by Rumer Godden
Now that there was a ray of hope, Edward, paradoxically, had an instinct to draw back, as if he heard an echo of Alix’s word ‘damage’. ‘Yet I have to find them.’ That beat steadily in his tired brain. ‘I have to. I must. It is the only sane thing to do,’ and, ‘If your son is there,’ he asked, ‘How should I deal with him?’
‘You must intimidate him.’ She was fierce. ‘Ravi can be intimidated, especially if anything threatens his work, but what to do with him, you must decide.’
‘Most mothers would plead.’
‘How can I plead? There is your daughter. You are right to be outraged with us. What you choose to do with Ravi you must do.’
Edward’s eyelids were coated with dust, red with soreness and tiredness. Now they were suddenly wet.
‘I cannot plead,’ said Srimati Bhattacharya. ‘I can only trust.’
‘Where are you going?’ said Edward to Ravi in the alleyway.
‘To report back for duty, sir,’ which was true.
‘In Shiraz Road?’
‘Where else?’ Ravi was trying to bluster it out. ‘I have been on leave of absence to perform the obsequies of my uncle.’ He was talking as stiltedly as his own father and the bluster withered under the sternness of Edward’s look.
‘This is your grandmother’s house?’ Edward could see it was built on the bank above the river, a tall house faced with pink stucco, the rooms overlooking the alley close-shuttered. Through the narrow door he could glimpse a walled garden, smell jasmine. ‘Your grandmother, Srimati Roy?’
‘She is not at home.’
‘I think she is. You will take my card to her.’
‘I am not your servant.’
‘You have just said you were.’
‘She does not receive strangers.’
‘She received one yesterday. Come, boy. Be sensible,’ said Edward.
‘You must not lose your temper,’ the Inspector General had cautioned him.
‘It won’t be easy. I should like to strangle him,’ said Edward.
‘Understandably, but you must think how you are placed – and the Bhattacharyas, too, are not without influence. The minister begged me not to cause embarrassment. Be cool,’and, with an effort, Edward only repeated, ‘Be sensible. You know I have come for Una.’
‘Una? What Una?’ But, before Ravi could make another futile attempt, ‘This is Colonel Jaiswal,’ said Edward. ‘Inspector General and Chief of Police.’
‘Inspector General … Chief …’ Ravi’s gasp could have filled the alley. He had dreaded a policeman but now the power of Edward’s position dawned on him – the Inspector General himself – and, in panic, ‘It is Hem Sharma who has given us away,’ shouted Ravi.
‘No dramatics, Bhattacharya.’ Colonel Jaiswal was brisk. ‘Neither I, nor my men, could get one word from Sharma. You gave yourselves away. Now take Sir Edward’s card in to Srimati Roy. Then you will talk to me,’ but Ravi’s nerve had snapped; he dodged back into the house and would have slammed and bolted the door but for the policeman’s quickness in putting his boot in the gap; they heard Ravi run up a stone staircase and his frantic cry of ‘Naniji! Naniji! Naniji!’
Eleven
‘You are sooner than I expected,’ said Srimati Roy.
‘You expected us.’
‘Were you not bound to come – though it might have been later.’
‘Srimati Roy, is my daughter here?’
‘She is here.’
‘You did not turn her away?’
‘That would not have been kind.’
‘Your son-in-law would have called her a pollution.’
‘Pollution – a young girl? You must forgive my English; until last night I have not spoken it for twenty years. Please sit down. You must take some refreshment. Ravi, order them to bring salt lussee – that will be cooling – lussee and fruits. Ravi beta.’ The last was said warningly. Ravi was kneeling by the daybed on which Srimati Roy was sitting as her son-in-law had sat, cross-legged but infinitely more upright. The rest of the big room was bare except for a painted chest and the low stools on which Edward and the Inspector General were sitting; by the sunlit water reflections on the walls, the room overhung the river. ‘Ravi!’ Unwillingly, Ravi rose.
‘I will go with him,’ said Colonel Jaiswal.
‘You will not let him out of your sight.’ She nodded in acceptance or approval – Edward did not know which – and in a few minutes they came back with a grey-bearded servant who brought the cool curd drink served in silver tumblers with a plate of orange segments, bowls of nuts and fresh shredded coconut; it was, as Srimati Roy had said, refreshing; she did not eat, but sat talking about everyday things until her guests had finished, when the policeman beckoned Ravi away, leaving her and Edward alone.
Edward had expected more aloofness – ‘Srimati Roy is an extremely holy woman,’ Colonel Jaiswal had said. ‘She lives in strict asceticism and spends most of her days and nights in meditation; probably she repeats the name of God a thousand times a day,’ – but the only sign Edward saw was that it seemed all her personal pride had ceased. Remembering Sri Bhattacharya’s snub, he had insisted that they should stop at some hotel to wash and change their shirts; now Edward saw he need not have bothered. Srimati Roy would not notice such things.
Like her daughter, she was a tall woman, which accentuated her thinness; she was emaciated to gauntness. Edward was sure that did not concern her in the least. ‘What does it matter?’ Srimati Roy would have said. Her sari, of white muslin, was limp, almost revealing her shrunken breasts, and the veil had slipped from her hair which was cropped to a rough whiteness. She wore no jewellery but Edward could see ring marks in her nose and ears; once, he guessed, the jewellery was of quality, certainly gold; now there were only the empty holes, from choice, he knew. As with Srimati Bhattacharya, he had the feeling of immense capability but here was more; the eyes, made bigger in the gauntness of the face, looked steadily beyond him, not to ignore him as her son-in-law had but, while recognizing him and his errand, fitting him into some infinite pattern far beyond this room and its reflections, even beyond the sacred river. Edward’s urgent importances seemed to dwindle into perspective because this was not a willed peace, a shutting away, but peace itself, steady, kind, unruffled.
A police officer in uniform had come for Srimati Roy’s loved grandson; a stranger broken her seclusion on a grave charge yet she was not disconcerted; in fact, she smiled absently on Edward. ‘Yes, I was expecting you. In your position, naturally there would be great hue and cry – not great in public sensation, we hope, great intelligence. How could you not find them out?’
‘If I had not come, would you have sent for me?’ asked Edward.
‘I think not. Better, I think, to let things take their course.’
‘Even when a young, young girl has been abducted?’ Edward was still obstinate. ‘Where is Una?’
‘The little one is asleep. She is severely overtired and I think has some heatstroke and, I suspect, a little dysentery.’
‘Heatstroke – dysentery.’ Edward reared up.
‘Yes.’ Srimati Roy remained tranquil. ‘It seems Ravi gave her crushed sugar-cane juice, bought at some station; it is seldom clean.’
‘You have called a doctor?’
‘I have treated her,’ Srimati Roy said with dignity. ‘You can trust me. I should so have treated my own daughter.’
‘Which is more than your son-in-law would have done.’ The morning still rankled.
‘Indira, my daughter, is there. Indira would have seen to it,’ and Srimati Roy said serenely, ‘The attacks have passed so could you not let Una sleep? Now you have found her, what is the hurry?’
That nettled Edward. ‘The hurry is that a scandal might blow up in Delhi.’
‘Or be blown up.’
‘Exactly. Also I have work to do that some people might think important.’ Which made Srimati Roy smile again, but gently.
‘Speaking of scandal,’ she said, ‘you must, I
think, give up the thought of abduction. You have a phrase in law, Sir Edward, “the innocent party”; “party” is good, we are all made of parts, unfortunately often contradictory.’ She sighed. ‘Here there is no innocent party. Either both my grandson and your daughter are innocent or both are guilty – if you call it that.’
‘What do you call it?’
‘Normal.’ Her voice was sing-song but as mellifluous as it was calm. ‘I am well aware that I am harbouring what is supposed to be a crime. You may have surrounded my house with police. If they search, what will they find? A young man and woman in love. Is that not normal?’
‘The circumstances are not.’
‘Ah! The circumstances.’ She dismissed them as if, thought Edward, they were a flick.
‘You see no objections?’
‘Perhaps a hundred. They do not alter facts.’
‘The fact is, she is under age, and they have run away.’
‘From what did they run, Sir Edward? From fear of their families. Fear is an ugly thing and should not be in a family, but my son-in-law, Ravi’s father, lives by “littles”, as I think you, Sir Edward, do, though perhaps not consciously; divisions, separations: Indian–English, caste–class, old–young. You make such trouble for yourselves, such tamasha, brou-ha-ha – that is a word I thought I had forgotten. Well,’ she sighed again. ‘With such ideas why did you not safeguard her?’
‘I thought I had,’ and Edward was filled with a desire to pour out to this woman of calm his sorry tale. But Hindus don’t tell their sins, he thought. ‘They wash them away in the river.’
He must have said it aloud because Srimati Roy spoke. ‘It is a coincidence you said that. As soon as she saw the river from our alleyway, your little daughter did not wait, she went in to bathe herself, before ever she came to the house. Ravi said she ran there. I asked her why; her answer was simple. She said, “To wash away the dirt.” She said more than she knew. Aie! Why make dirt, Sir Edward?’
‘Don’t!’ Edward’s cry was sharp. ‘Srimati Roy, you are right. This is all my fault. These last twenty-four hours have opened my eyes – painfully.’
‘What pity it all is! She would have made a good wife for Ravi, but there is one valid objection. He is still a student for all his age. Aie! Ravi rajah! He is as irresponsible as one of your cuckoos.’
‘Your daughter told me to intimidate him.’
She smiled. ‘Indira is still fierce.’
‘What would you have me do with him?’ asked Edward.
‘I am not concerned.’
‘He is your grandson.’
‘Still I am not concerned.’
‘Yet you call him Ravi beta, Ravi rajah.’
‘Old habit.’ But he had touched her. ‘If possible, Sir Edward, and you can make it possible, let him compete in this festival and read his poems. If he appears – and this Lady Srinevesan they talk of will, I am sure, help you – all scandal, if there is scandal, will be hushed, especially if you are there. If Ravi wins, he will gain esteem, most importantly from his father, put an end to their grieving and Ravi could go home.’
‘Sri Bhattacharya says he will not have him back.’
She smiled again. ‘He will,’ and she gave him the little nod of dismissal which in Indian society means the end of an interview.
Edward rose. ‘I will go and see how Jaiswal and Ravi are getting on.’
‘With the intimidation?’ But she was still unruffled. ‘Do that. Then my servant will take you to your Una.’
‘Go away,’ said Una.
Edward had scarcely recognized her; it was not only that she was wearing a sari, that her skin seemed transparent by contrast with the black hair, dyed lashes and brows, that she had grown even thinner – she was ‘changed’, thought Edward, as if his Una had gone and this changeling come in her place. He had found her asleep, lying on a sleeping mat, laid on other reed mats to give softness; a small clean white pillow was under her head, the floor around her strewn with neem leaves which, Edward knew, are cooling and refreshing. Beside her was a brass tray with a covered jug and tumbler; khus-khus-woven-grass mats had been hung across the balcony to dim the room; they had been freshly sprayed with water and the river breeze blew through them; Edward could hear the lapping of the river far below. No one, he saw, could have better care, yet she looked so small and white lying in the big room that, more strongly than ever, he felt the pang, the tug at his heart Una so often gave him. ‘Una,’ he had called with utmost gentleness, but she must have been tense; she started in her sleep, sat up alarmed and, when she recognized him, it was with horror. ‘Go away.’
‘Una, I have come to fetch you. Dear, I am not cross …’
‘But I am. I am – furious. I said “Please don’t try to find us”.’
‘I had to. Do you think I could let an Indian – or anyone – do this to you?’
‘He didn’t do it. We did it. Oh, Dads, go away.’
‘My dear, I can’t.’
‘Why?’ she demanded passionately. ‘Why can’t you? I helped you get what you wanted – Alix.’ She did not notice Edward’s wince. ‘Then why won’t you help me to have Ravi?’
‘It isn’t as simple as that.’
‘It could be.’
‘Dear, it’s impossible.’
‘It can’t be impossible. It has happened. We are married.’
‘You are not.’
‘As much married as you and Alix. More – we are first lovers.’
‘I know, and I know how it hurts, but it can’t go on.’
‘Why? Why? Why?’
‘For one thing you are too young.’
‘Not now.’
‘Too young,’ repeated Edward, ‘and you come from worlds apart.’
‘In our world there are only two of us – us two, together.’
‘No world can be like that, and his parents would never consent, nor would I.’
‘We don’t need parents.’
‘But you need their consent.’
‘Why?’
‘Because without it you cannot stay together. That is the law. Una, be reasonable.’
‘Ravi is my reason.’
‘Ravi could be charged and sent to prison, perhaps for seven years.’
‘He is still my reason.’
‘You cannot see mine just now.’ Edward’s voice was filled with pity. ‘One day you will.’
‘No.’ That rang out as she sprang up from her mat. ‘I will never see.’
‘Ravi has.’
She was still. ‘What did you say?’
‘Ravi has seen sense. He has agreed to be put under surveillance by Colonel Jaiswal. the Chief of Police, who has come here with me. If Ravi stays under that surveillance, he will be allowed to compete for this Tagore award. Then he is going home to his father and mother.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘And he has promised not to see you again.’
‘Not see me again? Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Not ridiculous, but wise.’
‘Ravi would never consent to that.’
‘He has.’
‘I don’t believe it. I shall never believe it.’
‘Not if I bring him in front of you and you can hear him say it?’
‘He wouldn’t … if we were alone.’
‘You shall be alone.’
‘With you listening? He would know you were listening, you and your police, ready to pounce on him.’
‘No one will listen. Ravi will tell you himself.’
‘Ravi!’ Una was ready to run to him but the way he stood, as if unwillingly, and just inside the door, his face sullen, arrested her. ‘Ravi?’ she whispered uncertainly.
‘Why did you have to send for me?’ said Ravi. ‘Couldn’t you take it from him?’
‘What – what have they done to you?’ It was still a whisper.
‘Una, you don’t understand. If I don’t do as they advise, this could send me to prison.’ Ravi’s eyes were wide with fear.
‘Then you must go to prison.’
‘For ten years!’
‘Edward said seven. I will be waiting for you when you come out,’ but Ravi did not seem touched by this promise.
‘What of my work?’
‘Poets write good poems in prison. Think of Oscar Wilde.’
‘Wilde was not a good poet, besides, in ten years—’
‘Seven.’
‘Even seven, we shall not be the same.’
‘I shall always be the same,’ but Ravi shook his head.
‘You think so now.’
‘Think! I know. Oh Ravi, Ravi – what have they done to you?’ and Una did run to him. ‘Ravi, hold me. Tell me this is a bad dream. Isn’t it? Isn’t it?’ But Ravi did not hold her. He shuffled uneasily under her clinging.
‘The fact is, Una, we have to give in. They are too strong for us.’
‘Not if we go now. It was silly to come to Naniji, to your grandmother, near anyone who knows you. This room has a back staircase – I saw it when I went to the bathroom; it goes down to the garden where there is a gate to the river. Before you could count twenty, we should be among the pilgrims; you can hear them bathing now. There are thousands of them. How could anyone ever find us?’ She was pulling on her chappals. ‘I have a hundred-rupee note; I hid it in my bundle.’ She snatched the bundle up. ‘If we are quick …’ She stopped. Ravi was still standing motionless by the door where he had come in. ‘You – are not coming?’
‘I can’t.’
‘You don’t want to come?’ Slowly she put down the bundle.
‘Want – not want – that is not the question. The fact is …’ When had Ravi spoken of facts? ‘The fact is I want to read my poems. I see now that is of paramount importance.’
‘Paramount?’ She said it as if it were an outlandish word.
‘Yes. You yourself have told me so a dozen of times.’
‘That was – then.’
‘It still holds, and haven’t I,’ Ravi asked indignantly, ‘paid penalty enough?’
‘Penalty?’ Stupefied, all Una could do was repeat these high-sounding words.