The Moneylenders of Shahpur

by Helen Forrester

  ‘I’ve … er … um,’ he began, and looked down at Anasuyabehn. God, how ill the girl looked and almost as if she were going to cry. ‘I’ve brought a little something for Anasuyabehn, if she may accept it. I – er brought it myself, because I was afraid any other carrier might drop it.’

  He did not add that he had in his pocket a letter which had far more import to her. Tilak was a damned pest to leave him such a job. He had racked his brains for days to find a way to get the letter to Anasuyabehn, but no opportunity had presented itself. If he had posted it, he knew that the Dean would automatically open it and read it himself, before giving it to his daughter.

  Now, on his desk at home, lay his invitation to her wedding reception. And he did not know what else to do, other than buy her a present and watch her marry a man she did not want to marry. Poor kid. She would get over it, he supposed; Mahadev was no fool and presumably knew a bit about managing a woman. He hoped that when Tilak heard the news of the wedding being hastened, he would not blow out his brains.

  Caught between loyalty to his old mentor, the Dean, and affection for Tilak, he now stood in the middle of the Dean’s study, a box of fine English china in his arms, sensing that he had stumbled in on some kind of domestic crisis.

  Dean Mehta was the first to regain his equilibrium. ‘Come in, come in. You shouldn’t put yourself out on our behalf.’ He watched, with growing astonishment, as John walked slowly, but quite straightly, to his desk to put the parcel down. ‘You’re not using your stick,’ he exclaimed.

  John grinned with satisfaction. ‘Trying to manage without it. I left it parked on the veranda.’

  ‘Well, well. That’s excellent. Anasuyabehn, bring a chair for Dr Bennett.’

  Anasuyabehn pushed a chair up behind him, and John sat down rather suddenly.

  He smiled up at the careworn girl. ‘I’ve brought you an English tea service,’ he told her. ‘I know the family will shower you with all kinds of beautiful things, but I thought you might enjoy some china – something different.’

  Anasuyabehn shyly thanked him.

  ‘May I wish you much happiness,’ he said gently.

  As if in unbearable pain, her creamy eyelids half-closed, while she nodded a polite acquiescence. John cursed himself for being a clumsy clod; yet he knew that he could not tell her father. Either she or Tilak must speak up.

  Anasuyabehn had turned back to her father, ‘May I be excused, father? Savitri is waiting for me.’

  Her father, his hands clasped on his desk, nodded absently. She said thank you in English to John and went quietly out of the room. Aunt slid after her, making a polite namuste towards John as she passed him. He jumped, not having noticed her presence.

  Savitri! Why hadn’t he thought of her before? A thoroughly modern woman, who drove her own car and was liable to shock everybody by talking about trial marriages. He was certain she was tolerated in the Dean’s house only because her father was a Professor Emeritus. She and Anasuyabehn were great friends – and she was smart.

  Whether Anasuyabehn was actually married to Mahadev or whether she was not, she was, John argued, entitled to receive any correspondence addressed to her. Thin, bespectacled Savitri would enjoy being the messenger. Who knows? he reflected. Tilak just might be able to turn the tables, in an honourable and decent way.

  And in Bombay, Tilak pleaded for Anasuyabehn before a sardonically amused uncle and a bewildered, affectionate mother. ‘You could telephone the Dean at the University,’ he begged.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The Desai business was too large to be totally neglected during the week before the wedding. Old Desai, Partner Uncle and Mahadev, therefore, stayed in the Desai Society, while the rest of the family moved over to the house rented by Dr Mehta for his guests.

  Mahadev had had a trying time commuting between the Society and the Mehtas’ home, to attend the various ceremonies preceding the actual wedding day. Though his head ached abominably and his left arm was still in a sling to protect the shoulder while it healed, his paternal aunt had insisted, at one of the ceremonies, that he must have the traditional iron ring tied into his hair. It seemed that every time he lay down, he lay on the ring. He wished passionately that the Mission doctor had shaved his head completely, when preparing to stitch up his wound; instead the doctor had considered that he might be a Hindu and had, therefore, kindly left one longish tuft, to which the ring had been appended.

  His father and his Partner Uncle had spent weary hours with him discussing the expansion of the French business. They were all agreed that, in these uncertain times, they should have some money invested outside India.

  In one of the earlier marriage ceremonies, he had sat in the flapping marriage tent, with a silent, veiled Anasuyabehn beside him, and had hardly glanced at Ganesh, the benign elephant-headed god, remover of hindrances, who was being worshipped. His mind had been filled with the legal difficulties of the French investment, so much so that he had jumped when a lucky woman, taking four pieces of wood and dipping them in oil, had touched his forehead with them. Then the ring had been tied into his hair.

  Ceremonial gifts of rupees had been given to him and to Anasuyabehn. Other money gifts had also been presented by relatives, to be kept until after the ceremony, when they would be divided between his and Anasuyabehn’s paternal aunts.

  A company of elderly Jains had been specially invited for the later ceremonies; they would inspect the quality and the quantity of the wedding gifts.

  Mahadev sighed frequently. Though the marriage festivities would be briefer than those for his first marriage, they were time consuming. It was well that he had been able to get plane reservations for Paris for the second day after the vows had been completed.

  Gradually, however, as the day of the actual wedding came closer and his health improved, his mind turned towards his bride and he began to think of the pleasures of again having a wife. He dearly wished to please her and to see her eventually installed in a modern house of her own, where his little daughter might thrive better and have brothers and sisters. He never doubted that Anasuyabehn would care for the child, and in this he was correct.

  One morning, he had to compose convincing arguments to persuade the Government of India to allow an overseas investment, and when he finally put down his pen, it was with a feeling of relief that he had done it skilfully. He sat in his dreary office, feeling wells of hopeful anticipation rise in him. He collected up his papers and at the same time began to sing a morning raga. The clerks in the counting house lifted their heads in amazement, as the strains of this devotional hymn came rolling out of the private office.

  With a fine disregard for his comfort, Mahadev’s brother had been ordered to oversee the wedding party at Dean Mehta’s rented house and to travel back and forth daily to supervise the counting house. Now, while Mahadev carolled away in his room, in another little office his younger brother was inquiring of his father, ‘What are we going to do about the Maharaja’s jewels? I sent a telegram saying we would send another messenger. But what are we to do now?’ His plump face creased with anxiety.

  His father leaned back on the sausage-shaped pillows of his divan. ‘Humph. Didn’t Partner Uncle tell you? We shall indeed dispatch another messenger. You’re going to go – and take the stones with you.’

  He watched in quiet amusement, as his son’s weak mouth opened in surprise. There was also a gleam of fear in the younger man’s eyes – he knew he was no hero, and he dreaded violence of any kind.

  ‘You’ll go by plane – in spite of the cost,’ his father assured him.

  ‘But we haven’t got the jewels?’

  ‘Oh, yes, we have,’ the old man chuckled. ‘I put them in the strongroom myself.’

  Relief replaced anxiety. ‘But … but …’

  Old Desai wagged his finger at his son. ‘Your brother’s sagacity is something to emulate.’

  The younger man appeared to shrink into himself. The small button eyes almost vanished amid the f
olds of fat. The chin sank down to the chest and the chubby fingers were clenched. So the almighty Mahadev had done something wonderful again.

  ‘What did he do?’ he inquired dully.

  Old Desai clasped his hands over his stomach. ‘Well, it was interesting. Your uncle and I were sitting by the bed at the Mission, wondering how to broach the subject of the missing money belt in front of a constable, who was still there. We didn’t want to accuse anyone of taking it, and find we had a libel suit on our hands. Anyway, when Mahadev was dressed and ready to be discharged from the hospital, he sat on the edge of the bed, to rest himself before making the further effort of going to the carriage.’ Desai ran his tongue round his few remaining teeth, while he looked at his dejected younger son.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘He was quite clever. When the Mission doctor entered the room, he looked at him and said, “I’m ready to put on my money belt now. Will you kindly fetch it for me?”’

  The younger brother was intrigued. ‘What happened?’

  ‘The doctor replied, “Certainly.” And then he went to get it.’

  ‘How extraordinary!’

  ‘Yes, it was. If he had not intended to keep it – if he could – the Mission doctor would surely have mentioned to Mahadev that his valuables were being kept in safety. With his simple request, Mahadev gave the impression that he remembered the belt being removed from him by the doctor.’

  The brother sighed, and old Desai glanced again at him. In comparison with Mahadev, the boy was dull. He was, however, extremely useful; he dealt with all the irritating details of the business. Old Desai thought suddenly of the Maharaja and his brand new radio factory. The Maharaja might be willing to pay an experienced accountant very well, to come to him. And all over India new enterprises were springing up which needed more than an abacus-rattling clerk to keep their accounts; his younger son might easily plunge into a new life, away from his family.

  Old Desai did not like these ideas; the boy was flesh of his flesh; he did not want to lose him.

  He picked up a memo pad from the portable desk beside him on the divan, and unscrewed his fountain pen. As he addressed his son, he wrote down each point. ‘Now that you have reached years of discretion,’ he said, as if he had been patiently waiting for his younger offspring to grow up, ‘I shall put more responsibilities on your shoulders. I can no longer travel, as I used to, and your uncle is also feeling the strain. This Delhi trip will be the first of many for you, for Mahadev has, in addition to his other responsibilities, to watch the Paris and Bombay businesses.’

  He could almost feel the relief shooting through his son’s veins. Just to get away from his wife, thought the old man grimly, would probably cheer him up. And to travel on a plane was definitely prestigious. Though it pained him to say it, he added, ‘And you will need to draw more money in future.’

  The plump figure ceased to slump. It expanded to its full girth. Dignity descended upon him like a new garment slipped over his head. As a trusted representative of the family, always bustling off to new places, he would at last be able to patronize his wife.

  As expected, the Desais had not yet paid their hospital bill. The medical missionary, however, knelt by his bed and thanked the Lord for removing the temptation of the money belt. The muttered prayers ceased for a minute or two, while the sorely tried worshipper rested his head on his string bed. Then, in an almost businesslike voice, he again addressed his God, ‘And now, Lord, about some funds. The need of your children is terrible. Must they suffer so?’

  Perhaps God heard, for about that time some ladies in California met together and, for the sake of something to do to fill their spare time, decided to have a fund-raising drive to extend the Mission of Holiness near Shahpur in India.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Though Savitri and her parents, being Hindus, had not been asked to Anasuyabehn’s wedding, they were, like John Bennett, invited to a reception to be held after it. Because she was a close friend, however, Savitri came and went freely in the house. Her thin scornful voice mocked the ancient ceremonies, until Anasuyabehn asked her wearily to cease.

  Though Savitri’s eyes were myopic, they missed little. She had guessed from Anasuyabehn’s lack of enthusiasm that her friend was not very keen on the marriage. She had suggested that if Anasuyabehn was not happy she should refuse the offer. Anasuyabehn had said dryly that she had not been given much opportunity to do so; everything had been fixed before she was consulted. When Savitri mentioned this to her own parents, they had ordered her to hold her tongue; Dean Mehta knew what he was doing. Rather cowed by her parents’ joint outrage at her attempted intervention, she had obeyed.

  Her spirits crushed by Tilak’s apparent desertion, Anasuyabehn wanted to curl up in some secret lair and never come out again. But she was being carried along by events and had no one to trust, except her father. She clung to the idea that the reward of filial obedience was a well-ordered and contented life. Clutching at this frail hope, she complied with all her aunt’s requests. In any case, what use was there in fighting when there was no one for whom to fight?

  She had spent one night seething with rage and frustration, asking herself madly why Tilak should so suddenly vanish. Involved in the preparations of the marriage within the two families, she had not heard the rumours as to the cause of his quick departure. It had naturally not occurred to her father or the Vice-Chancellor to tell her the exact reasons.

  The white light of morning had brought a dawn of commonsense. Tilak was an honourable man. Perhaps he had left her because she was already affianced and, anyway, of another religion and caste. The furious temper was curbed, the burning desire held down. She bowed her head and told herself, without much hope, that true happiness was to be found in a loyal partnership with a man chosen by one’s parents.

  On her wedding morning, she submitted quietly to the ministrations of her cousins and aunts. They bathed her, washed and oiled her hair and plaited it with flowers. With great care, her eldest cousin knelt before her and painted her face with delicate flower designs. Another one stained the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet a soft orange. Finally, they wrapped her in a fine red silk sari embroidered with gold thread.

  Before they pulled the sari end down over her face, they brought her a mirror, so that she could admire herself. She looked into its shiny depths and saw a stranger, a very glamorous one. She looked at the image expressionlessly; then she thought of Tilak seeing her when the veil would be lifted, and her lips curved in a gentle smile. The smile faded. Bitter tears welled up and coursed unrestrainedly down her cheeks, to spoil the paint and to trickle over the large, glittering nose-ring and fall like small diamonds into her lap.

  The cousins laughed and mopped up the tears. They touched up the painted flowers and agreed that everybody cried when they had to leave their home.

  ‘When you’ve got a little son in your arms, you’ll be truly happy,’ Aunt assured her.

  Dressed in their best, the families were waiting in the compound. She had, therefore, to compose herself and join them in worship, her face mercifully veiled.

  Fourteen young girls were merrily feasted. Armed with gifts of wheat, dates and coconuts, they then streamed down the lane, where a potter awaited them. He cheerfully supplied them with four water-pots.

  The fun of a wedding overflowed the compound and spread around the neighbourhood. Little groups of servants, sweepers and village people on their way to town stood in the lane, to glimpse what they could of the fine clothes and jewellery. At the side of the house, the caterers built up their great charcoal fires again and again, and sweated and shouted and turned out innumerable sweetmeats and savouries.

  In the storeroom, the Dean’s younger brother, with a couple of nephews to assist him, doled out sugar, nuts, flour, spices, oil and vegetables, with a sure hand, seeing that nothing was wasted or stolen, and that yoghurt and water were kept cool and not spilled.

  A small band of musicians drummed and sque
aked in a corner, their well-practised efforts often lost under the babble of dozens of voices.

  The Brahmin, who would officiate at the actual marriage rites after sunset, was fed and fussed over, his shaven head and gnarled hands gesturing a polite ‘No’, as his palm leaf plate was heaped higher and higher.

  The Dean wished that his daughter’s wedding should be a joyous occasion. He sailed amongst his guests, greeting them jovially, giving no hint of his inward worry about Anasuyabehn, with whom he had spent an uncomfortable half-hour the evening before. In response to his forecasts of a happy family life, she had responded sadly with a simple, ‘Yes, father.’ He hoped sincerely that Mahadev knew enough to make her happy.

  Meanwhile, in the rented house, a slightly abashed Mahadev was submitting to other ceremonies. Still clucking about the mess his shorn head was in, his paternal aunt replaced the iron ring attached to his topknot with a silver one. With suggestive jokes, the barber washed and powdered one of his toes. A group of giggling young women swooped on him and fed him with sweets.

  His friends then helped him mount a decorated horse. His shoulder objected strongly to the exercise, and he winced. As they rode to the temple to worship, they chaffed him that he was lucky the dacoits had left him able to consummate the marriage.

  In a splendid procession of cars, horses and pedestrians, he was taken from the temple to Anasuyabehn’s home. His heart beat furiously under his silk shirt, and he hoped the girl would like the jewellery he had bought her.

  The sun was going down, as they went through the streets. Women and children lolled on the little verandas above the shop fronts, as they waited for the evening breeze to come rippling down the ovenlike, smelly streets. On the pavements, their menfolk squatted idly, smoking and gossiping after their evening meal.

  The flickering lights of the procession brought everyone to their feet. At one corner, a beggar in the crowd stood and cursed. He shook his fist at the bridegroom. The bystanders laughed at him; they knew him well. He was harmlessly crazy. They knew he hated the Desais because they had foreclosed on his little shoe shop and forced him into beggary; but, then, none of them liked moneylenders.