Heat and Dust

by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala

  At this point the watchman came out of his hut where he seemed to have been cooking himself a tasty meal. He said it was forbidden to stay on the verandah. The young Englishman gave a menacing laugh and said “Try and get us out then.” Though somewhat worn with sickness, he was a big young man, so the watchman stood sunk in thought. After a while he said it would cost them five rupees to camp on the verandah, including drinking water from the well. The Englishman pointed to the locked doors and said “Open”. The watchman retreated to get on with his cooking and perhaps ponder his next step.

  The young man told me that he and his girl friend had become very interested in the Hindu religion after attending a lecture by a visiting swami in London. It had been on Universal Love. The swami, in a soft caressing voice very suitable to the subject, told them that Universal Love was an ocean of sweetness that lapped around all humanity and enfolded them in tides of honey. He had melting eyes and a smile of joy. The atmosphere was also very beautiful, with jasmine, incense, and banana leaves; the swami’s discourse was accompanied by two of his disciples, one of whom softly played a flute while the other, even more softly, beat two tiny cymbals together. All the disciples were ranged around the swami on the platform. They were mostly Europeans and wore saffron robes and had very pure expressions on their faces as if cleansed of all sin and desire. Afterwards they had sung hymns in Hindi which were also about the flowing ocean of love. The young man and his girl had come away from this meeting with such exalted feelings that they could not speak for a long time; but when they could, they agreed that, in order to find the spiritual enrichment they desired, they must set off for India without delay.

  The ascetic said he too had come for a spiritual purpose. In his case, the original attraction had come through the Hindu scriptures, and when he arrived in India, he had not been disappointed. It seemed to him that the spirit of these scriptures was still manifest in the great temples of the South. For months he had lived there, like an Indian pilgrim, purifying himself and often so rapt in contemplation that the world around him had faded away completely. He too developed dysentery and ringworm but was not bothered by them because of living on such a high plane; similarly, he was not bothered by the disappearance of his few possessions from the temple compound where he lived. He found a guru to give him initiation and to strip him of all personal characteristics and the rest of his possessions including his name. He was given a new Indian name, Chidananda (his two companions called him Chid). From now on he was to have nothing except his beads and the begging bowl in which he had to collect his daily food from charitable people. In practice, however, he found this did not work too well, and he had often to write home for money to be sent by telegraphic order. On the instruction of his guru, he had set off on a pilgrimage right across India with the holy cave of Amarnath as his ultimate goal. He had already been wandering for many months. His chief affliction was people running after and jeering at him; the children were especially troublesome and often threw stones and other missiles. He found it impossible to live simply under trees as instructed by his guru but had to seek shelter at night in cheap hotel rooms where he had to bargain quite hard in order to be quoted a reasonable price.

  The watchman returned, holding up three fingers to signify that the charge for staying on the verandah had now been reduced to three rupees. The Englishman again pointed at the locked doors. But negotiations had begun, and now it was not long before the watchman fetched his keys. Actually, it turned out to be more pleasant on the verandah. It was musty and dark inside the bungalow; the place smelled dead. In fact, we did find a dead squirrel on the floor of what must have been a dining room (there was still a sideboard with mirrors and a portrait of George V inset). It was a gloomy, brooding house and could never have been anything else. From the back verandah there was a view of the Christian graveyard: and I saw rearing above all the other graves the marble angel that the Saunders had ordered from Italy as a monument over their baby’s grave. Suddenly it struck me that this dark house must have been the one in which Dr. Saunders, the Medical Superintendent, had lived. I had not realised that Mrs. Saunders had been able to look out at her baby’s grave right from her own back verandah.

  Of course at that time the marble angel had been new and intact – shining white with wings outspread and holding a marble baby in its arms. Now it is a headless, wingless torso with a baby that has lost its nose and one foot. All the graves are in very bad condition – weed-choked, and stripped of whatever marble and railings could be removed. It is strange how, once graves are broken and overgrown in this way, then the people in them are truly dead. The Indian Christian graves at the front of the cemetery, which are still kept up by relatives, seem by contrast strangely alive, contemporary.

  1923

  Olivia had always been strongly affected by graveyards. In England too she had liked to wander through them, reading the inscriptions and even sitting on a grave stone under a weeping willow and letting her imagination roam. The graveyard at Satipur was especially evocative. Although Satipur had always been a small station for the British, quite a few of them had died there over the years; and bodies were also brought in from other districts with no Christian cemetery of their own. Most of the graves were of infants and children, but there were also several dating from the Mutiny when a gallant band of British officers had died defending their women and children. The newest grave was that of the Saunders’ baby, and the Italian angel was the newest, brightest monument.

  The first time Olivia saw this baby’s grave, it had a powerful effect on her. That evening Douglas found her lying face down across their bed; she had not allowed the servants to come in and open the shutters, so the room was all closed in and stifling and Olivia herself bathed in tears and perspiration.

  “Oh Douglas,” she said, “what if we have a baby?”; and then she cried: “Yes and what if it should die!”

  It took him a long time to soothe her. He had to forget his files for that one evening and devote himself entirely to her. He said everything he could think of. He told her that nowadays babies did not die so often. He himself had been born in India, and his mother had had two other children here and all of them had thrived. It was true, in the old days a lot of children did die – his great-grandmother had lost five of her nine children; but that had been a long time ago.

  “What about Mrs. Saunders’ baby?”

  “That could have happened anywhere, darling. She had – complications – or something –”

  “I’ll have complications. I’ll die. The baby and I both.” When he tried to protest, she insisted: “No, if we stay here, we’ll die. I know it. You’ll see.” When she saw the expression on his face, she made an effort to pull herself together. She even tried to smile. She put up her hand to stroke his cheek: “But you want to stay.”

  He said eagerly “It’s just that it’s all new to you. It’s easy for the rest of us because we all know what to expect. But you don’t, my poor darling.” He kissed her as she lay there resting against his chest. “You know, I’d been talking about this very thing with Beth Crawford. (No, darling, you mustn’t think that way about Beth, she’s a good sort). She knew before you came how difficult it would be for you. And you know what she said after you came? She said she was sure that someone as sensitive and intelligent as you are – you see she does appreciate you, darling – that you would surely be . . . all right here. That you – well, this is what she said – that you’d come to feel about India the way we all do. Olivia? Are you asleep, darling?”

  She wasn’t really but she liked lying against his chest, both of them shrouded within their white mosquito net. The moon had risen from behind the peach tree and its light came pouring in through the open windows. When Douglas thought she was asleep, he hugged her tighter and could hardly stifle a small cry – as if it were too much happiness for him to have her there in his arms, flooded and shining in Indian moonlight.

  Next day Olivia went to visit Mrs. Saunders. She took f
lowers, fruit, and a heart full of tender pity for her. But although Olivia’s feelings towards Mrs. Saunders had changed, Mrs. Saunders herself had not. She was still the same unattractive woman lying in bed in a bleak, gloomy house. Olivia, always susceptible to atmosphere, had to struggle against a feeling of distaste. She did so hate a slovenly house, and Mrs. Saunders’ house was very slovenly; so were her servants. No one bothered to put Olivia’s pretty flowers in a vase – perhaps there was no vase? There wasn’t much of anything, just a few pieces of ugly furniture and even those were dusty.

  Olivia sat by Mrs. Saunders’ bedside and listened to her tell about her illness which was something to do with her womb. It had never got right after the baby’s death – this was the only mention of the baby’s death, for the rest it was all about the bad after-effects on Mrs. Saunders’ health. While she talked, Olivia had the unworthy thought that the Saunders really were not – were not – well, no one ever said this outright but they were just not the sort of people usually found in the Indian services. Olivia was by no means a snob but she was aesthetic and the details Mrs. Saunders gave about her illness were not; also Mrs. Saunders’ accent – how could one help noticing with her droning on and on? – was not that of a too highly educated person. . . .

  I’m base, base, Olivia scolded herself – but at that moment she had a shock for Mrs. Saunders gave a loud shout: turning round, Olivia saw that one of the slovenly servants had come in, wearing slovenly shoes. It was these latter that had upset his mistress – and of course it was a mark of disrespect for a servant to enter a room with shoes on, Douglas would never have allowed it to happen in their house. But Olivia was amazed and frightened by the strength of Mrs. Saunders’ reaction. She had sat up in bed and was shouting like a madwoman. She called the servant a dirty name too. The servant was frightened and ran away. Mrs. Saunders sank her head down on her pillow in exhaustion, but her outburst was not over yet. She seemed to feel the need to express or perhaps justify herself; she may have been ashamed of the dirty word that had escaped her. She said that these servants really were devils and that they could drive anyone crazy; that it was not stupidity on their part – on the contrary, they were clever enough when it suited their purposes – but it was all done deliberately to torment their masters. She gave examples of their thieving, drinking, and other bad habits. She told Olivia about the filth in which they lived inside their quarters – but of course what could one expect, everything was like that, everywhere the same – the whole town, the lanes and bazaars, and had Olivia ever looked inside one of their heathen temples? Mrs. Saunders groaned and she covered her face with her hands and then Olivia saw that tears came oozing through her fingers and her chest inside her nightgown was heaving with heavy sobs. She brought out “I’ve asked him – over and over – I’ve said: Willie, let’s go.”

  Olivia stroked Mrs. Saunders’ pillow and now her tears were flowing too, in pity for someone so unhappy.

  What a relief, after that, to be with bright, brisk Beth Crawford! She had come to invite Olivia to accompany her to Khatm, to pay a call on the Nawab’s mother. Olivia loved visiting the Palace again, even though this time they were ushered straight into the ladies’ quarters. These were also very elegant, though more in Indian style with floor-level divans covered in rich textures, and little mirrors in enamelled frames. Three good European chairs had been arranged in the centre: these were for Mrs. Crawford and Olivia, and for the Begum herself. There were some other, mostly elderly ladies and they reclined on the divans spread on the floor. The younger ladies floated around in diaphanous silks and served sherbet and other refreshments from a succession of trays carried in by servants.

  Olivia could do nothing but sit perched up on her chair. Conversation was impossible since she did not know a word of the language. The Begum did try to speak a few words of English to her – only at once to laugh at herself for pronouncing them so badly. She was a woman in her fifties who would have been handsome except for a large wart on her cheek. She was chain-smoking cigarettes out of a holder. She had a very relaxed manner and made no secret of the fact that sitting on a chair was uncomfortable for her. She kept shifting around, tucking now one leg under her and now the other. Olivia, who loved lounging, would also have preferred to recline on the floor but probably it would not have been etiquette.

  Mrs. Crawford sat bolt upright on her chair, her stockinged knees pressed together and her hands in white gloves folded on the handbag in her lap. She was the dominant figure in the room on whom the success of the visit depended. And she did not shirk her responsibility. She spoke Urdu (the language of the Palace) if not well at any rate with confidence, and was prepared to give the ladies whatever conversation she thought they might like to hear. Evidently she had come prepared with a variety of topics, for she passed easily from one to the other as interest appeared to wax or wane. The Begum on her chair and the ladies on the floor appeared pleased, and often they laughed out loud and clapped their hands together. Everyone played their part well – the Palace ladies as well as Mrs. Crawford – and gave evidence of having frequently played it before. Only Olivia, the newcomer, could not participate; in any case, her attention was quite a lot on the door, wondering whether the Nawab was going to come in and join them. But this did not happen. At exactly the right moment Mrs. Crawford got up, whereat the ladies exclaimed to the right pitch of disappointment; after some protests, they gracefully gave in and accompanied their guests the correct distance to the door. Olivia whispered “Do we have to call on the Nawab too?” but Mrs. Crawford said firmly “That will not be necessary at all.” She strode ahead with the step of one who has fulfilled a duty well, while Olivia, trailing behind her, looked right and left – probably to admire the Nawab’s flowers which were indeed splendid.

  After this visit, they drove to the Minnies’ house just outside Khatm. Mrs. Minnies was sitting at her easel but jumped up at once to greet them. She dismissed her model – a patient old peasant – and taking off her artist’s smock, tossed it aside with a girlish gesture. Mrs. Crawford too, now that she was with her friend, became rather girlish. She comically rolled her eyes up as she recounted where they had been, and Mrs. Minnies said “Oh you are good, Beth.” “It wasn’t too bad,” Mrs. Crawford said brightly, and she turned to Olivia: “was it?” not wanting her to feel left out.

  But Olivia did feel left out – just as much as she had done in the Palace. Mrs. Crawford and Mrs. Minnies were such good friends. They had both been in India for years and were cheerful and undaunted. Probably they would have preferred to put their feet up and have a cosy chat of their own, but instead they devoted their attention to Olivia. They had a lot of good advice to give her – about putting up her khas tatti screens for the hot weather, and how to instruct the ayah to wash her crêpe-de-chine blouses (which must under no circumstances be given to the dhobi). Olivia tried to be interested but she wasn’t, and at the first possible opportunity she asked a question of her own. She said “Isn’t the Nawab married?”

  This brought a pause. The two other ladies did not exchange glances and Olivia felt they didn’t have to because of being united in thought. Finally Mrs. Crawford replied “Yes he is but his wife doesn’t live with him.” She spoke in a direct way, like one who doesn’t want to gloss over anything. “She is not very well,” she added, “mentally.”

  “Oh, Beth, guess what!” Mrs. Minnies suddenly exclaimed. “I’ve heard from Simla, and Honeysuckle Cottage is available again this year, isn’t that splendid . . . Does Olivia have Simla plans?”

  Mrs. Crawford answered for her: “Douglas has been asking about our arrangements.”

  “Well there’s always a corner for her at Honeysuckle Cottage. Especially now that it looks as if Arthur may not be able –”

  “Mary-no!”

  “We’re still hoping but I’m afraid it doesn’t look too good. But I’m certainly going,” she said. “I’ve never really done the view from Prospect Hill and this year I simply must. Whatever t
he Nawab might be up to.”

  “The Nawab?” Olivia asked.

  After a pause Mrs. Minnies told Mrs. Crawford “There have been new developments. It now looks as if he really is involved.”

  “With the dacoits? Mary, how awful. And just at this time.”

  “Can’t be helped,” said Mrs. Minnies with practised cheerfulness. “I suppose we’re used to it by now. Or ought to be. Three years ago it was the same. Our Friend always seems to choose this particular time, when Arthur’s leave is due. It’s become quite a habit with him.”

  Olivia asked “What happened three years ago?”

  After a silence Mrs. Crawford replied – not willingly but as if conceding Olivia’s right to know: “That’s when there was all the fuss over his marriage breaking up.” She sighed; obviously the subject was distasteful to her. “Mary really knows more about it than I do.”

  “Not that much more,” Mrs. Minnies said. “It’s always difficult to know what is going on . . .” She too was reluctant to say more, but she too seemed to feel that Olivia had a right to information: “Poor Arthur got rather involved, along with Colonel Morris who is his opposite number at Cabobpur, the state belonging to Sandy’s family. Sandy is the Nawab’s wife. She’s always called that though her real name is Zahira.”