Out of India

by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala

  Durga had been worshiping her two images for so long now, but nothing of what Bhuaji had promised seemed to be happening to them. And less and less was happening to her. She tried so hard, lying on her bed and thinking of Krishna and straining to reproduce that wave of love she had experienced; but it did not return or, if it did, came only as a weak echo of what it had been. She was unsatisfied and felt that much had been promised and little given. Once, after she had prayed for a long time before the two images, she turned away and suddenly kicked at the leg of a chair and hurt her toe. And sometimes, in the middle of doing something—sorting the laundry or folding a sari—she would suddenly throw it aside with an impatient gesture and walk away frowning.

  She spent a lot of time sitting on a string cot in her courtyard, not doing anything nor thinking anything in particular, just sitting there, feeling heavy and too fat and wondering what there was in life that one should go on living it. When her relatives came to visit her, she as often as not told them to go away, even Bhuaji; she did not feel like talking or listening to any of them. But now there was a new person to stake a claim to her attention. The courtyard was overlooked by a veranda that ran the length of the flat upstairs. On this veranda Mrs. Puri, her new tenant, would frequently appear, leaning her arms on the balustrade and shouting down in friendly conversation. Durga did not encourage her and answered as dryly as politeness permitted; but Mrs. Puri was a friendly woman and persisted, appearing twice and three times a day to comment to Durga on the state of the weather. After a while she even began to exercise the prerogative of a neighbor and to ask for little loans—one day she had run out of lentils, a second out of flour, a third out of sugar. In return, when she cooked a special dish or made pickle, she would send some down for Durga, thus establishing a neighborly traffic that Durga had not wished for but was too lethargic to discourage.

  Then one day Mrs. Puri sent some ginger pickle down with her son. He appeared hesitantly in the courtyard, holding his glass jar carefully between two hands. Durga was lying drowsily on her cot; her eyes were shut and perhaps she was even half asleep. The boy stood and looked down at her, knowing what to do, lightly coughing to draw her attention. Her eyes opened and stared up at him. He was perhaps seventeen years old, a boy with large black eyes and broad shoulders and cheeks already dark with growth. Durga lay and stared up at him, seeing nothing but his young face looming above her. He looked back at her, uncertain, tried to smile, and blushed. Then at last she sat up and adjusted the sari which had slipped down from her breasts. His eyes modestly lowered, he held the jar of pickle out to her as if in appeal.

  “Your mother sent?”

  He nodded briefly and, placing the jar on the floor by her cot, turned to go rather quickly. Just as he was about to disappear through the door leading out from the courtyard, she called him back, and he stopped and stood facing her, waiting. It was some time before she spoke, and then all she could think to say was “Please thank your mother.” He disappeared before she could call him back again.

  Durga had become rather slovenly in her habits lately, but that evening she dressed herself up in one of her better saris and went to call on Mrs. Puri upstairs. A visit from the landlady was considered of some importance, so Mrs. Puri, who had been soaking raw mangoes, left this work, wiped her hands on the end of her sari and settled Durga in the sitting room. The sitting room was not very grand; it had only a cane table in it and some cane stools and a few cheap bazaar pictures on the whitewashed walls. Durga sat in the only chair in the room, a velvet armchair that had the velvet rubbed bare in many places and smelled of old, damp clothes.

  Mrs. Puri’s two daughters sat on the floor, stitching a quilt together out of many old pieces. They were plain girls with heavy features and bad complexions. Mr. Puri evidently was out—and his wife soon dwelled on that subject: every night, she said, he was sitting at some friend’s house, goodness knows what they did, sitting like that, what could they have so much to talk about? And wasting money in smoking cigarettes and chewing betel, while she sat at home with her daughters, poor girls, and wasn’t it high time good husbands were found for them? But what did Mr. Puri care—he had thought only for his own enjoyment, his family was nothing to him. And Govind the same. . . .

  “Govind?”

  “My son. He too—only cinema for him and laughing with friends.”

  She had much to complain about and evidently did not often have someone whom she could complain to; so she made the most of Durga. The two plain daughters listened placidly, stitching their quilt; only when their mother referred to the urgent necessity of finding husbands for them—as she did at frequent intervals and as a sort of capping couplet to each particular complaint—did they begin to wriggle and exchange sly glances and titter behind their hands.

  It took Durga some time before she could disengage herself; and when she finally did, Mrs. Puri accompanied her to the stairs, carrying her burden of complaint right over into her farewell and even pursuing Durga with it as she picked her way down the steep, narrow stone stairs. And just as she had reached the bottom of them, Govind appeared to walk up them, and his mother shouted down to him, “Is this a time to come home for your meal?”

  Durga, passed him in the very tight space between the doorway and the first step. She was so close to him that she could feel his warmth and hear his breath. Mrs. Puri shouted down the stairs: “Running here and there all day like a loafer!” Durga could see his eyes gleaming in the dark and he could see hers; for a moment they looked at each other. Durga said in a low voice, “Your mother is angry with you,” and then he was already halfway up the stairs.

  Later, slowly unwinding herself from her sari and staring at herself in the mirror as she did so, she thought about her husband. And again, and stronger than ever, she had that feeling of dislike against him, that grudge against the useless dead old man. It was eighteen or nineteen years now since they had married her to him: and if he had been capable, wouldn’t she have had a son like Govind now, a strong, healthy, handsome boy with big shoulders and his beard just growing? She smiled at the thought, full of tenderness, and forgetting her husband, thought instead how it would be if Govind were her son. She would not treat him like his mother did—would never reproach him, shout at him down the stairs—but, on the contrary, encourage him in all his pleasures so that, first thing when he came home, he would call to her—“Mama!”—and they would sit together affectionately, more like brother and sister, or even two friends, than like mother and son, while he told her everything that had happened to him during the day.

  She stepped closer to the mirror—her sari lying carelessly where it had fallen around her feet—and looked at herself, drawing her hand over her skin. Yes, she was still soft and smooth and who could see the tiny little lines, no more than shadows, that lay around her eyes and the corners of her mouth? And how fine her eyes still were, how large and black and how they shone. And her hair too—she unwound it from its pins and it dropped down slowly, heavy and black and sleek with oil, and not one gray hair in it.

  As she stood there, looking at herself in nothing but her short blouse and her waist petticoat, with her hair down, suddenly another image appeared behind her in the mirror: an old woman, gray and shabby and squinting and with an ingratiating smile on her face. “I am not disturbing?” Bhuaji said.

  Durga bent down to pick up her sari. She began to fold it, but Bhuaji took it from her and did it far more deftly, the tip of her tongue eagerly protruding from her mouth.

  “Why did you come?” Durga said, watching her. Bhuaji made no reply, but went on folding the sari, and when she had finished, she smoothed it ostentatiously from both sides. Durga lay down on the bed. As a matter of fact, she found she was quite glad that Bhuaji had come to see her.

  She asked, “How long is it since they married me?”

  “Let me see,” Bhuaji said. She squatted by the side of the bed and began to massage Durga’s legs. “It is fifteen years, sixteen . . .”
/>   “No, eighteen.”

  Bhuaji nodded in agreement, her lips mumbling as she worked something out in her head, her hands still skillfully massaging.

  “Eighteen years,” Durga said reflectively. “I could have been—”

  “Yes, a grandmother by now,” said Bhuaji, smiling widely with all her empty gums.

  Durga suddenly pushed those soothing massaging hands away and sat upright. “Leave me alone! Why do you come here, who called you?”

  Instead of sitting in her courtyard, Durga was now often to be found pacing up and down by the door that led to the staircase. When Govind came down, she always had a word for him. At first he was shy with her and left her as quickly as possible; sometimes he waited for her to go away before he came down or went up. But she was patient with him. She understood and even sympathized with his shyness: he was young, awkward perhaps, like a child, and didn’t know how much good she meant him. But she persevered; she would ask him questions like: “You go often to the cinema?” or “What are you studying?” to prove to him how interested she was in him, interested like a mother or a favorite aunt, and ready to talk on any topic with him.

  And slowly he responded. Instead of dashing away, he began to stand still at the bottom of the steps and to answer her questions; at first in monosyllables but soon, when his interest was stirred, at greater length; and finally at such great length that it seemed pointless to go on standing there in that dark cramped space when he could go into her house and sit there with her and drink almond sherbet. He kept on talking and told her everything: who were his friends, who his favorite film stars, his ambition to go abroad, to become an aircraft engineer. She listened and watched him while he spoke; she watched and watched him, her eyes fixed on his face. She became very familiar with his face, yet always it was new to her. When he smiled, two little creases appeared in his cheeks. His teeth were large and white, his hair sprang from a point on his forehead. Everything about him was young and fresh and strong—even his smell, which was that of a young animal full of sap and sperm.

  She loved to do little things for him. At first only to ply him with almond sherbet and sweetmeats, of which he could take great quantities; later to give him money—beginning with small amounts, a rupee here and there, but then going on to five- and even ten-rupee notes. He wanted money so badly and his parents gave him so little. It was wrong to keep a boy short of money when he needed a lot: for treating his friends, for his surreptitious cigarettes, for T-shirts and jeans such as he saw other boys wearing.

  It became so that he got into the habit of asking her for whatever he wanted. How could she refuse? On the contrary, she was glad and proud to give—if only to see the look of happiness on his face, his eyes shining at the thought of what he was going to buy, his smile, which brought little creases into his cheeks. At such moments she was warm and sick with mother’s love, she longed to cradle his head and stroke his hair. He was her son, her child.

  That was exactly what his mother told her: “He is your son also, your child.” Mrs. Puri was glad to see Durga take such an interest in the boy. She taught him to say thank you for everything that Durga gave him and to call her auntie. She made pickle very often and sent it down in jars. She also came down herself and talked to Durga for hours on end about her family problems. So much was needed, and where was it all to come from? Mr. Puri’s salary was small—175 rupees a month plus dearness allowance—and he spent a lot on betel and cigarettes and other pleasures. And what was to become of her poor children? Such good children they were, as anyone who took an interest in them was bound to find out. They needed a helping hand in life, that was all. Her boy, and her two girls who ought to have been married a year ago. She sent the girls down quite often, but Durga always sent them quickly back up again.

  Toward the beginning of each month, when the rent was due, Govind came down every day with pickle and after a while Mrs. Puri would follow him. Dabbing with her sari in the corner of her eye, she would give an exact account of her monthly expenditure, what were her debts and what she had in hand, so that Durga could see for herself how impossible it was to impose any demand for rent on such an overburdened budget. And though Durga at first tried to ignore these plaints, this became more and more difficult, and in the end she always had to say that she would not mind waiting a few days longer. After which Mrs. Puri dried her eyes and the subject of rent was not mentioned again between them till the first week of the following month, when the whole procedure was repeated. In this way several months’ rent accumulated—a fact that, had it been brought to their notice, would have surprised Durga’s previous tenants, who had not found her by any means so lenient a landlady.

  The relatives were much alarmed at this growing friendship with the Puris, which seemed to them both ominous and unnatural. What need had Durga to befriend strangers when there were all her own relatives, to whom she was bound in blood and duty? They became very indignant with her, but had to keep a check on their tongues; for Durga was short-tempered with them these days and, if they touched on subjects or showed moods not to her liking, was quicker than ever to show them the door. But something obviously had to be said and it was Bhuaji who took it upon herself to say it.

  She began by praising Govind. A good boy, she said, that she could see at a glance, respectful and well mannered, just the sort of boy whom one ought to encourage and help on in life. She had nothing at all against Govind. But his mother now, and his sisters—Bhuaji, looking sideways at Durga, sadly shook her head. Alas, she knew women like that only too well, she had come across too many of them to be taken in by their soft speech. Greedy and shameless, that was what they were, self-seeking and unscrupulous, with their one aim to fasten upon and wring whatever advantage they could out of noble-hearted people like Durga. It was they, said Bhuaji, coming closer and whispering behind her hand as if afraid Mrs. Puri would hear from upstairs, who incited the boy to come down and ask for money and new clothes—just as a feeler and to see how far they could go. Let Durga wait and in a short time she would see: saris they would ask for, not ten-rupee notes but hundred-rupee ones, household furniture, a radio, a costly carpet; and they would not rest till they had possessed themselves not only of the upstairs part of the house but of the downstairs part as well. . ..

  Just then Govind passed the door and Durga called out to him. When he came, she asked him, “Where are you going?” and then she stroked the shirt he was wearing, saying, “I think it is time you had another new bush shirt.”

  “A silk one,” he said, which made Durga smile and reply in a soft, promising voice, “We will see,” while poor Bhuaji stood by and could say nothing, only squint and painfully smile.

  One day Bhuaji went upstairs. She said to Mrs. Puri: “Don’t let your boy go downstairs so much. She is a healthy woman, and young in her thoughts.” Mrs. Puri chose to take offense: she said her boy was a good boy, and Durga was like another mother to him. Bhuaji squinted and laid her finger by the side of her nose, as one who could tell more if she but chose. This made Mrs. Puri very angry and she began to shout about how much evil thought there was in the world today so that even pure actions were misinterpreted and made impure. Her two daughters, though they did not know what it was all about, also looked indignant. Mrs. Puri said she was proud of her son’s friendship with Durga. It showed he was better than all those other boys who thought of nothing but their own pleasures and never cared to listen to the wisdom they could learn from their elders. And she looked from her veranda down into the courtyard, where Govind sat with Durga and was trying to persuade her to buy him a motor scooter. Bhuaji also looked down, and she bit her lip so that no angry word could escape her.

  Durga loved to have Govind sitting with her like that. She had no intention of buying him a motor scooter, which would take more money than she cared to disburse, but she loved to hear him talk about it. His eyes gleamed and his hair tumbled into his face as he told her about the beautiful motor scooter possessed by his friend Ram, whic
h had many shiny fittings and a seat at the back on which he gave rides to his friends. He leaned forward and came closer in his eagerness to impart his passion to her. He was completely carried away—“It does forty miles per hour, as good as any motor car!”—and looked splendid, full of strength and energy. Durga laid her hand on his knee and he didn’t notice. “I have something for you inside,” she said in a low hoarse voice.

  He followed her into the room and stood behind her while she fumbled with her keys at her steel almira. Her hand was shaking rather, so that she could not turn the key easily. When she did, she took something from under a pile of clothes and held it out to him. “For you,” she said. It was a penknife. He was disappointed, he lowered his eyes and said, “It is nice,” in a sullen, indifferent voice. But then at once he looked up again and he wetted his lips with his tongue and said, “Only twelve hundred rupees, just slightly used, it is a chance in a million”—looking past her into the almira where he knew there was a little safe in which she kept her cash. But already she was locking it and fastening the key back to the string at her waist. He suddenly reached out and held her hand with the key in it—“Twelve hundred rupees,” he said in a whisper as low and hoarse as hers had been before. And when she felt him so close to her, so eager, so young, so passionate, and his hand actually holding hers, she shivered all over her body and her heart leaped up in her and next thing she was sobbing. “If you knew,” she cried, “how empty my life has been, how lonely!” and the tears flowed down her face. He let go her hand and stepped backward, and then backward again as she followed him; till he was brought up short by her bed, which he could feel pressing against the back of his knees, as he stood, pinned, between it and her.