The Moneylenders of Shahpur

by Helen Forrester

  Sulkily, Mahadev told him. He wanted to ask where his money belt was, but was frustrated by the presence of the constable. Never tell the police anything, had been drilled into him from childhood. Of course, he thought miserably, the police themselves might have the belt, in which case he would leave to his father the delicate negotiations to get it back.

  ‘What day is it?’ he asked, and was thoroughly perturbed to hear that it was Friday morning. The raid had taken place on Monday evening.

  As the doctor worked, he chatted, partly to cover his own worries and partly to reassure his patient. ‘A police bigwig will be here in about half an hour, to question you,’ he informed his patient.

  ‘A Delhi police chief,’ interjected the constable reverently. He had parked his rifle against the bed, so that he could see better what the doctor was doing.

  Mahadev closed his eyes and tried not to feel too bitter. A Jain gentleman was forgiving, patient under affliction. He did not feel like that – only cross and petulant and dreadfully weak.

  He realized that the glass bottles ranged around the wall contained pickled specimens of foetuses, and his empty stomach began to heave. Fortunately, a woman in a white sari brought him some water to drink and distracted his attention. She was followed rapidly by the tramp of boots across the floor, heralding the return of the tiny police chief.

  A little later, a triumphant and much relieved old Desai was shown into the dispensary. He stumped across the room, muttering that private initiative had been better than the perfidious police force. Had he not found his son himself?

  He was much chagrined when, rounding the screen, he saw a very yellow and shrunken Mahadev lying on a bed and an obviously frustrated and fuming police chief sitting cross-legged on the chair beside him; Mahadev was not going to be much use as a witness.

  The police chief looked up, as the old man entered, followed by his brother-in-law and nephew. He understood something of what was passing through old Desai’s mind. The police had, in finding Mahadev first, scored over him. He immediately felt better and rose politely to salute him. ‘Here is your son, sir. You may take him home as soon as you wish.’

  Driving back from the Mission of Holiness in the early afternoon, old Desai was very quiet. It had been agreed that Mahadev should remain in the hospital for two more days. Baroda Brother-in-law asked him, ‘Are you worrying about Mahadev?’

  ‘No, the boy is obviously recovering. That English doctor knows what he is doing.’ Old Desai could never remember that Americans were not English.

  ‘It’s what he was carrying?’

  ‘Yes. We couldn’t ask him with the police all round him.’

  ‘Where do you think it is?’

  ‘It’s not with Mahadev. He touched his waist and made a tiny gesture to indicate that.’

  ‘It’ll be a frightful loss.’

  ‘We shall have to pay. It’s our reputation which is at stake. We’ve never failed to return securities lodged with us.’

  ‘Do you think the train robbers took it?’ asked Baroda Brother, thankful he did not have any share in Desai’s business.

  Desai replied slowly, ‘I suspect that the English doctor has it.’

  ‘What? He would’ve told us.’

  ‘Not all English people are so honest.’

  ‘It couldn’t be. Anybody could’ve taken it when he was unconscious.’

  Old Desai did not agree. He had not built up his enormous business without acquiring a profound knowledge of human nature. Like the Bengali detective, he sensed that the Mission doctor was hiding something. The man was disturbed in some way, and such a fortune would tempt the holiest of men.

  ‘Have you told the Maharaja anything yet?’

  ‘I sent a telegram saying that our representative would be with him in a few days’ time.’ He chewed his lower lip. ‘I don’t know yet what we send him, however.’

  Their gate was opened by the chowkidar, who had been watching for them, and the whole family and staff swooped upon them.

  Old Desai creaked slowly down from the carriage. He picked up his silent, wide-eyed, little granddaughter. ‘Papa is coming home in two days’ time,’ he announced to her, ‘and I think Aunt should get the tailor to stitch you a new dress for the occasion.’

  The child smiled and relaxed, her head on his shoulder. Dear Grandpapa.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  ‘I wish your father would make up his mind when the marriage is to take place. Everything is upset. The astrologer says he can’t find a better day than was originally arranged. Now it’s got to be changed, and the wedding invitations have the wrong date on them,’ Aunt grumbled to Anasuyabehn.

  Anasuyabehn hardly heard her. The boy servant had just returned from his visit to the hostel. She could see him through the window, cowering in a corner of the compound, apparently afraid to enter the house.

  ‘Your father said that it was your future father-in-law who wanted the date brought forward,’ chimed in the visiting aunt.

  ‘I should imagine that the tailors will need at least another three weeks to finish the stitching,’ interpolated the eldest cousin. She was stroking, with avaricious fingers, a gift of three silk saris still sitting amid its wrappings on the floor.

  Aunt pursued the subject of the change of date. ‘I don’t quite know what the fuss is about,’ she admitted. ‘Mahadev has not yet returned from Delhi.’ She wondered if there were any truth in the rumour she had heard that he had disappeared, but felt it wise to keep that to herself. She turned again to Anasuyabehn. ‘Immediately after your marriage you are to go to a place called Paris in England – very strange to me – in my day, you would have remained at your father-in-law’s house.’

  ‘Ji, hun,’ agreed Anasuyabehn. She went to the window. ‘Bhai,’ she called to the servant. ‘Hurry up, now. Light the stove on the veranda for me, and put some water on for the lentils. I’ll be out in a minute.’

  ‘Let me help,’ offered a younger cousin, who had taken a great liking to Anasuyabehn.

  ‘No, no. The boy will do most of the work – I must just guide him.’ She made an effort to smile at the golden-faced girl, and, after a little while, made her escape to the side veranda, where she could already hear the fire crackling in its little stove.

  ‘Gone away?’ she exclaimed to the boy, as he handed back her note.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘A lady next door.’

  ‘Did she see the letter?’

  ‘No, Bahin.’

  ‘Good boy.’ Her whole body trembled with fear and, again, before her eyes danced the calm face of the monk, the all-seeing eyes ripping her secrets from her. Bad actions brought bad results. Had Tilak fled because she was already affianced? How cruel could men be? He had promised – and he had failed her.

  She held on to an old water-pot stand for support, as the veranda whirled around her. She felt trapped, like a ground squirrel cornered by dogs. Until Tilak came striding into it, her life had seemed useless and empty. Now, he was gone like fluff on the wind, without a word to her. Spasms of pain shot through her and perspiration poured down her face.

  Her cousin wandered through the door from the kitchen. ‘Bahin!’ she cried in alarm and ran to her. She put her arms round the swaying girl, while the servant squatting by the fire watched nervously.

  ‘I’m all right,’ murmured Anasuyabehn through clenched teeth, ‘…heat made me faint.’

  ‘I’ll get mother,’ said the girl.

  ‘No,’ cried Anasuyabehn sharply. ‘I’ll sit down – it’s only heat.’

  Her cousin lowered her carefully to the floor and she leaned her head against the cool stone of the water-pot stand. Her cousin took the water-ladle from its hook and filled a brass jar with water. She then dipped her sari end into it and, kneeling down by her, she dabbed Anasuyabehn’s face with it.

  The cold water revived her and she surreptitiously slipped her note to Tilak into her waistband, under cover of her sari.
Then she very gratefully put her arms round her cousin and leaned her head on her shoulder. Her cousin, mystified but sympathetic, held the trembling bride-to-be, and instructed the servant to get on with his work.

  ‘Let me ask mother to come,’ she begged Anasuyabehn, after a few minutes.

  ‘Don’t worry. I stayed too long in the sun this morning, talking to Savitri.’ Her courage came slowly back to her and she again was able to put on her armour of patient amiability, so that her cousin was finally convinced that, indeed, nothing much was wrong.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  A week later, Mahadev Desai, accompanied by several members of his family, came to the Dean’s home for a little ceremony. Some fruit and a green stick were solemnly buried in a hole which was to hold one of the supporting poles of the wedding tent. The story of his adventures had preceded him and, with his arm in a sling, he was looked upon as something of a hero. He was unusually pale and moved about very carefully. He was allowed to see his bride-to-be at the ceremony, but did not get much chance to speak to her. After the visitors had had tea and departed, three carpenters took over the compound and proceeded to dig holes all over it for the remainder of the supporting poles.

  Their activities impeded the delivery of sacks of grain, sugar and pulses and tins of vegetable oil, all of which the Dean had had to buy on the black market, because some were rationed and some were in very short supply. He and Aunt, therefore, went to the big storeroom to see the stuff weighed. They already had a house full of guests and, closer to the wedding day, would have to feed many more, including the Desai contingent. To accommodate everybody, a house down the road had been rented.

  There was a lot of gossip amongst his current guests on the pros and cons of the marriage; such things were always picked over and examined in detail in families. But it was public gossip which was worrying Aunt, as she scolded the coolies for being clumsy.

  That morning, the Vice-Chancellor’s ayah had dropped in to pay her respects. The ayah always knew a lot about the doings on campus, so Aunt had edged her away from the visitors and back to the compound gate, while they talked. The ayah was simply breathless to confirm with her that what she had just heard was not true and that the wedding was, indeed, going forward. She felt it her duty to inform Aunt that there was a rumour that Anasuyabehn was expecting by Dr Tilak and that he would be forced to marry her. Aunt had been shocked to her very sandals, had scolded her and sent her packing with instructions to deny such a calumny everywhere.

  Anasuyabehn was not with child, that, at least, Aunt was sure of. Only last week she had kept the three days of retirement from cooking and other household tasks, which she had kept ever since she was fourteen. And Aunt had herself dispatched the bloody clouts to the Untouchable washerman. As for her virginity, that was another matter. And Aunt was very apprehensive about this.

  Anasuyabehn had done obediently everything she was required to do in connection with the marriage. The whole family had, on Mahadev’s return, been to dinner at his house and the girl had sat quietly with the women who would be her in-laws. Mahadev’s little daughter had been brought to her during the meal, and she had persuaded the child to sit with her and had fed her with food from her own tali. According to the Dean, this had pleased old Desai greatly when he heard about it. Mahadev had put in a limited appearance because he was still quite weak, but he had smiled on his bride when she arrived. But would he, quaked Aunt, smile if he had been cheated?

  She picked up a paper which was being blown about in the draught, her mind elsewhere. She could not read, so she handed it to the Dean. ‘Is this a receipt we should keep?’ she inquired.

  The Dean, who was tired, unfolded it impatiently and glanced down at it. His expression changed and he closed his hand over it quickly. ‘Come into the study,’ he commanded Aunt. Puzzled, she followed him. ‘What’s up?’ she asked.

  The Dean closed the door after them. ‘Where did you find this?’

  Aunt shrugged. ‘It was on the floor. What is it?’

  ‘Beloved,’ read the Dean, a break in his voice. ‘Meet me at the far end of Riverside Park tonight. I will wait from 9 till 11.’

  Aunt felt sick. On top of what she had heard that morning, this was too much to bear. What could she say? The hope of being regarded as the family’s finest matchmaker suddenly vanished, with all the delights that such a reputation would bring. Instead, she heard the sniggers of the womenfolk and the dirty jokes of the young men. Somehow the Desai marriage had to be saved.

  ‘Is it signed?’ she asked, to give herself time to think.

  ‘No. I know the handwriting, though. It’s quite distinctive.’

  ‘Whose is it?’

  The Dean looked very grim. ‘It’s Professor Tilak’s. He and Anasuyabehn – I would never have dreamed of it!’

  I might have done, thought Aunt, if I’d thought about it. With an effort, she asked, ‘Is it addressed to her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then it may belong to one of her cousins.’

  The Dean disagreed. ‘I doubt if they’ve even met him.’

  Suddenly he pounded his desk with his fist. ‘The stupid girl!’ he shouted. ‘Bring her to me quietly – before that mob outside realizes that anything is wrong.’

  Aunt hurried to Anasuyabehn’s room. Before opening the door, she slowed to her usual shuffle. Anasuyabehn was seated cross-legged on her bed with three cousins and Savitri. Curled up together, they were chattering amiably. Anasuyabehn was listening, her deepset eyes ringed with black, her mouth drooping.

  How ill she looks, thought Aunt. Not at all like a girl about to be a bride. And all Aunt’s misgivings returned.

  As she approached the girls, she forced herself to smile. ‘Your father wants you in his study, niece. Run along, now.’

  Anasuyabehn slipped off the bed and hastily smoothed her hair and hitched up her sari. Since the safe return of Mahadev, she had steeled herself to face the fact that Tilak had deserted her and that she must marry the big, widowed moneylender.

  The pain of Tilak’s leaving her was almost more than she could bear. It ate into her like an acid, an unbelievable anguish. She felt removed from events around her; everything seemed distant and unreal. The slightly smutty jokes her cousins had been making seemed sickening to her; she could not laugh.

  The only person who impinged upon her understanding was Mahadev himself. His first task upon his return had been to call upon her, despite the agony of being jolted along in his carriage. They had faced each other, not knowing what to say in front of their relations, she resentful, he longing. Through her misery, she had realized that within him lay a powerful personality; he was not to be trifled with.

  When she had been to dinner at the Desai Society, he had found a moment in the bustle of departure to hold her hand. She had looked up in astonishment at the firm, warm touch, her first physical contact with him. He had laughed down at her and she had caught a glimpse of a man instead of a moneylender. She had been afraid.

  As she entered her father’s study, closely followed by Aunt, she inquired politely, ‘Ji?’

  She was shocked, when he shouted at her, ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ and thrust a sheet of paper at her.

  Bewildered, she took it from him. It was worn at the corners and must have been lying about for days. She bent her head and read it.

  Her first reaction was one of overwhelming joy. So he had tried to communicate with her. A singing happiness made her giddy for a moment. She kept her eyes on the missive. The paper was much handled. When had it been written? Of course! He had been in the Riverside Gardens with her. The joy faded, but she held on to the paper tightly – it was part of him.

  ‘Well,’ snapped her father.

  The desire to protect Tilak was instantaneous, and with elaborate care she lifted her eyes to her father. She made her eyes twinkle and her lips curve in a smile. ‘We seem to have stumbled on somebody’s little romance – where did it come from?’

  Aunt wa
s watching her intently. She’s clever, she thought, but not quite clever enough. That letter is hers, all right.

  She continued to stare out of the corner in which she squatted, as the Dean, his burst of temper unexpectedly checked, asked, ‘Well, isn’t it yours?’

  ‘I’ve never seen it before,’ replied Anasuyabehn quite truthfully. ‘It’s very old. I wonder where it came from – it isn’t even signed.’

  ‘Oh, I know who wrote it – the writing is unmistakable.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Anasuyabehn, ignoring her father’s angry frustration.

  ‘That doesn’t concern you, daughter, since you say it is not a letter to you. If it’s not yours …’ He glared at her. ‘Then the wind must have blown it in.’

  ‘We’ve had a great many visitors, including the Desai family,’ Anasuyabehn pointed out. ‘Any of the younger women could have dropped it.’

  The Dean was stopped in his tracks. ‘Of course,’ he muttered. ‘Of course.’ He sat down in his chair and tapped his fingers on the desk, while Anasuyabehn waited politely. ‘I’m glad that you have not done anything despicable.’

  ‘What she says is very likely,’ Aunt interjected, and Anasuyabehn was grateful for the unexpected support.

  The distant buzz of talk from relations on the veranda suddenly ceased, as if it had been switched off. Aunt looked towards the door of the room, as if she would love to go to investigate.

  Outside, an English voice asked for Dean Mehta.

  ‘Dr Bennett!’ exclaimed the Dean. Then he sighed. ‘This note is not yours?’

  ‘No, father.’ Anasuyabehn hated to lie to her father, but could not find any other safe answer. She turned to go.

  There was a knock on the study door. The servant showed John in. He was carrying a parcel and stood diffidently blocking the doorway, not realizing Anasuyabehn’s frantic need to escape.