I went and sat next to him. The window was an arch reaching down to the floor so that I could see out into the bazaar. It was quite gay down there with all the lights; the phonograph was playing from the cold-drink shop and a lot of people were standing around there having highly colored pop drinks out of bottles; next to it was a shop with pink and blue brassieres strung up on a pole. On top of the shops were wrought-iron balconies on which sat girls dressed up in tatty georgette and waving peacock fans to keep themselves cool. Sometimes men looked up to talk and laugh with them and they talked and laughed back. I realized we were in the brothel area; probably the hotel we were in was a brothel too.
I asked “Why did you bring me here?”
He answered “Why did you come?”
That was a good question. He was right. But I wasn’t sorry I came. Why should I be? I said “It’s all right. I like it.”
He said “She likes it,” and he laughed. A bit later he started talking: about how he had just been to visit his daughter who had been married a few months before. She wasn’t happy in her in-laws’ house, and when he said good-bye to her she clung to him and begged him to take her home. The more he reasoned with her, the more she cried, the more she clung to him. In the end he had had to use force to free himself from her so that he could get away and not miss his bus. He felt very sorry for her, but what else was there for him to do. If he took her away, her in-laws might refuse to have her back again and then her life would be ruined. And she would get used to it, they always did; for some it took longer and was harder, but they all got used to it in the end. His wife too had cried a lot during the first year of marriage.
I asked him whether he thought it was good to arrange marriages that way, and he looked at me and asked how else would you do it. I said something about love and it made him laugh and he said that was only for the films. I didn’t want to defend my point of view; in fact, I felt rather childish and as if he knew a lot more about things than I did. He began to get amorous again, and this time it was much better because he wasn’t so frenzied and I liked him better by now too. Afterward he told me how when he was first married, he and his wife had shared a room with the whole family (parents and younger brothers and sisters), and whatever they wanted to do, they had to do very quickly and quietly for fear of anyone waking up. I had a strange sensation then, as if I wanted to strip off all my clothes and parade up and down the room naked. I thought of all the men’s eyes that follow one in the street, and for the first time it struck me that the expression in them was like that in the eyes of prisoners looking through their bars at the world outside; and then I thought maybe I’m that world outside for them—the way I go here and there and talk and laugh with everyone and do what I like—maybe I’m the river and trees they can’t have where they are. Oh, I felt so sorry, I wanted to do so much. And to make a start, I flung myself on my companion and kissed and hugged him hard, I lay on top of him, I smothered him, I spread my hair over his face because I wanted to make him forget everything that wasn’t me—this room, his daughter, his wife, the women in georgette sitting on the balconies—I wanted everything to be new for him and as beautiful as I could make it. He liked it for a while but got tired quite quickly, probably because he wasn’t all that young anymore.
It was shortly after this encounter that I met Ahmed. He was eighteen years old and a musician. His family had been musicians as long as anyone could remember and the alley they lived in was full of other musicians, so that when you walked down it, it was like walking through a magic forest all lit up with music and sounds. Only there wasn’t anything magic about the place itself, which was very cramped and dirty; the houses were so old that, whenever there were heavy rains, one or two of them came tumbling down. I was never inside Ahmed’s house or met his family—they’d have died of shock if they had got to know about me—but I knew they were very poor and scraped a living by playing at weddings and functions. Ahmed never had any money, just sometimes if he was lucky he had a few coins to buy his betel with. But he was cheerful and happy and enjoyed everything that came his way. He was married, but his wife was too young to stay with him and after the ceremony she had been sent back to live with her father who was a musician in another town.
When I first met Ahmed, I was staying in a hostel attached to a temple that was free of charge for pilgrims; but afterward he and I wanted a place for us to go to, so I wired Henry to send me some more money. Henry sent me the money, together with a long complaining letter that I didn’t read all the way through, and I took a room in a hotel. It was on the outskirts of town, which was mostly wasteland except for a few houses and some of these had never been finished. Our hotel wasn’t finished either because the proprietor had run out of money, and now it probably never would be for the place had turned out to be a poor proposition; it was too far out of town and no one ever came to stay there. But it suited us fine. We had this one room, painted bright pink and quite bare except for two pieces of furniture—a bed and a dressing table, both of them very shiny and new. Ahmed loved it, he had never stayed in such a grand room before; he bounced up and down on the bed, which had a mattress, and stood looking at himself from all sides in the mirror of the dressing table.
I never in all my life was happy with anyone the way I was with Ahmed. I’m not saying I never had a good time at home; I did. I had a lot of friends before I married Henry and we had parties and danced and drank and I enjoyed it. But it wasn’t like with Ahmed because no one was ever as carefree as he was, as light and easy and just ready to play and live. At home we always had our problems, personal ones of course, but on top of those there were universal problems—social, and economic, and moral, we really cared about what was happening in the world around us and in our own minds, we felt a responsibility toward being here alive at this point in time and wanted to do our best. Ahmed had no thoughts like that at all; there wasn’t a shadow on him. He had his personal problems from time to time, and when he had them, he was very downcast and sometimes he even cried. But they weren’t anything really very serious—usually some family quarrel, or his father was angry with him—and they passed away, blew away like a breeze over a lake and left him sunny and sparkling again. He enjoyed everything so much: not only our room, and the bed and the dressing table, and making love, but so many other things like drinking Coca-Cola and spraying scent and combing my hair and my combing his; and he made up games for us to play like indoor cricket with a slipper for a bat and one of Henry’s letters rolled up for a ball. He taught me how to crack his toes, which is such a great Indian delicacy, and yelled with pleasure when I got it right; but when he did it to me, I yelled with pain so he stopped at once and was terribly sorry. He was very considerate and tender. No one I’ve ever known was sensitive to my feelings as he was. It was like an instinct with him, as if he could feel right down into my heart and know what was going on there; and without ever having to ask anything or my ever having to explain anything, he could sense each change of mood and adapt himself to it and feel with it. Henry would always have to ask me “Now what’s up? What’s the matter with you?” and when we were still all right with each other, he would make a sincere effort to understand. But Ahmed never had to make an effort, and maybe if he’d had to he wouldn’t have succeeded because it wasn’t ever with his mind that he understood anything, it was always with his feelings. Perhaps that was so because he was a musician and in music everything is beyond words and explanations anyway; and from what he told me about Indian music, I could see it was very, very subtle, there are effects that you can hardly perceive they’re so subtle and your sensibilities have to be kept tuned all the time to the finest, finest point; and perhaps because of that the whole of Ahmed was always at that point and he could play me and listen to me as if I were his sarod.
After some time we ran out of money and Henry wouldn’t send any more, so we had to think what to do. I certainly couldn’t bear to part with Ahmed, and in the end I suggested he’d better come back to Delhi
with me and we’d try and straighten things out with Henry. Ahmed was terribly excited by the idea; he’d never been to Delhi and was wild to go. Only it meant he had to run away from home because his family would never have allowed him to go, so one night he stole out of the house with his sarod and his little bundle of clothes and met me at the railway station. We reached Delhi the next night, tired and dirty and covered with soot the way you always get in trains here. When we arrived home, Henry was giving a party; not a big party, just a small informal group sitting around chatting. I’ll never forget the expression on everyone’s faces when Ahmed and I came staggering in with our bundles and bedding. My blouse had got torn in the train all the way down the side, and I didn’t have a safety pin so it kept flapping open and unfortunately I didn’t have anything underneath. Henry’s guests were all looking very nice, the men in smart bush shirts and their wives in little silk cocktail dresses; and although after the first shock they all behaved very well and carried on as if nothing unusual had happened, still it was an awkward situation for everyone concerned.
Ahmed never really got over it. I can see now how awful it must have been for him, coming into that room full of strange white people and all of them turning around to stare at us. And the room itself must have been a shock to him; he can never have seen anything like it. Actually, it was quite a shock to me too. I’d forgotten that that was the way Henry and I lived. When we first came, we had gone to a lot of trouble doing up the apartment, buying furniture and pictures and stuff, and had succeeded in making it look just like the apartment we have at home except for some elegant Indian touches. To Ahmed it was all very strange. He stayed there with us for some time, and he couldn’t get used to it. I think it bothered him to have so many things around, rugs and lamps and objets d’art; he couldn’t see why they had to be there. Now that I had traveled and lived the way I had, I couldn’t see why either; as a matter of fact I felt as if these things were a hindrance and cluttered up not only your room but your mind and your soul as well, hanging on them like weights.
We had some quite bad scenes in the apartment during those days. I told Henry that I was in love with Ahmed, and naturally that upset him, though what upset him most was the fact that he had to keep us both in the apartment. I also realized that this was an undesirable situation, but I couldn’t see any way out of it because where else could Ahmed and I go? We didn’t have any money, only Henry had, so we had to stay with him. He kept saying that he would turn both of us out into the streets but I knew he wouldn’t. He wasn’t the type to do a violent thing like that, and besides he himself was so frightened of the streets that he’d have died to think of anyone connected with him being out there. I wouldn’t have minded all that much if he had turned us out: it was warm enough to sleep in the open and people always give you food if you don’t have any. I would have preferred it really because it was so unpleasant with Henry; but I knew Ahmed would never have been able to stand it. He was quite a pampered boy, and though his family were poor, they looked after and protected each other very carefully; he never had to miss a meal or go dressed in anything but fine muslin clothes, nicely washed and starched by female relatives.
Ahmed bitterly repented having come. He was very miserable, feeling so uncomfortable in the apartment and with Henry making rows all the time. Ramu, the servant, didn’t improve anything by the way he behaved, absolutely refusing to serve Ahmed and never losing an opportunity to make him feel inferior. Everything went out of Ahmed; he crumpled up as if he were a paper flower. He didn’t want to play his sarod and he didn’t want to make love to me, he just sat around with his head and his hands hanging down, and there were times when I saw tears rolling down his face and he didn’t even bother to wipe them off. Although he was so unhappy in the apartment, he never left it and so he never saw any of the places he had been so eager to come to Delhi for, like the Juma Masjid and Nizamuddin’s tomb. Most of the time he was thinking about his family. He wrote long letters to them in Urdu, which I posted, telling them where he was and imploring their pardon for running away; and long letters came back again and he read and read them, soaking them in tears and kisses. One night he got so bad he jumped out of bed and, rushing into Henry’s bedroom, fell to his knees by the side of Henry’s bed and begged to be sent back home again. And Henry, sitting up in bed in his pajamas, said all right, in rather a lordly way I thought. So next day I took Ahmed to the station and put him on the train, and through the bars of the railway carriage he kissed my hands and looked into my eyes with all his old ardor and tenderness, so at the last moment I wanted to go with him but it was too late and the train pulled away out of the station and all that was left to me of Ahmed was a memory, very beautiful and delicate like a flavor or a perfume or one of those melodies he played on his sarod.
I became very depressed. I didn’t feel like going traveling anymore but stayed home with Henry and went with him to his diplomatic and other parties. He was quite glad to have me go with him again; he liked having someone in the car on the way home to talk to about all the people who’d been at the party and compare their chances of future success with his own. I didn’t mind going with him; there wasn’t anything else I wanted to do. I felt as if I’d failed at something. It wasn’t only Ahmed. I didn’t really miss him all that much and was glad to think of him back with his family in that alley full of music where he was happy. For myself I didn’t know what to do next, though I felt that something still awaited me. Our apartment led to an open terrace and I often went up there to look at the view, which was marvelous. The house we lived in and all the ones around were white and pink and very modern, with picture windows and little lawns in front, but from up here you could look beyond them to the city and the big mosque and the fort. In between there were stretches of wasteland, empty and barren except for an occasional crumbly old tomb growing there. What always impressed me the most was the sky because it was so immensely big and so unchanging in color, and it made everything underneath it—all the buildings, even the great fort, the whole city, not to speak of all the people living in it—seem terribly small and trivial and passing somehow. But at the same time as it made me feel small, it also made me feel immense and eternal. I don’t know, I can’t explain, perhaps because it was itself like that and this thought—that there was something like that—made me feel that I had a part in it, I too was part of being immense and eternal. It was all very vague really and nothing I could ever speak about to anyone; but because of it I thought well maybe there is something more for me here after all. That was a relief because it meant I wouldn’t have to go home and be the way I was before and nothing different or gained. For all the time, ever since I’d come and even before, I’d had this idea that there was something in India for me to gain, and even though for the time being I’d failed, I could try longer and at last perhaps I would succeed.
I’d met people on and off who had come here on a spiritual quest, but it wasn’t the sort of thing I wanted for myself. I thought anything I wanted to find, I could find by myself traveling around the way I had done. But now that this had failed, I became interested in the other thing. I began to go to a few prayer meetings and I liked the atmosphere very much. The meeting was usually conducted by a swami in a saffron robe who had renounced the world, and he gave an address about love and God and everyone sang hymns also about love and God. The people who came to these meetings were mostly middle-aged and quite poor. I had already met many like them on my travels, for they were the sort of people who sat waiting on station platforms and bus depots, absolutely patient and uncomplaining even when conductors and other officials pushed them around. They were gentle people and very clean though there was always some slight smell about them as of people who find it difficult to keep clean because they live in crowded and unsanitary places where there isn’t much running water and the drainage system isn’t good. I loved the expression that came into their faces when they sang hymns. I wanted to be like them, so I began to dress in plain white s
aris and I tied up my hair in a plain knot and the only ornament I wore was a string of beads not for decoration but to say the names of God on. I became a vegetarian and did my best to cast out all the undesirable human passions, such as anger and lust. When Henry was in an irritable or quarrelsome mood, I never answered him back but was very kind and patient with him. However, far from having a good effect, this seemed to make him worse. Altogether he didn’t like the new personality I was trying to achieve but sneered a lot at the way I dressed and looked and the simple food I ate. Actually, I didn’t enjoy this food very much and found it quite a trial eating nothing but boiled rice and lentils with him sitting opposite me having his cutlets and chops.
The peace and satisfaction that I saw on the faces of the other hymn singers didn’t come to me. As a matter of fact, I grew rather bored. There didn’t seem much to be learned from singing hymns and eating vegetables. Fortunately just about this time someone took me to see a holy woman who lived on the roof of an old overcrowded house near the river. People treated her like a holy woman but she didn’t set up to be one. She didn’t set up to be anything really, but only stayed in her room on the roof and talked to people who came to see her. She liked telling stories and she could hold everyone spellbound listening to her, even though she was only telling the old mythological stories they had known all their lives long, about Krishna, and the Pandavas, and Rama and Sita. But she got terribly excited while she was telling them, as if it wasn’t something that had happened millions of years ago but as if it was all real and going on exactly now. Once she was telling about Krishna’s mother who made him open his mouth to see whether he had stolen and was eating up her butter. What did she see then, inside his mouth?
“Worlds!” the holy woman cried. “Not just this world, not just one world with its mountains and rivers and seas, no, but world upon world, all spinning in one great eternal cycle in this child’s mouth, moon upon moon, sun upon sun!”
Out of India Page 15