‘What did you say?’ asked Bessie.
‘Nothing,’ I said hastily.
Ajit wrote to me every day and I to him. At his request, I sent my letters direct to Shahpur, in care of the Company for whom he was to work. He wanted to choose his own time for breaking his news to his parents, and frequent letters from England would have shown that he had some attachment there. A part of me which was cold and cynical wondered sometimes if he would tell his parents and if I would ever get to India. I went on with my preparations for the voyage, however, and booked a passage in a slow, Indian ship, as P. & O. liners were booked up for months to come.
One evening on the way to the club, I had paused to look at a window full of spring suits when a voice behind me said: ‘Good evening, Mrs Singh.’
It was a second before it penetrated that I was Mrs Singh. The only time I had seen my married name used was on letters addressed to me – in the club I was still Miss Delaney, and my friends used my Christian name.
I whirled about.
Dr Wu bowed to me and asked how I was. I said I was very well. He looked heavy-eyed, but his teeth gleamed in a cheerful smile.
He thanked me for my letter. I said I was truly sorry to hear of his bad news.
He dismissed it with a little wave of one hand. ‘It is life,’ he said, the sadness of his voice belying the airy gesture of his hand. ‘If you are going to the club, may I accompany you?’
I nodded agreement and we walked slowly along the busy pavement. I told him that I was off duty and had decided to spend an hour in the lounge and have some coffee.
‘Have you had dinner yet, Mrs Singh?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Let us dine together. I know a good restaurant.’
I accepted. I longed for sympathetic companionship to ease the worries which consumed me about Ajit.
He took me to a small, clean, Chinese restaurant. I asked him to order, and, after speaking in Chinese to the proprietor, he gave the order. It was early for dining and the bare room was quiet, the lighting subdued. Two Chinese in a far corner were the only customers.
We chatted desultorily and then became silent. I was wondering what Wu was going to do, in view of the persecution of his family in Communist China and the probability that he would not be looked upon with favour if he returned home. I decided to ask him.
‘Dr Wu,’ I said. ‘As an old friend and as the wife of an old friend, may I ask what plans you have, in view of the sorrows – difficulties …’ I ran out of words.
His smile was wry. ‘I expect to stay here. Today I spoke with my Professor, and it is likely that when I have my doctorate from Wetherport University – I have already, of course, a Chinese degree – I shall take a post in industry.’
Sympathy must have been apparent in my expression, because he went on in a burst of confidence: ‘I hoped that the revolution at home would be followed by less bloodshed than was the Russian revolution; I still believe that there will be fewer excesses – the new régime must make itself secure, however, and it is my misfortune that my family must suffer. I do not have as yet any details of what brought the Government’s wrath down upon my family, but we owned land and have in the past produced many Government officials – and our interests may well have clashed, although we fought in the army of the Communists against the Japanese.’ He fiddled nervously with the spoons which the waiter had laid upon the table in front of him. ‘It is likely that I could go home to China and work for the new China – I have not offended personally – but if my family is scattered, for what reason shall I work? How shall I ever feel confident or safe in such a situation?’ His voice died to a whisper.
‘China’s loss will be our gain,’ I said. ‘You are one of the foremost young men in your field, I am told, and you will be welcome here.’ I could not think of anything else to say. Here was a man whose family was scattered, whose beliefs had suffered a fearful blow. He had been so proud of his country’s resurgence and it had struck at him through his parents. As he sat and plucked at the tablecloth, he seemed to be the quintessence of the suffering of our generation. Looking at him, I saw the hosts of the homeless, brotherless, dispossessed and disillusioned, and I was wrung with pity.
‘Is your wife safely in Hongkong, Dr Wu?’
‘I am a widower. My wife was killed in an air raid a few months after our marriage.’
‘My God,’ I said involuntarily.
My ejaculation brought him back to the realisation that he was supposed to be entertaining me.
‘I am a bad host,’ he said, ‘boring you with my story. So bad of me. Are Mr and Mrs Delaney well?’
I tried to help him by launching into other subjects. Food came – Won Ton soup and chicken with almonds. Both of us felt better after eating; we leaned back and smoked and drank China tea out of handleless cups.
‘I will take a few days’ holiday,’ said Wu. ‘I am tired of my good landlady’s cooking. I will go into your beautiful countryside and walk – and think about my thesis.’
His courageous acceptance of his loss of beliefs, country and family was at first shocking to me. I looked for rebellion against the forces that had stripped him, and resented the fact that I found none. He bowed his head like an aspen in the wind, and said: ‘It is life.’
Then, as he talked quietly of the lovely places in England which we both knew, I realised that to rebel against the inevitable is to waste strength; and Wu, by his acceptance, was saving his strength for the long, tiring battles that lay ahead of him in this England which he loved so much. He needed a little time, however, in which to get his breath, and I encouraged the idea of a spring holiday.
‘My sister has gone for ten days to Pentecost Bay,’ I said. ‘A break is always a good idea after a long winter’s work.’
He poured himself another cup of tea, tasted it and found it cold; so he signalled to the waiter to bring another pot.
‘I have visited Pentecost Bay,’ he said. ‘The country there is hilly, is it not?’
‘It is,’ I said. ‘Angela is staying at a farmhouse which takes summer visitors, about a mile out of the town. I hope she is giving herself a good rest – she works far too hard, and she was marvellous about helping with my wedding when she had so much else on her plate at the time.’
The conversation moved to Ajit. More tea arrived and Wu refilled my cup.
‘It is so kind of you,’ he said, ‘to be patient with my long discourses.’
‘It has been a most pleasant evening,’ I assured him, when I said finally that I must go home.
At the door of the restaurant I paused to examine a showcase full of Chinese porcelain, and, as we walked down the narrow, dirty staircase, I asked him to tell me about the dragons depicted on the vases. He beamed, and told me about Imperial dragons, fairytale dragons and ordinary dragons, as we strolled leisurely to the bus stop, where he insisted upon waiting for the bus with me.
Tomkins was the only member of the family at home when I arrived there, so I scooped him up into my lap, as I sat down by the embers of the living-room fire. He purred softly as I stroked him while I leaned back in Father’s easy chair and thought about Wu’s patient acceptance of his sorrows.
‘Tomkins,’ I said severely, ‘I am worrying about Ajit before there is any need to worry and I am ashamed of myself. Tonight a very brave man showed me how to face real troubles courageously.’
Tomkins grunted sleepily and submitted to being carried up to my bedroom to keep me company. Propped up on my dressing-table was a letter from Ajit which must have been delivered during the afternoon. I tore open the envelope eagerly.
CHAPTER TWELVE
In his letters Ajit told me in great detail all that passed after his return home. Later on I learned much more and gradually pieced together the whole story – not only Ajit’s story, but also the story of Bhim, Nulini and Khan, whose tragedy was played within the compound walls of my father-in-law’s house; and helped me indirectly.
The antiquat
ed aeroplane, in which Ajit had flown from London, chose to land at Bombay instead of going on to Delhi. Repairs might take as long as forty-eight hours, he was told, and as no alternative plane reservation was available, he decided to travel the remainder of his journey by train.
As the train strained its way northwards, it felt strange to him to hear his own tongue spoken with increasing frequency. He found that Hindi no longer came naturally to him and he spoke it stiffly, like a foreigner. He felt foreign in his hot tweed jacket and worsted trousers amongst white cotton shirts and dhotis; and the food that he bought along the route seemed overspiced after years of English cooking.
Still it, was good to be home; to see the Western Ghats in the moonlight, and the barren hills of Rajastan glowering hotly over small villages; to be packed closely in a carriage with a multitude of well-behaved children and stacks of homely-looking luggage. It was comforting to see whole families travelling together, strong in their unity. No need to feel lonely here – these were his own people, whom he understood and who understood him and did not regard him as a curiosity. He took his shoes off and sat cross-legged on the carriage seat. A holy man, who was travelling without a ticket, had climbed through the window when the train paused to take water. He settled himself on an unencumbered part of the floor and arranged his orange robes round him; then he mopped his bald head, noticed Ajit’s shoes lying on the floor and asked if he had been abroad. Ajit said he had just returned. Glad to speak in his own language, Ajit talked with him for most of the journey. The man was going on a pilgrimage, and so that the pilgrimage should not be interrupted by irate ticket collectors, he made his namaste and departed through the window again just before the train entered Delhi.
Ajit put on his shoes, collected his unread detective novels and tightened the straps of his bedding roll. There was a general upheaval in the carriage, and the flash of a porter’s turban as he leaped on to the step and clung to the outside of the door. The train tore past his brother, Bhim, towering out of the crush of people on the platform, and his father standing close to the train.
‘Bhim,’ yelled Ajit.
The coolie opened the door as the train came to a sudden halt. Ajit noted the coolie’s number on the brass plate on his arm, pointed out his luggage and told him to put it on to the platform. The luggage attended to and one or two children hastily lifted down, Ajit jumped from the train and pushed his way towards the spot where he had seen Bhim.
Bhim saw him and came to him, smiles of greeting obliterating his usual absent-minded expression. His little sister, Shushila, nearly bursting with excitement, ran to him and slipped a garland of flowers round his neck, as he bent down to hug her. Her short plaits waggled as she burrowed her face into his neck. Her frock and white shoes and socks made her look uncannily like the little girls he knew in England; but he was amused to see that she wore a diamond in her pierced nose, and golden ear-rings.
He went to his father and bent to take dust from his feet, but the elder man caught his hands and raised him up.
‘My son,’ he said huskily, as he ran his eyes over Ajit.
‘Father, it’s good to be home,’ he said.
He had forgotten how absurdly small, but how dignified, the old District Magistrate was. Although his handlebar moustache was flecked with white, he still had the same erect bearing and imperious manner that Ajit remembered.
Bhim attended to the luggage, and then the father, escorted by both his sons, trotted out of the station, receiving with the condescension of a ruling Raja the polite ‘Namaste’ of the station-master, who happened to be passing.
And so home through the moonlit evening, everyone talking at the top of his voice, and even the new chauffeur venturing an occasional remark.
Bhim had been married during Ajit’s absence and accepted with a shy grin Ajit’s jokes about it. Shushila, who might have been expected to talk about her new sister, was silent on the subject except to say that she was very pretty. Ajit knew, from Bhim’s letters to him, that his father had chosen the bride, just as he had decided that Bhim should be a lawyer, and like a dutiful son, Bhim had accepted her. Bhim had just begun his law practice when he married, and whether it had been the crushing amount of study and new work which he had undertaken at the same time, or whether he did not like his wife, Ajit could not judge, but there had been a singular lack of enthusiasm in his letters mentioning his marriage. He had just said that his father had found a suitable, educated wife for him and that her dowry was reasonable, though not large.
Ajit knew Bhim’s ability to shut himself up with his books and some obscure problem of inheritance or of evidence, and he wondered if a young wife had been able to tempt him away from his work. Bhim was an immensely kind person, provided his attention was drawn to a specific need of being kind, but otherwise flood and famine could come and go without his noticing it.
Ajit was sure that his own marriage would come as a dreadful blow to the family, and as the car bumped along the rutted road outside the city, he prayed that they would not be too angry and upset. Would Bhim understand, he wondered? How would Shushila accept a white sister?
While they were passing through the sweetsellers’ bazaar, he was full of defiance; a man should be free to choose his own wife. But by the time they had hooted their way through collections of refugees’ huts, he was sure he must have been mad to take such a step; even his elders, with a lifetime of experience behind them, arranged a marriage only after every factor affecting the whole family had been considered.
It was with a feeling of helplessness that he descended at last from the car when it drew up in his father’s compound. Still, it was marvellous to be home, to see the same neem trees rustling in the corner, with a mongoose playing beneath them, and his mother standing at the top of the veranda steps, waiting to perform the Welcoming Ceremony. Behind her stood Ayah, holding the tray; the oil lamp on it flickered in the wind, casting unearthly shadows on to the two women and the small crowd of servants and nephews and nieces behind them. As he approached, the lamp flared up and showed the scarlet of his mother’s sari and a glitter of bracelets. Then it died down to a flicker, making her look like a ghost from an India long dead.
Ajit paused at the foot of the steps; he wanted suddenly to run away, but his father was standing beside him expectantly, his white dhoti gleaming in the moonlight, and Shushila was pushing him impatiently from behind. Bhim seemed to sense what he was feeling, because he touched his elbow lightly, to propel him forward.
He saw his mother’s sweet, plump face peeping out of her sari, and he wondered what I would find in common with her. He prayed as he ascended the steps: ‘Ramji, Ramji, help me.’
He put his hands together in salutation, bowed low and took dust from her feet. Smiling through her tears, she took vermilion from the tray and imprinted upon his forehead the mark of a Hindu. When he felt her gentle fingers, he knew that the shackles of the family were again upon him. He, Ajit Singh, descendant of a thousand warriors, wearer of the sacred thread, electrical instrument engineer, was back in his father’s house, a younger son who must submit to his father, his uncles and his elder brother.
The sweetmeat which his mother then put into his mouth was hard to swallow, but he loved her, and when he raised his face to her he smiled.
Thakkur, the bearer, and Pratap, the gardener, ran forward to help with the luggage and to greet the man they had loved as a child. Thakkur’s face, which was normally doleful, was today full of joy. Ajit remembered how he used to spend hours reciting the Gita for the benefit of a sleepy little boy.
‘Have you any more grandchildren, Thakkur? And do you recite the Gita to them as you did to me?’
‘Ji, hun, ji, hun, no less than three. They recite the Gita to me instead.’
‘Pratap, have you grown any lady’s fingers for me to eat? I hunger for your lady’s fingers; I have not eaten them for so long.’
‘Ji, hun, Sahib, plenty of lady’s fingers are.’
After washing h
imself, Ajit went into the big stone kitchen, to take food. He sat on a straw mat and his mother insisted on serving him herself. Her slow, graceful movements seemed restful after the jerkiness of English women. In the background fluttered Ayah, her thin face wreathed in smiles of welcome for the man she had suckled as a baby. In the shadows, away from him, sat his new sister-in-law, Nulini. She was not introduced, nor did they address each other. It was just as if she had been there always, and Ajit had merely returned from a visit to the bazaar instead of from a three-year sojourn abroad. He noticed that her black sari was silk and richly embroidered in gold; he was embarrassed that she stared at him almost insolently. He thought irritably that she should veil her face and sit more modestly.
When the last pakaurhi was eaten and the last drop of tea drained, he sent Thakkur for one of his suitcases, and took from it three silk saris, purchased in Bombay as a wedding gift, and handed these to Nulini. Coyly, she smiled for the first time, and took them from him, taking care that in the movement she showed her hands and rounded arms to the best advantage.
He had an English china doll which he presented to an enchanted Shushila, a gold pendant and a handbag for his mother, a leather wallet from Port Said for Bhim and a leather-cased travelling clock for his father. Ayah had not been forgotten; there was a soft, white woollen shawl for her, and muslin dhotis for Cook Maharaj, Thakkur and Pratap. The kitchen resounded with cries of appreciation – what a good young master, what a good son.
Ajit felt like a traitor.
After chatting for a while with his mother, he picked up the clock and he and Bhim walked slowly across the inner courtyard to the room which his father used as a study. Walking in the half light of the moon the brothers tried to re-establish their old comradeship, but they were shy with each other and spoke only of Bhim’s law practice.
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