Out of India

by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala

  Biju said “Care to dance?” and when I shook my head, he jumped up from the bench and began to dance by himself. He tried to do it the way they were doing inside. He couldn’t get it right, but he kept on trying. He wanted me to try too, but I wouldn’t. “Come on,” he said, partly to me, partly to himself, as he tried to get his feet and his hips to make the right movements. He was getting out of breath but he wouldn’t give up. I was worried that he might strain his heart, but I didn’t say anything because he never likes to be reminded of his heart. Suddenly he said “There, now see!” and indeed when I looked he was doing it absolutely right, just like they were doing inside. Only he looked more graceful than they did because probably he was a better dancer. He was enjoying himself; he laughed and spun round on his heel several times and how he shook and glided—around the rim of the fountain, on the grass, up and down the path; he had really got into the rhythm of it now and wouldn’t stop though I could see he was getting more and more out of breath. Sometimes he danced in the light that came out of the drawing room, sometimes he moved over into the dark and was illumined only by faint moonlight. But suddenly there was a third light, a great harsh beam that came from the Minister’s car bringing him home from a late-night meeting. I hoped Biju would stop now but, on the contrary, he went on dancing right there in the driveway and only jumped out of the way before the advancing car at the last possible moment, and then he continued on the grass, at the same time saluting the Minister as he passed in the backseat of the car. The Minister pretended not to see but seemed preoccupied with thoughts of the highest importance.

  Sometimes Biju doesn’t come for several days to the house. I don’t miss him at all—on the contrary, I’m quite glad. I do all sorts of little things that I wouldn’t do if he were there. For instance, I stick photographs of Mina into an album, or I tidy some drawers in the Minister’s cupboard. I wait for them both to come home. Mina is there first. She talks to me about what she has been doing all day and about her friends. I do her hair in various attractive styles. She looks so nice, but when I have finished, she takes it all down again and plaits it back into a plain pigtail. I ask her whether she wouldn’t like to get married but she laughs and says what for. I’m partly relieved but partly also worried because she is nearly twenty-two now. At one time she wanted to be a doctor but kept getting headaches on account of the hard studying she had to do, so she left it. I was glad. I never liked the idea of her becoming a doctor and having to work so hard and seeing so much suffering. The Minister was keen on it because he said the country needed a lot of doctors, but now he says what it needs even more is economists. So Mina often talks to me about becoming an economist.

  On those days when Biju is not there, I seem to see more of the Minister. If he is late, I wait up for him to come. He is full of whatever he has been doing—whether attending a meeting or a dinner or some other function—and convinced that it was an event of great importance to the nation. Perhaps it was, I don’t know. He tells me about it, and then it is like it was in the old days: I don’t listen carefully but I’m glad to have him there. He still speaks with the same enthusiasm and moves with the same energy while he is speaking, often bumping into things in his impatience. He continues to talk when we go up to bed and while he is undressing, but then he gets into bed and is suddenly fast asleep, almost in the middle of a sentence. I leave the light on for a while to look at him; I like to see him sleeping so peacefully, it makes me feel safe and comfortable.

  When I get up next morning, I’m half hoping that Biju will not come that day either; but if there is no sign of him by afternoon, I get restless. I wonder what has happened. I telephone to his house, but his old servant is not much used to the telephone and it is difficult to understand or make him understand anything. In the end I have to go to Biju’s house and see for myself. Usually there is nothing wrong with him and it is only one of his strange moods when he doesn’t feel like getting out of bed or doing anything. After I have been with him for some time, he feels better and gets up and comes home with me. I’m glad to get him out of his house. It is not a cheerful place and he takes no care of it and his servant is too old to be able to keep it nicely. It is a rented house, which he has taken only so that he can live in Delhi and be near us. It has cement floors, and broken-down servant quarters at the back, and no one ever looks after the garden so that when entering the gate one has to be careful not to get scratched by the thorny bushes that have grown all over the path.

  Once I found him ill. He had a pain in his back and had not got up but kept lying there, not even allowing his bed to be made. It looked very crumpled and untidy and so did he, and this was strange and sad because when he is up he is always so very careful of himself. Now he was unshaven and his pajama jacket was open, showing tangled gray hair growing on his chest. He looked at me with frightened eyes. I called the doctor, and then Biju was taken away to a nursing home, and he had to stay there for several weeks because they discovered he had a weak heart.

  When he came out of the nursing home, the Minister wanted him to give up his house and come and live with us. But he wouldn’t. It is strange about Biju: he has always gone where we have gone, but he has always taken a place on his own. He says that if he didn’t live away from us, then where would he go every day and what would he do? I don’t like to think of him alone at night in that house with only the old servant and with his violent dreams and his weak heart. The Minister too doesn’t like it. Ever since he has heard about Biju’s heart, he has been worried. And not only about Biju. He thinks of himself too, for he and Biju are about the same age, and he is afraid that anything that was wrong with Biju could be wrong with him too. In the days after Biju was taken to the nursing home, the Minister began not to feel well. He even woke up at nights and wanted me to put my hand on his heart. It felt perfectly all right to me, but he said no, it was beating too fast, and he was annoyed with me for not agreeing. He was convinced now that he too had a weak heart, so we called in the doctor and a cardiogram was taken and it was discovered that his heart was as healthy and sound as that of a fifteen-year-old boy. Then he was satisfied, and didn’t have any more palpitations, and indeed forgot all about his heart.

  I had an old aunt who was very religious. She was always saying her prayers and went to the temple to make her offerings. I was not religious at all. I never thought there is anything other than what there is every day. I didn’t speak of these matters, and I don’t speak of them today. I never like anyone to mention them to me. But my old aunt was always mentioning them, she could speak of nothing else. She said that even if I did not feel prayerful, I should at least go through the form of prayer, and if I only repeated the prescribed prayers every day, then slowly something would waken in my heart. But I wouldn’t listen to her, and behind her back I laughed at her with Biju. He also did not believe in these things. Neither did the Minister, but whereas Biju and I only laughed and did not care about it much, the Minister made a great issue out of it and said a lot about religion retarding the progress of the people. He even told my aunt that for herself she could do what she liked, but he did not care for her to bring these superstitions into his house. She was shocked by all he said, and after that she never liked to stay with us, and when she did she avoided him as much as she could. She didn’t avoid Biju and me, but continued to try to make us religious. One thing she said I have always remembered and sometimes I think about it. She said that yes, now it was easy for us not to care about religion, but later when our youth had gone, and our looks, and everything that gave us so much pleasure now had lost its savor, then what would we do, where would we turn?

  Sometimes I too, like Biju, don’t feel like getting up. Then I stay in bed with the curtains drawn all day. Mina comes in and is very concerned about me. She moves about the room and pulls at the curtains and rearranges things on my bedside table and settles my pillows and does everything she can to make me comfortable. She fully intends to stay with me all day, but after a while she
gets restless. There are so many things for her to do and places to go to. She begins to telephone her friends and tells them that she can’t meet them today because she is looking after her mother. I pretend to be very drowsy and ask why doesn’t she go out while I’m asleep, it would be much better. At first she absolutely refuses, but after a while she says if I’m quite sure, and I urge her to go till at last she agrees. She gives me many hurried instructions as to rest and diet, and in saying good-bye she gathers me in her arms and embraces me so hard that I almost cry out. She leaves in a great hurry as if there were a lot of lost time to be made up. Then Biju comes in to sit with me. He reads the newspaper to himself, and when there is anything specially interesting he reads it aloud to me. He stays the whole day. Sometimes he dozes off in his chair, sometimes he lays cards out for patience. He is not at all bored or restless, but seems quite happy to stay not only for one day but for many more. I don’t mind having him there; it is not very different from being by myself alone.

  But when the Minister comes in, it is a great disturbance. “Why is it so dark in here?” he says and roughly pulls apart the curtains, dispelling the soothing honey-colored light in which Biju and I have been all day like two fish in an aquarium. We both have to shut our eyes against the light coming in from the windows. My head begins to hurt; I suffer. “But what’s the matter with you?” the Minister asks. He wants to call the doctor. He says when people are ill, naturally one calls a doctor. Biju asks “What will he do?” and this annoys the Minister. He gives Biju a lecture on modern science, and Biju defends himself by saying that not everything can be cured by science. As usual when they talk together for any length of time, the Minister gets more and more irritated with Biju. I can understand why. All the Minister’s arguments are very sensible but Biju’s aren’t one bit sensible—in fact, after a while he stops answering altogether and instead begins to tear up the newspaper he has been reading and makes paper darts out of it. I watch him launching these darts. He looks very innocent while he is doing this, like a boy; he smiles to himself and his tie flutters over his shoulder. When people have a weak heart they can die quite suddenly, one has to expect it. I think of my old aunt asking where will you turn to? I look at the Minister. He too has begun to take an interest in Biju’s paper darts. He picks one up and throws it into the air with a great swing of his body like a discus thrower; but it falls down on the carpet very lamely. He tries again and then again, always attempting this great sportsman’s swing though not very successfully because he is so fat and heavy. It gives me pleasure to watch him; it also gives me pleasure to think of his strong heart like a fifteen-year-old boy’s. There is a Persian poem. It says human life is like the petals that fall from the rose and he soft and withering by the side of the vase. Whenever I think of this poem, I think of Biju and myself. But it is not possible to think of the Minister and Mina as rose petals. No, they are something much stronger. I’m glad! They are what I have to turn to, and it is enough for me. I need nothing more. My aunt was wrong.

  TWO MORE UNDER THE INDIAN SUN

  Elizabeth had gone to spend the afternoon with Margaret. They were both English, but Margaret was a much older woman and they were also very different in character. But they were both in love with India, and it was this fact that drew them together. They sat on the veranda, and Margaret wrote letters and Elizabeth addressed the envelopes. Margaret always had letters to write; she led a busy life and was involved with several organizations of a charitable or spiritual nature. Her interests were centered in such matters, and Elizabeth was glad to be allowed to help her.

  There were usually guests staying in Margaret’s house. Sometimes they were complete strangers to her when they first arrived, but they tended to stay weeks, even months, at a time—holy men from the Himalayas, village welfare workers, organizers of conferences on spiritual welfare. She had one constant visitor throughout the winter, an elderly government officer who, on his retirement from service, had taken to a spiritual life and gone to live in the mountains at Almora. He did not, however, very much care for the winter cold up there, so at that season he came down to Delhi to stay with Margaret, who was always pleased to have him. He had a soothing effect on her—indeed, on anyone with whom he came into contact, for he had cast anger and all other bitter passions out of his heart and was consequently always smiling and serene. Everyone affectionately called him Babaji.

  He sat now with the two ladies on the veranda, gently rocking himself to and fro in a rocking chair, enjoying the winter sunshine and the flowers in the garden and everything about him. His companions, however, were less serene. Margaret, in fact, was beginning to get angry with Elizabeth. This happened quite frequently, for Margaret tended to be quickly irritated, and especially with a meek and conciliatory person like Elizabeth.

  “It’s very selfish of you,” Margaret said now.

  Elizabeth flinched. Like many very unselfish people, she was always accusing herself of undue selfishness, so that whenever this accusation was made by someone else it touched her closely. But because it was not in her power to do what Margaret wanted, she compressed her lips and kept silent. She was pale with this effort at obstinacy.

  “It’s your duty to go,” Margaret said. “I don’t have much time for people who shirk their duty.”

  “I’m sorry, Margaret,” Elizabeth said, utterly miserable, utterly ashamed. The worst of it, almost, was that she really wanted to go; there was nothing she would have enjoyed more. What she was required to do was take a party of little Tibetan orphans on a holiday treat to Agra and show them the Taj Mahal. Elizabeth loved children, she loved little trips and treats, and she loved the Taj Mahal. But she couldn’t go, nor could she say why.

  Of course Margaret very easily guessed why, and it irritated her more than ever. To challenge her friend, she said bluntly, “Your Raju can do without you for those few days. Good heavens, you’re not a honeymoon couple, are you? You’ve been married long enough. Five years.”

  “Four,” Elizabeth said in a humble voice.

  “Four, then. I can hardly be expected to keep count of each wonderful day. Do you want me to speak to him?”

  “Oh no.”

  “I will, you know. It’s nothing to me. I won’t mince my words.” She gave a short, harsh laugh, challenging anyone to stop her from speaking out when occasion demanded. Indeed, at the thought of anyone doing so, her face grew red under her crop of gray hair, and a pulse throbbed in visible anger in her tough, tanned neck.

  Elizabeth glanced imploringly toward Babaji. But he was rocking and smiling and looking with tender love at two birds pecking at something on the lawn.

  “There are times when I can’t help feeling you’re afraid of him,” Margaret said. She ignored Elizabeth’s little disclaiming cry of horror. “There’s no trust between you, no understanding. And married life is nothing if it’s not based on the twin rocks of trust and understanding.”

  Babaji liked this phrase so much that he repeated it to himself several times, his lips moving soundlessly and his head nodding with approval.

  “In everything I did,” Margaret said, “Arthur was with me. He had complete faith in me. And in those days—Well.” She chuckled. “A wife like me wasn’t altogether a joke.”

  Her late husband had been a high-up British official, and in those British days he and Margaret had been expected to conform to some very strict social rules. But the idea of Margaret conforming to any rules, let alone those! Her friends nowadays often had a good laugh at it with her, and she had many stories to tell of how she had shocked and defied her fellow countrymen.

  “It was people like you,” Babaji said, “who first extended the hand of friendship to us.”

  “It wasn’t a question of friendship, Babaji. It was a question of love.”

  “Ah!” he exclaimed.

  “As soon as I came here—and I was only a chit of a girl, Arthur and I had been married just two months—yes, as soon as I set foot on Indian soil, I knew this was th
e place I belonged. It’s funny isn’t it? I don’t suppose there’s any rational explanation for it. But then, when was India ever the place for rational explanations.”

  Babaji said with gentle certainty, “In your last birth, you were one of us. You were an Indian.”

  “Yes, lots of people have told me that. Mind you, in the beginning it was quite a job to make them see it. Naturally, they were suspicious—can you blame them? It wasn’t like today. I envy you girls married to Indians. You have a very easy time of it.”

  Elizabeth thought of the first time she had been taken to stay with Raju’s family. She had met and married Raju in England, where he had gone for a year on a Commonwealth scholarship, and then had returned with him to Delhi; so it was some time before she met his family, who lived about two hundred miles out of Delhi, on the outskirts of a small town called Ankhpur. They all lived together in an ugly brick house, which was divided into two parts—one for the men of the family, the other for the women. Elizabeth, of course, had stayed in the women’s quarters. She couldn’t speak any Hindi and they spoke very little English, but they had not had much trouble communicating with her. They managed to make it clear at once that they thought her too ugly and too old for Raju (who was indeed some five years her junior), but also that they did not hold this against her and were ready to accept her, with all her shortcomings, as the will of God. They got a lot of amusement out of her, and she enjoyed being with them. They dressed and undressed her in new saris, and she smiled good-naturedly while they stood around her clapping their hands in wonder and doubling up with laughter. Various fertility ceremonies had been performed over her, and before she left she had been given her share of the family jewelry.