After a time, I whispered, “Was it very bad?”
Without opening his eyes, he answered, “Only at first. Don’t stop. I like it.” I went on rubbing my fingers in his hair. “At first of course it was a shock, though everyone was quite polite. They allowed me to take a taxi, and two policemen accompanied me.”
“They didn’t—?” I asked. I had been thinking about this all the time, and it made me shudder more than anything. So often in the streets I had seen people led away to jail, and their wrists were handcuffed and they were fastened to a policeman with a long chain.
“Oh no,” he said. He knew what I meant at once. “They could see they were dealing with a gentleman. The policemen were very respectful to me, and they accepted cigarettes from me and smoked them in the taxi, though they were on duty. And when we got there everyone was quite nice. They were quite apologetic that this had to be done.” He opened his eyes and said, “I wish you hadn’t taken the money from Sudha.”
“Then from where?” I cried.
“Yes, I know. But I wish—”
“Should I have left you there?”
“No no, of course not.” He spoke quickly, as if afraid that I would get angry again. And to prevent this from happening he pulled me down beside him and pressed me close and held me.
He seemed eager to tell me about the jail. He always likes to tell me everything, and I sit up for him at night and try to keep awake, however late he comes, because I know he is coming home with a lot to tell. Every day something exciting happens to him, and he loves to repeat it to me in every detail. Well, it seemed that even in jail he had had a good time, and it wasn’t at all like what I had thought.
“You see,” he explained, “before trial we are kept quite separate and we are allowed all sorts of facilities. It’s really more like a hotel. Of course, there are guards, but they don’t bother you at all. On the contrary, if they see you are a better-class person they like to help you. I met some very interesting people there—really some quite topnotch people; you’d be surprised.”
I was surprised. I had no idea it could be like that. But that is one of the wonderful things about Rajee—wherever he goes, whatever he does, something good and exciting happens to him.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I made a very good contact. Something interesting could come of it. Wait, I’ll tell you.”
I knew he wanted his cigarettes—he always likes to smoke when he has something nice to tell—so I got out of bed and brought them for him. He lit up, and we lay again side by side on the bed.
“There was this person in the patent-medicine line, who had been in for several days. It took time to arrange for his bail, because it was for a very big amount. There is a big case against him. Everyone—all the guards and everyone—was very respectful to him, and he was good to them too. He knew how to handle them. His food and other things came from outside, and he also had cases of beer and always saw to it that the guards had their share. Naturally, they did everything they could to oblige him. And they were very careful with me too, because they could see he had taken a great liking to me.”
That was nothing new. Wherever he goes, people take a great liking to Rajee and do all sorts of things for him and want to keep him in their company.
“He insisted I should eat with him, though as a matter of fact I wasn’t very hungry, I was still rather upset. But the food was so delicious—such wonderful kebabs, I wish you could have tasted them. And plenty of beer with it, and plenty of good company, because there were some other people too, all in for various things but all of them better-class. We were quite a select group. Afterward we had a game of cards, that was good fun. Why are you laughing?”
It was all so different from what I had thought! I was laughing at myself, for my fears and terrible visions. I asked, “Did you win anything?”
“No, as a matter of fact I lost, but as I didn’t have the money to pay they said it didn’t matter, I could pay some other time.”
“How much?” I asked, suddenly suspicious.
“Oh, not very much.”
But he seemed anxious to change the subject, which confirmed my suspicions. My mood was no longer so good now. I began to brood. Here I had been, and Daddy and Sudha, and there he had been all the time quite enjoying himself and even losing money at cards.
I said, “If it was so nice, perhaps I should have left you there.”
He gave me a reproachful look and was silent for a while. But then he said, “I wish it had been possible to get the money from someone else.”
“Why?” I said, and then I felt worse. “Why?” I repeated. “She is such a wonderful friend to you. So wonderful,” I cried, “that you bring her here and lock yourself into our bedroom with her to do God knows what!”
He turned to me and comforted me. He explained everything. I began to see that he had had no alternative—that he had to bring her in here because of the way she felt and because of the money she had given. He didn’t say so outright, but I realized it was partly my fault also, for taking the money from her.
I felt much better. He went on talking about Sudha, and I liked it, the way he spoke about her. He said, “She is not a generous person; that is why it is not good to take from her. At heart, she grudges giving—it eats her up.”
“She was always like that,” I said, giving him a swift sideways look. But he agreed with me; he nodded. I saw that his feelings for her had completely changed.
“Every little bit she gives,” he said, “she wants four times as much in return.”
“It’s her nature.”
I remembered what she had said about his taking money from her purse. I felt indignant. To shame him like that, before her servant! Obviously, he would never have taken the money if he had not been in great need. She should have been glad to help him out. I never hide my money from him now. I used to sometimes—I used to put away absolutely necessary amounts, like for the rent—but he always seemed to find out my hiding places, so I don’t do it anymore. Now if we run short I borrow it from the cash register in the shop; no one ever notices, and I always put it back when I get my salary. Only once I couldn’t put it back—there were some unexpected expenses—but they never found out, so it’s all right.
“What’s that?” he said. We were both silent, listening. He said, “I think Daddy is calling.”
“I don’t hear anything.”
Rajee wanted to go and see, but I assured him it was all right. Daddy might have called out in his sleep—he often did that. I asked Rajee to tell me more about his adventures last night, so he settled back and lit another cigarette.
“You know, this person I was telling you about—in the patent-medicine line? He wants me to contact him as soon as he comes out. He says he will put some good things in my way. He was very keen to meet me again and wanted to have my telephone number . . . You know, it is very difficult without a telephone; it is the biggest handicap in my career. It is not even necessary to have an office, but a telephone—you can’t do big business without one. Do you know that some of the most important deals are concluded over the telephone only? I could tell you some wonderful stories.”
“I know,” I said. He had already told me some wonderful stories on this subject, and I knew how much he longed for and needed a telephone, but where could I get it from?
“Never mind,” he said. He didn’t want me to feel bad. “When we move into a better place, we shall install all these things. Telephone, refrigerator—I think he is calling.”
Rajee went to see. I also got off the bed and looked under it for my slippers. As I did so, I remembered a terrible dream I used to have as a child. I used to dream Daddy was dead. Then I screamed and screamed, and when I woke up Daddy was holding me and I had my arms around his neck. Afterward I was always afraid to go on sleeping by myself and got into his bed. But I would never tell him my dream. I was frightened to speak it out.
When I came into the sitting room, I found Daddy sitting up on the s
ofa, and Rajee was holding him up under the arms—sort of propping him up. It was that time of the night when everything looks dim and depressing. We have only one light bulb, and it looked very feeble and even ghostly and did not shed much light. Dawn wasn’t far off—it was no longer quite night and it was not yet day—and the light coming in through the window was rather dreary. Perhaps it was because of this that Daddy’s face looked so strange; he lay limp and lolling in Rajee’s arms.
And he was very cross. He said he had been shouting for hours and no one came. In the end, he had had to get up himself and get his pills and the water to swallow them with. If it hadn’t been for that—if he hadn’t somehow got the strength together—then who knew what state we might have found him in later when we woke up from our deep sleep? Rajee kept apologizing, trying to soothe him, but that only seemed to make him more cross. He went on and on.
“Yes,” he said, “and if something happens to me now, then what about her?” He pointed at me in an accusing way.
“Nothing will happen, Daddy,” Rajee said, soothing him. “You are all right.”
Daddy snorted with contempt. “Feel this,” he said, guiding Rajee’s hand to his heart.
“You are all right,” Rajee repeated.
Daddy made another contemptuous sound and pushed Rajee’s hand away. “You would have made a fine doctor. And who is going to look after her when you go? What will she do all alone for seven years?”
“He is not going, Daddy,” I said, spacing my words very distinctly. I didn’t like it, that he should still be thinking about that.
“Not going where?” Rajee asked.
That made Daddy so angry that he became quite energetic. He stopped lolling in Rajee’s arms and began to abuse him, calling him the same sort of names I had called him earlier. And Rajee listened to him as he had listened to me, respectfully, with his head lowered.
I tried to bear it quietly for a while but couldn’t. Then I interrupted Daddy. I said, “It is not like that at all.”
“No?” he said. “To go to jail is not like that? Perhaps it’s a nice thing. Perhaps we should say, ‘Well done, Son. Bravo.’”
“He wasn’t in jail,” I said. “It was more like a hotel. And he met some very fine people there. You don’t understand anything about these things, Daddy, so it’s better not to talk.”
Daddy was quiet. I didn’t look at him, I was too annoyed with him. He had no right to meddle in things he didn’t know about; he was old now, and should just eat and sleep.
“Lie down,” I told him. “Go to sleep.”
“All right,” Daddy said in a meek voice.
But in fact he couldn’t lie down, because Rajee had dropped off to sleep on the sofa. He was sitting up, but his head had dropped to his chest and his eyes were shut. Naturally, after two sleepless nights, I couldn’t disturb him, so I told Daddy he had better go and sleep in our bedroom. Daddy said all right again, in the same meek voice. He carried his pillow under his arm and went away.
I lifted Rajee’s legs onto the sofa and arranged his head. He didn’t wake up. I looked at him sleeping. I thought that even if he had to go away for a while he would be coming back to me. And even if it were for a longer time there are always remissions for good conduct and other concessions, and meanwhile visits are allowed and I could take him things and also receive letters from him. So even if it is for longer, I shall wait and not do anything to myself. I would never do anything to myself now, never. I wouldn’t think of it.
I did try it once. I got the idea from two people. One of them was Rajee. It was the time when Sudha’s marriage was being arranged, and he came daily to our house and cried and said he could not bear it and would kill himself. I think he felt better with being able to talk to me, but after I told him my feelings for him he didn’t come so often anymore, and after a time he stopped coming altogether. Then I began to remember all he had said about what was the use of living. It so happened that just at this time there was a girl in the neighborhood who committed suicide—not for love but because of cruel treatment from her in-laws. She did it in the usual way, by pouring kerosene over her clothes and setting herself on fire. It is a crude method and perhaps not suitable for a college girl like me, but it was the only way I could think of and also the easiest and cheapest, so I decided on it.
Only that day, when everything was ready, Daddy came home early and found me. Although he never wanted me to get married, he saw then that there was no other way and he sent for Rajee. When Daddy saw that Rajee was reluctant to get married to me, he did a strange thing—the sort of thing he has never, never in his whole life done to anyone. He got down on the floor and touched Rajee’s feet and begged him to marry me. Rajee, who is always very respectful to elders, was shocked, and he bent down to raise him and cried, “Daddy, what are you doing!” As soon as I heard him say Daddy, I knew it would be all right. I mean, he wouldn’t call him Daddy, would he, unless he was going to be his son-in-law?
IN THE MOUNTAINS
When one lives alone for most of the time and meets almost nobody, then care for one’s outward appearance tends to drop away. That was what happened to Pritam. As the years went by and she continued living by herself, her appearance became rougher and shabbier, and though she was still in her thirties, she completely forgot to care for herself or think about herself as a physical person.
Her mother was just the opposite. She was plump and pampered, loved pastries and silk saris, and always smelled of lavender. Pritam smelled of—what was it? Her mother, enfolded in Pritam’s embrace after a separation of many months, found herself sniffing in an attempt to identify the odor emanating from her. Perhaps it was from Pritam’s clothes, which she probably did not change as frequently as was desirable. Tears came to the mother’s eyes. They were partly for what her daughter had become and partly for the happiness of being with her again.
Pritam thumped her on the back. Her mother always cried at their meetings and at their partings. Pritam usually could not help being touched by these tears, even though she was aware of the mixed causes that evoked them. Now, to hide her own feelings, she became gruffer and more manly, and even gave the old lady a push toward a chair. “Go on, sit down,” she said. “I suppose you are dying for your cup of tea.” She had it all ready, and the mother took it gratefully, for she loved and needed tea, and the journey up from the plains had greatly tired her.
But she could not drink with enjoyment. Pritam’s tea was always too strong for her—a black country brew such as peasants drink, and the milk was also that of peasants, too newly rich and warm from the buffalo. And they were in this rough and barely furnished room in the rough stone house perched on the mountainside. And there was Pritam herself. The mother had to concentrate all her energies on struggling against more tears.
“I suppose you don’t like the tea,” Pritam said challengingly. She watched severely while the mother proved herself by drinking it up to the last drop, and Pritam refilled the cup. She asked, “How is everybody? Same as usual? Eating, making money?”
“No, no,” said the mother, not so much denying the fact that this was what the family was doing as protesting against Pritam’s saying so.
“Aren’t they going up to Simla this year?”
“On Thursday,” the mother said, and shifted uncomfortably.
“And stopping here?”
“Yes. For lunch.”
The mother kept her eyes lowered. She said nothing more, though there was more to say. It would have to wait till a better hour. Let Pritam first get over the prospect of entertaining members of her family for a few hours on Thursday. It was nothing new or unexpected, for some of them stopped by every year on their way farther up the mountains. However much they may have desired to do so, they couldn’t just drive past; it wouldn’t be decent. But the prospect of meeting held no pleasure for anyone. Quite often there was a quarrel, and then Pritam cursed them as they drove away, and they sighed at the necessity of keeping up family relationship
s, instead of having their lunch comfortably in the hotel a few miles farther on.
Pritam said, “I suppose you will be going with them,” and went on at once, “Naturally, why should you stay? What is there for you here?”
“I want to stay.”
“No, you love to be in Simla. It’s so nice and jolly, and meeting everyone walking on the Mall, and tea in Davico’s. Nothing like that here. You even hate my tea.”
“I want to stay with you.”
“But I don’t want you!” Pritam was laughing, not angry. “You will be in my way, and then how will I carry on all my big love affairs?”
“What, what?”
Pritam clapped her hands in delight. “Oh no. I’m telling you nothing, because then you will want to stay and you will scare everyone away.” She gave her mother a sly look and added, “You will scare poor Doctor Sahib away.”
“Oh, Doctor Sahib,” said the old lady, relieved to find it had all been a joke. But she continued with disapproval, “Does he still come here?”
“Well, what do you think?” Pritam stopped laughing now and became offended. “If he doesn’t come, then who will come? Except some goats and monkeys, perhaps. I know he is not good enough for you. You don’t like him to come here. You would prefer me to know only goats and monkeys. And the family, of course.”
“When did I say I don’t like him?” the mother said.
“People don’t have to say. And other people are quite capable of feeling without anyone saying. Here.” Pritam snatched up her mother’s cup and filled it, with rather a vengeful air, for the third time.
Actually, it wasn’t true that the mother disliked Doctor Sahib. He came to visit the next morning, and as soon as she saw him she had her usual sentiment about him—not dislike but disapproval. He certainly did not look like a person fit to be on terms of social intercourse with any member of her family. He was a tiny man, shabby and even dirty. He wore a kind of suit, but it was in a terrible condition and so were his shoes. One eye of his spectacles, for some reason, was blacked out with a piece of cardboard.
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