Out of India

by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala

  Whenever a famous musician came to the town to give a performance, Shakuntala did her best to attend. It was not easy for her because she had no one willingly to go with her. She didn’t want to trouble her husband. He cared nothing for music and, in any case, would have found it an ordeal to sit upright on a chair for so many hours. Once or twice she asked Phuphiji to be her chaperone. Phuphiji was quite glad; she always enjoyed an outing. At first she was interested in everything, she looked around eagerly, craning her neck this way and that. But when the concert started and went on, she became restless. She yawned and slid about on the chair to show how uncomfortable she was; she asked often how much longer they would have to stay, and then she said “Let’s go,” and when Shakuntala tried to soothe and detain her, she became plaintive and said her back was hurting unbearably. So they always had to come home early, just as the best part of the concert was beginning. And it wasn’t much better when Shakuntala took her daughter with her, for although Manju didn’t complain the way Phuphiji did, she was obviously bored and made a suffering face. It was usually necessary to take Baba along too, and if they were lucky, he fell asleep quite soon, but if they weren’t, he made a lot of disturbance and kicked and struggled and finally he would begin to cry so that there was nothing for it, they had to leave. Shakuntala always tried to put a good face on it and hide her disappointment, but later, when she was at home and in bed beside her husband who had been asleep these many hours, then her thoughts kept reverting to the concert. She wondered what raga was being sung now—“Raga Yaman,” serene and sublime, “Raga Kalawati,” full of sweet yearning?—and saw the brightly lit stage on which the musicians sat: the singer in the middle, the accompanists grouped all around, the disciples forming an outer ring, and all of them caught up in a mood of exaltation inspired by the music. Their heads slowly swayed, they exchanged looks and smiles, their hearts were open and sweet sensations flowed in them like honey. And thinking of this, alone in the silent bedroom beside her sleeping husband, she turned her face and buried it deep into her pillow as if she hoped thereby to bury her feelings of bitter disappointment.

  One morning her teacher surprised her. It was at the end of their lesson when she had sung as usual and he had listened to her with his usual pained face. But before he went, he suddenly said it was time she sang before an audience. She was so astonished, she couldn’t answer for a while, and when she could, it was only to say “I didn’t know.” She meant she didn’t know he thought she was good enough for that. He seemed to understand and it annoyed him. He said “Why do you think I come here,” and got up to go downstairs. She followed him but he didn’t turn back and didn’t speak to her again, he was so irritated with her. And she longed for him to say more, to tell her why he came, for once to hear from him that she had talent: but he left the house and turned down the street and she looked after him. He was tall, lean, and rather shabby, and walked like a person who is not in a hurry and has no particular destination. She didn’t know where he went after he left her or how he spent his time; she guessed, however, that he didn’t spend much of it at his home. When he had turned the corner she went back into the house. She was triumphant that day with joy. She even had visions of the marquee where the concerts took place and saw herself sitting on the stage, in the center of a group of musicians. There would only be a thin and scattered audience—most people didn’t bother to come till later when it was time for the important musician to start—nor would they be paying much attention, the way audiences don’t pay much attention to the preliminaries before the big fight. But she would be there, singing, and not only for herself and her teacher. Yes, that was beautiful too, she loved it, but there had to be something more, she knew that; she had to give another dimension to her singing by performing before strangers. Now she realized she longed to do so. But she also knew it was not to be thought of. She was a housewife from a fine, respectable, middle-class family—people like her didn’t sing in public. It would be an outrage, to her husband, to Phuphiji, to Manju’s husband, and Manju’s in-laws. Even little Baba would be shocked, he wouldn’t know what to think if he saw his granny singing before a lot of strangers.

  That day she had another surprise. Her husband came home with a packet, which he threw in her direction, saying laconically “Take.” She opened it and, when she saw the contents, a lightning flash of pleasure passed through her. It was a pair of earrings, 24-caret gold set with rubies and pearls. Her husband watched her hooking them into her ears, pleased with her and pleased with his purchase. He explained to her how he had got them cheaply, as a bargain, from a fellow contractor who was in difficulties and had been forced to sell his wife’s jewelry. Shakuntala locked them away carefully in her steel safe in which she kept all her other ornaments. Next day she took them out again and wore them and looked at herself this side and that. While she was doing this, Phuphiji came in and, seeing the earrings, let out a cry. “Hai, hai!” she cried, and came up and touched them as they dangled from Shakuntala’s ears. Shakuntala took them off and locked them up again with the other things, though not before Phuphiji’s eyes had devoured them in every detail. “He brought for you?” Phuphiji inquired and Shakuntala nodded briefly and turned the key of the safe and fastened the bunch back to the string at her waist. Suddenly Phuphiji was sitting on the bed, weeping. She wept over the good fortune of some and the ill fortune of others who had been left widows at an early age and had no one to care for them. When Shakuntala had nothing to say to comfort her, she comforted herself and, wiping the corners of her eyes with the end of her sari, said it was fate, there was nothing to be done about it. It was the way things were ordained in this particular life—though next time, who knew, everything might come out quite differently; wheels always came full circle and those that were kings and queens now might, at the next turn, find themselves nothing more than ants or some other form of lowly insect. This thought cheered her, and she went out and sat on the veranda and called to the servant boy for a glass of hot tea.

  Over the next few days, Shakuntala kept taking out her new earrings. She also took out some of her other pieces and admired them and put them on before the mirror. She loved gold and precious stones and fine workmanship; she also loved to see these things sparkling on herself and the effect they made against her skin and set off all her good points. She preened herself before the mirror and smiled like a girl. One afternoon, when she had spent some time in this pleasant way, she came out and found her teacher sitting on the blue sofa in the drawing room. Phuphiji had as usual taken up her place near him. She was staring at him and he was yawning widely. They looked like two people who had been sitting there for a long time with nothing to say to each other. Shakuntala went out into the kitchen and quickly got some refreshments ready. Phuphiji followed her. “What’s the use?” she said. “He won’t eat, his stomach is not accustomed to these things.” But that day he did eat, very quickly and ravenously, like a man who has had nothing for some time. Shakuntala, watching him, saw that there was something wolflike about him when he ate like that; she also noticed that he looked more haggard and unkempt than usual. And just before leaving, when he was already by the door, he asked her for an advance of salary. He asked quite casually and without embarrassment; it was she who was embarrassed. She went into the bedroom to take out her money. Phuphiji followed and whispered urgently “He asked for money? don’t give him.” Shakuntala ignored her. She went out and gave it to him and he put it in his pocket without counting and walked away without saying anything further.

  Next morning, however, after she had finished singing, he said that it was good she had given him that money, it had come in very useful. She didn’t ask anything, out of delicacy, but he volunteered the information that there was some “domestic upset.” He said this with a shrug and a laugh, not out of bravado but really, obviously, because it didn’t matter to him. Then also she realized that his whole domestic setup—his dirty room, his quarrelsome wife—which had so unpleasantly affected her, t
hat too didn’t matter to him and her pity was misplaced. On the contrary, today as she watched him walk away down the street, in his shabby gray-white clothes and his downtrodden slippers, she envied him. She thought how he went where he liked and did what he liked. Her own circumstances were so different. All that day Phuphiji was after her, she nagged at her, she kept asking how much money she had given him, why had she given him, had her husband been told that this money had been given? At last Shakuntala went into her bedroom and bolted the door from inside. It was a very hot day, and the room was closed and humid and mosquitoes buzzed inside with stinging noises. Partly out of boredom, partly in the hope of cheering herself up, she unlocked her jewelry again; but now it failed to give her pleasure. It was just things, metal.

  Someone rattled at the door, she shouted, “No, no!” But it was Manju. She unbolted the door and opened it just sufficiently to let Manju in; Phuphiji hovered behind but Shakuntala quickly shut her out. Manju saw her mother’s jewelry spread out on the bed. She at once detected the new earrings and picked them up and asked where they had come from. “Put them on,” Shakuntala invited her, and Manju lost no time in doing so. She looked in the mirror and liked herself very much in them. She went back to the bed and played with the other ornaments. One day they would all be hers but that day was still far off. She looked wistful and Shakuntala guessed what she was thinking and it made her want to pile everything into Manju’s lap right now and say “Take it.” And indeed when Manju, sighing a bit, put up her hand to take the earrings off again, Shakuntala suddenly said “You can keep them.” Manju was astonished, she tried to protest, she said “Papa will be angry”; but her mother insisted. Then Manju returned to the mirror, she admired herself more than ever and a pleased smile of proprietorship lit up her somewhat glum features. Shakuntala stood behind her at the mirror. She too smiled with pleasure, though she could see that the earrings didn’t suit Manju as well as they suited herself. This made her kiss her all the more tenderly. She was glad to see Manju happy with the gift.

  For herself, nothing nowadays seemed to make her happy. Not even her early morning singing. Yet she was making good progress. It was one of those periods when she was beginning to master something that had up till then defeated her: now she saw that it lay within her power, a little more effort and she would be there and then she could begin to set her sights on the next impossible step. But, in spite of this triumph, she was dissatisfied and she knew her teacher was too. Once or twice he had again broached the subject of her singing in public; each time she had had to put him off, by silence, by a sad smile. He knew her reasons, of course, but did not sympathize with them. Once he even told her, then what is the use? And she knew he was right—what was the use—if it was all to be locked up here in the house and no one to hear, no one to care, no other heart to be touched and respond. And all around her the birds tumbled about in the bright air and sang out lustily, pouring themselves out without stint. She fell into despondency at herself, but her teacher was angry. He said what did she expect, that he came here to waste his time on training housewives? Then she began to be afraid that he would stop coming, and every morning she got up and went on the roof with her heart beating in fear; and how it leaped in relief when he did come—cross usually, and sour, and displeased with her, but he was there, he hadn’t yet given her up.

  He didn’t come so often in the afternoons anymore, and when he did come, he stayed for a shorter time. It seemed he was bored and restless there. Now his glance of disdain fell not only on the refreshments but on all the shiny furniture and the calendars and the pictures on the wall. And most of all on Phuphiji. Her presence, which he had before accepted with such equanimity, now irritated him intensely. He made no attempt to hide this, but Phuphiji did not care: she kept right on sitting there, and when any comment occurred to her she made it. His visit usually ended in his jumping up and hurrying away, muttering to himself. Once, when he had got outside the door, he said to Shakuntala “You should burn her, that’s the only thing old women are good for, burning.” Shakuntala’s mouth corners twitched with amusement, but he was not in a joking mood. Next morning he asked her for another loan and she was glad to give it. He frequently asked her for money now. He ceased to make the excuse that it was an advance on salary, he just asked for the money and then pocketed it as if it were his right. He never counted it, the transaction was too trifling for him to bother that much about it.

  It was not in the least trifling to Phuphiji. Although Shakuntala tried to keep these loans secret, it was not easy—indeed not possible—to keep anything that went on in the house secret from Phuphiji. She kept asking questions about the teacher’s salary and whether he had taken any advance and, if so, how much; and when Shakuntala said she didn’t remember, Phuphiji reproached her, she said that was not the way to deal with her husband’s money. Once she caught them at it. She had hidden herself behind the water butt in the courtyard and came pouncing out just as Shakuntala untied a bundle of notes and passed them to the teacher. Oh, asked Phuphiji, she was paying him his salary? That was strange, she said, it wasn’t the first of the month, it wasn’t anywhere near the first, it was somewhere about the middle of the month and surely that wasn’t the time for paying anyone’s salary? Before she could get any further, the teacher had taken out the money and flung it at her feet. Phuphiji jumped back a step or two as if it were some dangerous explosive. “Look at that,” she cried, “see how he behaves!” But Shakuntala swooped down on the notes and picked them up and ran after him. He was already halfway down the street and didn’t turn around. She had to implore him to stop. When he did, she thrust the money into his hand and he took it and stuffed it carelessly into his pocket and then continued his progress down the street.

  Phuphiji would have dearly liked to complain to Shakuntala’s husband, but she dared not. Indeed, she could not, for Shakuntala’s husband never listened to her; if she wanted anything from him, she always had to approach him through Shakuntala. All she could do now was hover around him while he sat and ate his food. She shook out cushions that didn’t need shaking, she waved away flies that weren’t there, and talked to herself darkly in soliloquy. When she became too obtrusive, he turned to Shakuntala and asked “What’s she say? What does the old woman want?” Then Phuphiji left off and went to sit outside, squatting on the floor with her knees hunched up and her head supported on her fist like a woman in mourning. Sometimes she used the supporting fist to strike her brow.

  But she was more successful with Manju. She managed, by hints rather than by direct narration, to convey a sense of unease, even danger, to Manju. She mentioned no figures but gave the impression that large sums of money were changing hands and that the teacher and all his family were being kept in luxury on money supplied by Shakuntala. “I hear they are buying a television set,” Phuphiji whispered. “Can you imagine people like that, who never had five rupees to their name? A television set! Where do they get it from?” And Manju drew back from Phuphiji’s face thrust close into hers, in shock and fright. Shakuntala came in and found them like that. “What’s the matter?” she asked, looking from one to the other. “We’re just having a talk,” Phuphiji said.

  Another day Phuphiji hinted that it was not only money that was going out of the house but other things too.

  “What?” Manju, who was not very quick, asked her.

  “Very precious things,” Phuphiji said.

  Manju faltered: “Not—?”

  Phuphiji nodded and sighed.

  “Her jewelry?” Manju asked, hand on heart.

  Phuphiji stared into space.

  “Oh, God,” Manju said. She caught up little Baba and held him in a close embrace as if to protect him against unscrupulous people out to rob him of his inheritance. Baba began to cry. Manju cried with him, and so did Phuphiji, two hard little tears dropping from her as if squeezed from eyes of stone.

  “It’s true, she’s in a strange mood,” Manju said. She told Phuphiji how her mother had gi
ven her the new earrings: for no reason at all, had just waved her hand and said casually “Take them.” That was not the way to give away jewelry, no not even to your own daughter. It showed a person was strange. And who knew, if she was in that kind of mood, what she would do next—was perhaps already doing—perhaps she was already telling other people “Take them” in that same casual way, waving her hand negligently over all that was most precious to a woman and a family. The thought struck horror into Phuphiji and Manju, and when Shakuntala came in, they both looked up at her as if she were someone remote from and dangerous to them.

  Shakuntala hardly noticed them. Her thoughts were day and night elsewhere, and she longed only to be sitting on the roof practicing her singing while her teacher listened to her. But nowadays he seemed to be bored with her. He tended to stay for shorter periods, he yawned and became restless and left her before she had finished. When he left her like that, she ceased to sing but continued to sit on the roof by herself; she breathed heavily as if in pain, and indeed her sense of unfulfillment was like pain and stayed with her for the rest of the day. The worst was when he did not turn up at all. This was happening more and more frequently. Days passed and she didn’t see him and didn’t sing; then he came again—she would step up on the roof in the morning, almost without hope, and there he would be. He had no explanation to offer for his absence, nor did she ask for one. She began straightaway to sing, grateful and happy. She was also grateful and happy when he asked her for money; it seemed such a small thing to do for him. Phuphiji noticed everything—his absences, her loans. She said nothing to Shakuntala but watched her. Manju came often and the two of them sat together and Phuphiji whispered into Manju’s ear and Manju cried and looked with red, reproachful eyes at her mother.