The Moneylenders of Shahpur

by Helen Forrester

  ‘The man was a sorry sight, his face all covered with blood.’

  Partner Uncle exclaimed in alarm.

  The shepherd nodded, and went on, ‘My brother wiped the blood from his nose and eyes. He tried to lift him up to put him on the cart and bring him home, but the man was too heavy for him and cried out in pain.’

  Partner Uncle was, by this time, striding up and down in great apprehension. He stopped in front of the shepherd. ‘Well, what next?’

  ‘Brother took the blanket from round his own shoulders and covered the man with it – a good blanket, sir, now ruined by blood. He whispered to the man to try to keep quiet and he would bring help. He then tethered the ox again – because oxen are slow, sir – and ran home in the teeth of the storm.

  ‘Five of us went out in that terrible storm, sir, and found the man and put him in the cart and brought him to my father’s house. My mother washed away the blood and found he had two wounds, one on the top of his head and one in his shoulder. He was unconscious but mother said no bones had been broken. She bound him up – and all night we sat and wondered what to do. Ours is a very small village, sir, since the cholera killed so many, and my father is the eldest elder. The responsibility was his.’ The shepherd paused for breath, and then asked, ‘He must have been a passenger on the train? Would he be your friend?’

  ‘I believe so,’ replied Partner Uncle, and then, as the shepherd showed no sign of continuing the story, he queried, ‘Well?’

  The shepherd evaded Partner Uncle’s anxious glare. ‘Sir, the sun is going down. I must take the sheep home.’

  Partner Uncle swelled with sudden rage; the veins on his forehead stood out. He swept his arms above his head and shook his fists, like an avenging god. ‘What is this?’ he shouted. ‘What happened to my nephew?’

  The countryman cringed, and responded uncertainly, ‘Your nephew? Sir, you must speak to – to father.’

  Partner Uncle screamed again in rage, his voice echoing round the empty countryside. Pointing a finger at the unfortunate shepherd, he advanced threateningly towards him, only to be brought up short by milling sheep. The boy stammered, ‘Come home with me, sir. Father will explain to you.’

  The frightened sheep eddied between them. Afraid that his furious master would have a fit, the servant caught him by the arm, and implored, ‘Master, keep calm.’

  Partner Uncle shook off the restraining hand, but he did thereafter try to control himself. ‘Very well,’ he snarled. He picked up the hired bicycle and motioned to the servant to pick up his. The sheep were called and herded to the path. In the blinding dust raised by ninety-six little feet, Partner Uncle followed the flock and its shepherd.

  Partner Uncle found little solace in being half-choked by dust, but his anger cooled and his quick brain went to work. It did not take him long to realize why the boy had stopped his tale where he had. After cleansing the wounds, the old father would naturally look to see if his unexpected guest had been robbed, by checking his money belt; and if it was indeed Mahadev and his money belt was still round his waist, the old man would have been faced with the terrible temptation of a fantastic fortune having arrived in his poverty-stricken hut. How easy to add to Mahadev’s wounds, take him back to the cutting during the night and bury the money belt under the floor until such time as it seemed safe to remove himself, his family and the fortune to another part of India.

  During the twenty minutes’ uncomfortable walk, Partner Uncle felt it would be a miracle if Mahadev and the jewels were both safe.

  Infinitely thin and wrinkled, Jivraj lay on his string bed. He struggled up to speak to Partner Uncle, however, and bade him sit beside him while he heard his business. Then with many a sly look over his shoulder, he confirmed his son’s story of the robbery, and sent for his elder son, his nephews and his brothers, who all corroborated it. Though dreadfully afraid, not one of them said a word of how the robbers themselves had pounced on the village, uttering terrible threats and sweeping away all their donkeys with a promise of their safe return in a few days’ time. In a matter of minutes in the dark night they had come and gone, leaving dismay and near panic behind them. And then, before the night was done, Jivraj had been faced with the problem of the wealthy, wounded stranger.

  Now he must cope with this hard-faced Bania, just when it appeared that the train robbery was all but forgotten and all that remained was for the donkeys to be returned; he had no doubt that they would arrive home safely since their loss would cause comment all over the district, and the robbers would not wish to leave any indication of how they got out of the province.

  ‘But where is my nephew?’ demanded the frantic Uncle.

  ‘Ah, Sahib, has no word come to you from the police?’

  ‘No!’

  Jivraj looked bewildered.

  ‘But the doctor promised to find out who he was and inform the police, so that word might go out to his family.’

  ‘Doctor?’

  ‘Yes, Sahib. The morning after the robbery the stranger had high fever, and we feared he might die.’ He looked helplessly at Partner Uncle, ‘And then how would I explain away to the police a corpse with wounds?’

  Another man pushed his way forward. ‘I remembered that I had heard the white doctor was visiting a few villages away, so my son went for him.’

  Partner Uncle took a large breath and relaxed a little. ‘Did he come?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. He came with his big lorry. He said the Bania was very sick and had a bullet in his shoulder. He also needed medicine which the doctor didn’t have with him. He asked what had happened, and we told him. Then he brought a cot from his lorry and we put the Bania on it and lifted him in. The doctor Sahib said he would take him to his hospital and inform the Shahpur police. We were deeply afraid of being implicated in the train robbery.’ He stopped and looked uneasily round the group of anxious men who had gathered. ‘The doctor said he would explain to the police for us – that he knew us to be honest men. He comes to the village occasionally.’

  Partner Uncle stood up. ‘Where’s the hospital?’

  The villagers looked at each other. Then one said, ‘It’s to the north – on the other side of Shahpur – ten or fifteen miles from here.’

  ‘That side of Shahpur is desert. There couldn’t be a hospital there.’

  ‘That’s where it is.’

  A younger man bent down and whispered in Jivraj’s ear, and Jivraj said to Partner Uncle, ‘It’s a God hospital – a Christ one.’

  ‘Ah, a mission?’

  Dusk was falling, and a woman of Jivraj’s family came out of the hut with a lighted charcoal fire held in a pair of tongs. She put it down, put a covered bowl by it and began to slap rolls of dough between her hands to flatten them into rotis, preparatory to cooking them.

  Jivraj looked at the exhausted old moneylender and was touched by the sadness in his face. ‘Sir, if you can eat our food, one of my sons will serve you under the tree over there.’

  Moneylenders are not popular in villages and Partner Uncle was surprised by the offer. He was glad to accept, however, and then he added, ‘It’s too late to find the hospital tonight. I’ll return to Shahpur and set out again early in the morning.’

  To his surprise, Jivraj said, ‘To return to Shahpur from here is very simple. When they made the new road, they built a station for us at the nearby railway. In about an hour’s time, a local train will come down the line. It’s about a mile to the station.’ He bridled with pride in the new facility.

  So Partner Uncle found himself eating good millet bread and sag with a little yoghurt, under a tree in a strange village, and ruminating on the unexpected courtesy and kindness of country folk. Deep inside he felt a trifle ashamed of the many times he had, in years past, pounded money out of just such people.

  ‘Ah, well, they owed it,’ he thought, as he scraped the last bit of sag off the palm leaf on which it had been served.

  ‘Not at 144 per cent interest,’ said his conscience.

/>   The young man who served him was the shepherd he had met at the well, and he put the promised four rupees into his hand; the boy took them without protest, as his due. An older man then brought a lantern and led them, as they pushed their bicycles, over an almost invisible track down to the small railway station.

  There are no words of thanks in the Gujerati language and Partner Uncle did not offer to pay for his meal, but the villagers knew and Uncle knew that a bond of hospitality had been forged between them. One day, when the opportunity arose, it would in some way be repaid.

  Less than two hours later, Partner Uncle was reporting to old Desai, who himself had had a fruitless day.

  ‘I know of the hospital,’ said old Desai. ‘It is called the Mission of Holiness. Once I met that doctor.’ He picked his toes thoughtfully. ‘I formed the opinion that he was not altogether trustworthy – you know how one senses it?’

  Partner Uncle sighed, and nodded.

  ‘Tomorrow, Baroda Brother and I will go to the hospital and inquire. You must rest.’

  Partner Uncle agreed. It did not occur to either of them that the Mission of Holiness might be on the telephone – nor was it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Tilak never remembered clearly how he got through the night and the following morning, after leaving John so precipitously. A veil seemed to be cast over his conscious mind and he was guided merely by habit.

  Realizing that the Sahib was in some way ill, his servant made up his bed and suggested that he sleep. He helped Tilak off with his clothes and held back the mosquito net while his master silently clambered into bed. After a while, he slept.

  Soon after daybreak, the servant brought him hot water for shaving and then a brass tray of breakfast. After he had laid out clean clothes, he sat down in a corner and wondered apprehensively what Uncle Ranjit would say if he ran away.

  Tilak shaved mechanically, turning over his lecture notes as he did so. A plop of shaving soap fell on them and he wiped it carefully away with the towel. He continued to read while he ate wheaten porridge and drank some milk. Then he put the notes into his briefcase, dressed, gave the servant money for the day’s food, and walked down to the University.

  Though the sun was already well up, he shivered occasionally as though he were cold. It was not chill, however, but rather an inner perception that he faced a long, hard road to travel. He felt helpless, unable to accept the bitter facts regarding Anasuyabehn, which John had pointed out the previous evening.

  When he arrived at the Arts and Science Building, some of his students were hanging about outside it. They looked sullen and turned away from him, but he was too absorbed in his own problems to notice them. Inside, other students were hurrying to lecture rooms. They stared at him as he strode unseeingly to his own lecture room. He opened the door and walked in.

  The room was empty.

  Surprised, he looked at his watch. He was punctual. He put down his briefcase and took a few uncertain steps towards the window. Then he wheeled around and went out to the corridor again.

  While the last students scurried through doors, like rabbits down their burrows, the Vice-Chancellor’s secretary hurried up to him.

  Tilak asked, ‘Do you happen to know if they changed the room for my lecture? Is the Dean in yet?’

  The secretary blinked excitedly from behind thick spectacles. ‘The room? I don’t know. The Dean has just gone over to the English Department. Dr Prasad, however, wishes to see you now.’

  ‘I can’t possibly see him now. I have a lecture – only all my students seem to be late or are in the wrong room.’

  The secretary replied portentously, ‘They are not late, Sahib.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ A fuming irritation at the fool standing before him began to invade him. ‘Well?’ he snapped.

  ‘They’re on strike, Sahib.’

  ‘Strike?’

  ‘Yes, Sahib. That’s why Dr Prasad wants to see you.’

  Seated in front of the Vice-Chancellor, Tilak looked at him amazed. He had not heard Dr Prasad’s opening words, except that he realized that his tone was sympathetic. Now Dr Prasad was saying, ‘This is a situation which I had not foreseen. It will be the work of three or four hotheads. I have sent for Dean Mehta – he will know who are likely to be the miscreants, and I can assure you that disciplinary action will be taken.’

  He waited for Tilak to say something, but Tilak was so taken aback that he was beyond words. All this because of a little dissecting? It was absurd. Yet, in his heart, he knew it was not absurd. He had struck at the roots of Jain belief.

  ‘Would you like to take some leave while we deal with this?’ asked Dr Prasad.

  ‘Of course not,’ Tilak assured him. Anger began to take the place of surprise and he felt like throwing something at the dolts who could not see that India, whether its inhabitants liked it or not, was a part of the twentieth century.

  ‘I suggest leave, my dear Dr Tilak, because Dr Bennett mentioned to me, when I saw him recently, that you had had a brick thrown at you. It disturbed him because it happened on campus – and students are apt to be a little unstable.’

  ‘Are you afraid of violence of some sort?’

  Dr Prasad hesitated, and then said, ‘I shall try to avoid it, of course.’

  ‘Well, I’m not afraid of it – my mother and sister have gone back to Bombay, so I don’t have to worry about them.’ He laughed sardonically, and commented, ‘It would be ironical if our Jain friends took to violence to defend non-violence!’

  ‘It would, indeed,’ agreed Dr Prasad sadly. ‘But I hope it won’t come to that. Meantime, I really think it best if you went on leave for two or three weeks.’

  An hour later, the University’s Head Peon was dispatched to town to make a reservation on the Bombay Express for that afternoon. Tilak’s servant went scuttling down to the river, to rescue his master’s shirts from the boiling vats of the washerman, and Tilak himself tried to deal with the chaos in his room.

  Sheets, mosquito net, blankets, bedding roll, were spread all over the floor, as a result of his flustered servant’s efforts at packing. Clucking with irritation, Tilak made up his own bedding roll and packed a trunk with his books and papers. As he worked, he considered how to let Anasuyabehn know of his impending absence. Dr Prasad had turned down the idea that he remain in the city, but not teach. ‘It’s better to be right out of it,’ he had insisted. He felt physically weak and the sweat rolled down him, as he struggled with leather straps and recalcitrant buckles.

  He began to weep helplessly and sat down suddenly on the bedding roll. Would it be better simply to walk out of Anasuyabehn’s life? Go away to Bombay and never come back?

  He gave a shuddering sigh. He couldn’t do it; he must at least let her know what had happened. After a little consideration, he decided to ask John to deliver a note to her.

  He scribbled a quick explanatory note to her, saying he hoped to return in two weeks, and enclosed it, unsealed, in another note to John. His servant could take it over to him.

  Anasuyabehn, too, had spent a bad morning, wondering how to inform Tilak that Mahadev was missing, that there was a chance he had been killed, but that, if he were found, her wedding would take place sooner than expected.

  She did not want to wish a man dead. This unexpected happening, however, made her hope that he would be missing long enough for the marriage to be deferred.

  In the late afternoon, while the aunts and her cousins slept and Dean Mehta went back to the University, she sent the boy servant to the students’ hostel, with a cryptic note giving some indication of her predicament.

  ‘Go first with this,’ she instructed him, as she handed him the chit, ‘and, on the way back, buy some fresh pan leaves from the pan seller up the road. Give the note only to Dr Tilak. Nobody else. Do you understand?’

  The little boy grinned slyly and slipped quietly out of the sweeper’s door and up the field path. At the hostel, he found himself facing a padlocked door.
/>   The wife of a student, baby on hip, was standing at the door of the next room, and she asked him what he wanted. He told her that he had brought a letter from Dean Mehta’s daughter to Tilak Sahib.

  ‘From Dean Mehta,’ she corrected.

  ‘No. Bahin wrote it herself.’

  The woman looked thunderstruck. Then she said cunningly, ‘Leave it with me, little Brother. I’ll give it to him when he comes in.’

  He held it behind his back and took a step or two away from her. ‘No. It’s for Tilak Sahib only. When will he be back?’

  In a fury of curiosity, the woman answered him, ‘He went away with all his luggage this afternoon. Perhaps he won’t come back.’ She started to advance towards him. The child turned, and ran helter-skelter down the stairs.

  The middle-aged mother of another student opened her door further down the passage. ‘What was that?’ she asked the woman with the baby.

  The woman told her, and so the story was sent on its way. Two days and several dozen gossips later, it was said on the campus that Dean Mehta’s daughter was pregnant by Dr Tilak, who had fled to escape the consequences.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  While Dr Ferozeshah was preparing to receive the morning rush of outpatients, Diana showed him the piece of paper she had found and told him of her deductions.

  ‘Keep out of it,’ Ferozeshah advised promptly.

  ‘But the police might be able to trace the dacoits if they knew about this,’ protested Diana. She was dressed in her white, nurse’s uniform and was getting together the doctor’s stethoscope, his thermometer, cotton wool and bottle of disinfectant and putting them ready on his desk.

  In response to her protest, Ferozeshah said firmly, ‘Never go near the police unless you have to.’