib, that he does his best to clean them.’

  John thought of Ramji’s apathetic efforts at cleaning, and snorted.

  ‘And anyway, Sahib, what else does one expect a lavatory to be except very dirty?’

  ‘Ours is clean,’ said John, yawning and stretching like a cat.

  ‘You clean it yourself, Sahib,’ said Ranjit disapprovingly.

  ‘If I left it to you and Ramji it never would be clean.’

  He rolled over to face Ranjit and his eyes were suddenly a little flinty.

  ‘Why should one not clean one’s lavatory, may I ask? Gandhiji set everyone a good example by taking a sweeper’s broom and doing a sweeper’s work.’

  ‘I am a Brahmin, Sahib, and well versed in the scriptures.’

  ‘You cook for me.’

  ‘True, Sahib – but times are changing and I must change with them,’ said Ranjit huffily, fingering the little shikka on his head. His grey hair was thinning rapidly, but he cultivated carefully this precious tuft of hair by which God, in due course, would pull him up to Heaven.

  John abandoned what he knew to be a useless argument and swung his legs down to the floor.

  ‘Let’s look at the account book,’ he said. ‘It’s time we did.’

  Ranjit heaved a sigh and produced from his shirt pocket a much thumbed notebook, in which were entered in Gujerati characters the various expenditures of their small household. John ran an experienced eye down the list, to make sure that not overmuch of any one item was being used; occasionally, Ranjit’s hospitality to his family extended to gifts of tea or sugar out of John’s store, as well as free meals.

  Meanwhile, Ranjit took out of his shirt pocket a dirty screw of newspaper and from this extracted three rupee notes and a handful of small change, which he carefully counted out on to the floor in front of the couch. John checked the amount with the book and found it balanced. Satisfied, he returned the housekeeping book to Ranjit, heaved himself up and unlocked the almira, took out his cash box and went back to the couch.

  Without thinking, he sat down cross-legged and was surprised that he could arrange himself in that position without pain. Ranjit held out an incredibly wrinkled brown hand and John counted his wages into it. He then gave him money for a week’s supply of food and fuel.

  The servant folded the notes up carefully and stowed them away in a grubby handkerchief, after which he sat looking rather gloomily at a small line of ants marching across the floor, until John asked him, ‘What’s the matter, Ranjit?’

  ‘Sahib, you have thousands of rupees in the bank and yet you live like a monk. It is not fitting, Sahib, for an Englishman to live so. You should have a pukka bungalow with a compound – and a mali to cultivate the garden – and a kitchen boy to help me.’

  ‘Ranjit,’ said John with a sigh, ‘you should be in the Secret Service. Do you by any chance know the exact amount of my bank balance?’

  Ranjit flushed under the implied reproof, though he answered steadily, ‘Yes, Sahib. Rs. 40,581, As. 3.’ He cleared his throat, and went on, ‘Further, Sahib, you will soon get another letter from Wayne Sahib, your book man in America, with more money; and you have two wealthy students to coach here – more money!’

  John leaned back against the wall and roared with laughter.

  ‘You know more about my finances than I do,’ he said.

  ‘The Statement from the bank lies on your desk,’ replied Ranjit blandly.

  The idea of launching out on to a sea of housekeeping appalled John; he liked his present existence. It was comparatively uncomplicated, he had plenty of learned men for company, and for a change he could take an occasional trip to Abu or Delhi or Bombay, without having to worry about the cost of it. Already Tilak and Miss Armstrong had stirred in him a faint premonition of unwanted change, and here was Ranjit lecturing him about rearranging his life. A sharp reproof rose to his lips, but he stifled it hastily – Ranjit cared more about his wellbeing than anyone else.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ he told Ranjit gravely, and dismissed him.

  He sat down at his desk and commenced reading the notes he had made on the Marwari Gate temple.

  The evening was approaching and there was a comfortable clatter of saucepans from Ranjit on the veranda. Behind it John could hear the wind whining among the bungalows and University buildings. He rose and stretched. Balancing himself by holding on to the furniture, he went to the door and opened i
t. The sky was flushed with sunset, the pinkness dulled by the threat of storm in it.

  His landlord’s grandchildren were playing, as usual, in the compound, and the smallest child was in the act of unlatching the compound gate. As he watched, it managed to heave the gate open and peep through it, and then ventured outside. John called to it to come back but it did not, so he got his stick and walked as quickly as he could to the gate.

  The toddler was sitting in the middle of the lane cooing to itself, while a small black carriage, drawn by a single horse, bowled smartly towards it.

  As he went to retrieve the child, he shouted a warning to the driver. He pulled the youngster to its feet and, with a pat on its behind, sent it back through the gate. He paused himself, because the awkward bending had hurt his legs. The mangy horse drew up by him, and its owner leaned down from beside the driver.

  Mahadev Desai smiled and bowed. ‘Good evening, John. Can I give you a lift anywhere? Nice to see you.’

  John surveyed the plump speaker through the dust engendered by the carriage. He had known Mahadev casually for most of his life. He was the son of a powerful moneylender and jeweller; but today he wore, like any fairly prosperous businessman, a plain white cotton shirt, jacket and trousers. A white Gandhi cap surmounted a moonlike, though not unhandsome, face. Shrewd eyes stared unblinkingly, while he awaited John’s answer. Behind him, sat his younger brother and sister-in-law, who murmured ‘Namuste’ in greeting.

  ‘No, thanks,’ replied John. ‘I called to you, because I wasn’t sure if your driver had seen my landlord’s grandchild – the little tike had strayed into the lane.’

  ‘I saw him, Sahib,’ the driver interjected hastily, lest he be blamed for carelessness.

  John nodded, and inquired after Mahadev and his family. The cadences of the man’s voice, he thought, had not changed over the years. He knew the nervous respect with which Mahadev was treated in the city. The Desai Society in which he lived was nearly in the centre of the old town, and from it, financial tentacles stretched out into the mills and homes of half the city, even as far as Delhi and out to Europe, it was said. Nobody held more mortgages and family jewellery in pledge. Nobody could put pressure on a hapless debtor faster than the Desais, or produce a bigger bribe when needed. Their knowledge of invective, that priceless asset of any Indian moneylender, had not been lost as their business became enormously expanded. John had heard Mahadev himself, before he had taken charge of their business in France, screaming in the bazaar at some unfortunate businessman, while a crowd gathered to see the fun, and the police vanished.