‘Namuste,’ she greeted the village bone-setter.
He grinned at her, his white-stubbled face dissolving into a mass of wrinkles, and, as she made to continue on her way, he accompanied her. His staff dragged in the sand as he described to her a boy’s arm which he had just set. She had once admired an ankle he had set and she had, in consequence, added to his local prestige. He now regarded her as a medical colleague, much to her amusement, though she had to admit that he was surprisingly competent for one who had learned his art only from his father in the traditional way.
‘Are you going to Virchand’s house?’ he inquired, naming the brother-in-law of Diana’s patient.
‘Yes.’
The bone-setter stumped along for a few yards, and then gave his opinion. ‘She’ll live, Memsahib. She has been worrying about things which are no concern of hers. Sick people shouldn’t worry – it makes them sicker.’
‘It does,’ agreed Diana.
‘The Panchyat will worry about the village – it’s their job.’ His tone was vicious. He would dearly have liked to be a member of the village council himself, but saw no hope of it.
‘What’s the trouble in the village? I thought there was something wrong when I was there yesterday. Have they been fined for something?’
‘Not yet,’ replied the bone-setter. He looked up at her from under his grubby white turban, clamped his pinched mouth tightly shut, and refused to say anything more until they reached the village. Still wordless, he saluted her and left her outside Virchand’s house.
Her patient was awake and tried to sit up as Diana entered. She made her lie down again, while she took her temperature, which proved to be normal. The deathly look of the previous day had also gone, though she was not very cheerful. The scar of the operation was knitting well.
She sat down on a mat by the bed and advised Virchand’s wife how to get the old lady on to her feet again, while the patient herself occasionally put in a word. The young niece brought into the hut a shy mother with a little boy who had a boil, and asked advice. Tea was offered her. Everything was as usual.
Whatever was bothering them must have passed over, Diana decided. She had seen before how a caste group or a family would shut up like clams while they dealt with a domestic scandal or even a murder. Distrusting both police and lower courts, they tried their best not to seek help from anybody in authority.
Diana sighed. They were brave and resourceful, but, because of their poverty, they were open to all kinds of bullying. She hoped, however, that her elderly patient was now safely on her way to recovery and that her brother-in-law would not aggravate her in any way for the next week or two.
The wind was rising, making the sand fly unpleasantly, so she said her farewells. ‘If the patient does not seem to be improving, please send a message immediately to Dr Ferozeshah,’ she instructed Virchand, sitting in his usual spot on the string bed outside the door.
‘Ji, hun,’ he agreed, and rose and saluted her.
As soon as she was clear of the village, she stopped to drink the bottle of water she had brought with her. Without water, she would assuredly get sunstroke, and she dared not eat or drink anything in the village for fear of dysentery.
The vultures had departed, leaving the small skeleton to the jackals; a rustle in the undergrowth hinted at their presence. The shadows were lengthening, so she stepped round the skeleton and increased her pace. In the distance she could hear the herdsmen shouting as they rounded up their charges, preparatory to driving them home.
Two red-clad milkmaids, with their big brass vessels of milk, were squatting at the bus terminus. There she hesitated. John Bennett lived not far from the following stop. If she picked up the bus there, she could call in to tell him of the meeting at Lallubhai’s house, in case Lallubhai had forgotten to inform him.
She persuaded herself that Lallubhai could indeed be so inefficient, despite his pleasure at John’s offer, and walked on. She was followed by the stares and giggles of the milkmaids; her flushed face and short skirts always caused amusement to village women who did not know her.
The compound gate was unbolted, and she pushed it open and went in. John’s light was already switched on and she could clearly see, through the open windows, that he already had a visitor.
As she stood uncertainly on the path, shyness overwhelming her, the gate swung slowly shut behind her.
John heard the gate click and turned in his chair to look out of the window. When he saw her, he waved, and a few moments later, he opened the door to her.
He was leaning on his stick, as she entered and stopped just over the threshold. Rather primly, she delivered her message.
‘Of course, I’ll come,’ he assured her. He turned to Tilak, who had risen at Diana’s entrance, and introduced him to her.
Tilak put his hands together in salute. What a weird-looking woman – her face was as red as burning charcoal.
She sat down in the basket chair indicated to her, and John sank on to the divan. The divan was low, and he winced; for the thousandth time, he cursed his inability to move properly.
The wince had gone unnoticed by his guests. He turned his attention determinedly to them and they were soon talking quite easily to each other. The story of the dead frog was told once more, and Diana was quick to sympathize. In return, she told them about some of the bigotry she had observed in the Mission of Holiness.
As her shyness receded, her face became more animated and her green eyes twinkled. She accepted a cigarette and smoked it slowly, enjoying the rare luxury of it. John apologized for Ranjit’s absence and his own inability to manage the Primus stove to make tea for her. Ranjit had gone, he explained, to find a boy servant he thought would suit Dr Tilak.
The mention of tea brought back her former diffidence. She said hastily that she had not intended to stay, and looked at her watch. ‘I think I should catch the next bus,’ she said.
Tilak surveyed her gloomily from under lowered brows. He had discussed with John the fine opportunity of the English Fellowship, and had been about to consult him regarding taking Anasuyabehn with him, when they had been interrupted by Diana’s knock. Now the moment was gone, taken by this fool of a woman with her maps and her nursing. As he chewed his nails and tried to enter politely into the conversation, the insoluble problem of the passport whirled in his mind.
Diana was picking up her bag and umbrella and John was saying that he should see her on to the bus. But his legs were hurting savagely and his voice did not carry conviction.
Diana sensed his reluctance, though she did not realize the cause. She said stiffly, ‘I shall be quite all right alone.’
Tilak had come to the door, too. He felt that John’s interest had transferred itself to the woman, and that he would not give his full attention to Tilak’s own problems. ‘I must go, too,’ he said sulkily. ‘I have lectures to prepare. Ask Ranjit to let me know about the boy.’
‘Certainly,’ replied John absently. He looked at Diana a little coldly, feeling that she was, in some way, distancing herself from him. He hesitated, holding the door half open. ‘I don’t think you should go alone in the dark,’ he said to Diana.
Tilak felt he would never escape and he suddenly wanted to get out of the hot little room. ‘I’ll take Miss Armstrong to the bus,’ he offered.
Diana accepted the offer gracefully.
So Tilak found himself escorting an English lady down the sandy lane, past the Dean’s bungalow. From the roof, Aunt observed him with astonishment.
At the bus stop, a group of children was playing Horses and Riders. The smaller boys were riding piggyback on the bigger boys, and they pushed and shoved in an effort to unhorse the riders. The fun they were having was infectious, and Diana laughed when one of the riders, with a deft push, caught another one off balance, and, to shouts of acclamation, horse and rider went down into the dust.
The bus arrived in a flurry of sand. Diana hastily thanked Tilak and eased her way into the crowded vehicle.<
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The little unhorsed rider rolled, puffing and laughing, to Tilak’s feet, while, from a nearby house, a shrill voice shouted to the children to come in at once. Three children fled, leaving the fallen one sitting rubbing his back. He looked up at Tilak and grinned beguilingly. Tilak knew him, and his pulses jumped at his good luck.
‘You’re Mehta Sahib’s servant?’ he asked.
The boy scrambled to his feet, picked up his black pillbox hat and crammed it back on his head. ‘Ji,’ he replied respectfully.
‘I want you to take a note to Miss Anasuyabehn,’ he told the child. ‘It is about a special secret with which she will surprise Mehta Sahib, so you mustn’t show the note to anybody. Do you understand?’
‘Ji.’
Tilak took out his notebook, tore out a page and scribbled a few words on it with his fountain pen. He fished a four-anna piece out of his trouser pocket and handed it, with the note, to the servant.
The boy put the note into his shirt pocket and the coin into the pocket of his ragged pants. He grinned at Tilak and ran happily across the road towards the Dean’s house.
Meanwhile, Aunt stumped thoughtfully down the stairs from the roof, where she had enjoyed a short nap. She had just risen from the mat on which she had been lying, when she had observed, over the parapet, Diana and Tilak going to the bus stop.
Still feeling physically and mentally drained after her confrontation with the guru in the temple, Anasuyabehn was seated on the kitchen floor preparing dinner for the visitors. Two chattering female cousins were helping her. The parents were seated on the veranda, sipping lemon water.
The servant had been sent to the house of a neighbour with a full water-pot, the neighbour’s tap having ceased to function, and Anasuyabehn said, as her aunt entered, ‘I wonder where the boy is? He’s been gone quite a long time.’
‘Playing with the children down the road,’ replied Aunt sourly. ‘Saw him just now.’ She sat down by a small charcoal fire, which one of the cousins had been tending. She took up a rolling pin and uncovered a pan of dough, which had been put ready for her by Anasuyabehn. The cousin put a pan of oil on to the fire to heat. As the older woman began skilfully to roll out puris on a small pastry board, she said, ‘I saw something else, while I was on the roof.’ She dropped a puri into the fat and pressed it under with a spatula, while the three girls looked up expectantly. ‘That troublesome Dr Tilak was walking down the lane with an English lady – the one who visited Dr Bennett the other day!’
The Dean had put his head round the kitchen door to see how the dinner was coming along. The meal was late, and it troubled him to have to eat after nightfall – no Jain liked to do that. ‘Indeed,’ he exclaimed. ‘You must have been mistaken.’
‘My sight isn’t that bad,’ snapped Aunt. ‘Perhaps,’ she added cunningly, ‘he asked Dr Bennett to introduce him.’ That, she surmised, might damn him in Anasuyabehn’s eyes. She glanced quickly at her niece, never ceasing the quick rolling of the bread she was making.
The girl sat as if turned to stone, her eyes wide, a lid in her hand poised over a saucepan of vegetables. Suddenly, within her, raged jealousy so raw that she could have spat like a fighting cat.
So that was why he had not come to the temple. Given the chance of an English girl in marriage, he had dumped her like a coolie dumping a bag of sugar.
Aunt smiled contentedly down at her frying puri.
‘He would never allow himself to be seen walking with her unless he intended to marry her.’ She flicked her sari back from her face and looked up at her brother. ‘What do you think?’
The Dean lifted a hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘It doesn’t matter, anyway.’
Matter? Anasuyabehn nearly screamed aloud at him. It matters terribly, and I don’t know how I can bear it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The boy servant slipped silently into the kitchen. No one noticed him, except Aunt, who hissed out of the corner of her mouth, ‘And where have you been, Maharaj?’
The sarcasm of the appellation made him cringe. He shrank into a corner, scared by the thought of the money in his pocket.
Consternation grew in him; supposing she found the four-anna piece? Its weight burned against his thigh, its delicious promise of sweets lost in overwhelming fright. If she found the coin, the old owl would shriek and nag at him until she discovered how he came by it; and, dimly, the little boy understood that this would cause not only trouble to himself but, possibly, to his dear Anasuyabehn as well. The fact that the note might be more incriminating than the coin did not occur to him – he regarded it merely as a piece of paper.
In a funk, the child moved to the charcoal bin. As if to make up the fire, he took a piece out and at the same time dropped the coin into the box. It fell with a soft plonk into the slack at the bottom.
At the sound, Aunt turned round. ‘Don’t make up the fire now,’ she snorted.
His fear receded. She had not seen. Obediently, he put back the piece of charcoal and stood waiting for the family to finish their dinner, so that he could have his.
The Dean suggested a walk in the Riverside Gardens. Everyone agreed, and, with a swish of saris, the ladies rose and went to the bathroom to wash their mouths.
Aunt turned to the servant. ‘Next time you’re sent on a message,’ she growled, ‘come back at once, do you hear me? At once. Otherwise, I’ll take an anna off your wages for every five minutes you’re late.’
The boy skulked in a corner and hung his head.
‘No dinner, tonight,’ added the indefatigable crone. ‘Now, clear up the dishes.’
The hungry boy hardly heard her. If they all went for a walk, he would be alone in this terrifyingly big bungalow, where the spirits in the air went shush-shush as they flew round the compound; and they rattled at the door bolts and made the curtains flutter at the windows.
As he stared at the discarded brass talis on the floor, they seemed to grow bigger, like staring eyes, too big for a little boy to scour. The littered kitchen floor stretched out before him like the desert of Rajasthan, miles of it to be swept and washed before he might curl up on his mat and lose his misery in sleep. He sat down on the floor and wept loudly.
Anasuyabehn heard the noise and came swiftly back to the kitchen. ‘What’s up?’ she asked her aunt.
‘I’ve told this naughty boy that he can’t have any dinner,’ replied Aunt.
The sobs redoubled.
Anasuyabehn tried to look stern. ‘You’re right, of course,’ she said, and then paused. ‘Perhaps, tonight he could have his dinner, and, if he ever dawdles again, he could go without?’
Aunt got up to follow the others to the bathroom. Over her shoulder, she snapped, ‘You spoil him.’
‘I’m sure he’s very sorry.’
The boy stopped crying, wiped his nose with the back of his hand and nodded vigorously.
‘All right, if you wish,’ replied Aunt and swept out of the kitchen, all injured dignity. The servant ran to Anasuyabehn and touched her feet.
‘Eat quickly,’ she told him. ‘Wash the talis and clean the floor. You can do the saucepans in the morning.’
‘Ji, hun,’ he assented, still sniffing, while his eyes made an anxious inventory of the amount of food left in the saucepans. Obsessed by the need to eat, the note lay unremembered in his pocket.
Long ago, in the days of the East India Company, an Englishman had built himself a miniature palace by the river and, round it, had laid out a fine park with a wide promenade along the river bank, the whole surrounded by a high wall. His grandson, an irascible bachelor appalled by the overcrowding of Shahpur, had willed it to the city, to be a park forever, open to all castes and classes to walk and play in.
The people thronged into it, happy to be free of traffic and dust. Admittedly, the grass had worn a bit thin in places, and, at one point, the surrounding wall had broken down, yet it was still a blissful retreat on a hot evening. The palace was now a boys’ school,
sadly lacking in paint though high in reputation. Like the park, it was open to Untouchables, as long as they could pay their fees.
Beggars were kept outside the gate by an officious chowkidar. They gathered as near to the gate as they could get, however, exhibiting a horrible collection of deformities and lifting distorted hands to the passersby. Like some dreadful opera chorus, they chanted hopefully, ‘Ram, Ram, Ram.’
Through this ghastly crew floated like petals on the wind girls and women in pastel coloured saris. They were closely escorted by their white-clad menfolk and were accompanied by a bevy of grave-eyed children. Amongst them, Anasuyabehn walked demurely behind her father and her uncle, a giggling cousin on either side of her, while the two aunts brought up the rear.
Though it was getting late, the park was far from gloomy; each path had its line of electric lights. The evening breeze blew coolly off the river, and the party walked the length of the promenade.
Anasuyabehn found it difficult to maintain her outward composure. Great gusts of fury kept sweeping over her. That Tilak should one day make protestations of love to her, and the next night be seen walking with an English lady was incredible. In this provincial town, nobody would walk alone with an English woman unless he had designs upon her. She forgot that Tilak was from Bombay.
‘You’re really so dull and depressing about your marriage,’ complained one of her cousins. ‘I’d give my eyes to be engaged to such a wealthy man – a man who sent me diamonds.’ Her voice rose in sharp envy. ‘And he looks so handsome in his photo.’
The reminder of Mahadev’s generosity struck Anasuyabehn forcibly. She lifted her head proudly and her lips curled in a hard smile. At least her fiancé wanted her badly.
They came to the end of the promenade, and the older ladies sat down to rest for a few minutes on a stone bench, upon which they arranged themselves so that there was no room for anyone else. The two gentlemen walked slowly up and down the path in front of them, while the cousins stood patiently nearby. A lamp illuminated the bench, though it served only to deepen the shadows cast by a huge, drooping tree behind it. Faintly from the burning ghats on the other side of the river came the smell of burning wood, a sad warning of man’s mortality.
The Moneylenders of Shahpur Page 13