Ajit heard his father talking to his clerk and, therefore, he knocked tentatively, but Ram Singh immediately bade him enter, and the clerk salaamed and withdrew.
Their father was sitting cross-legged on a wooden divan; beside him on the divan was a small desk littered with papers. Although Ram Singh had retired, his knowledge of Hindu law, particularly that of land tenure, was so great that he was frequently consulted both by Government officials and lawyer friends; and some hours of every day were still spent at his desk.
He motioned Ajit to a chair which stood by an old, English rolltop desk. The elder brother hovered in the background until his father told him to come and sit down too.
They waited respectfully for the elder man to speak, and he began asking Ajit about his air trip and about the University. They discussed these safe topics and news of his uncles’ families for an hour.
Diffidently Ajit proffered the clock as a humble gift.
The old man was touched. He took the clock, opened it, wound it, listened to its subdued tick, and finally closed it, rubbing the leather case lovingly with his thin, knotted fingers. He was pleased that Ajit had not forgotten him in these years. I think he realised that Ajit must have saved carefully to bring back such a good present, and that he imagined the many small sacrifices that Ajit must have made in order to buy it.
‘It is a very fine clock,’ he said at last in a very husky voice.
Ram Singh’s personal servant brought in his dinner to him, and the brothers rose and left him to eat in peace.
Hand in hand, they recrossed the courtyard and went to the dining-room, where the rest of the family was gathered for dinner.
There was general merriment in the big, cool room next to the kitchen. The family sat in a circle on low, carved stools, their brass eating trays before them, while Thakkur rushed back and forth to the kitchen, serving them with the bread that Cook Maharaj made as they ate.
As the light of the brass paraffin lamp glowed over the contented family with its contented servants, Ajit was torn by apprehension that his marriage might well disrupt all its peacefulness.
To marry without his father’s permission, without even informing his family, was like spitting into their faces. Above all, to marry an English girl, who knew nothing of their way of life, was inflicting something upon them which was possibly more than they could bear.
In that instant he wished passionately that he had never been sent to England, had never met me, had never stirred from the age-old path of an Indian’s life, mapped out by sages long ago and followed by his people ever since.
But then he thought of me, he said, as his lamp in darkness, his Lakshmi. He knew I trusted him, and he felt weak with love.
‘Do you feel quite well?’ asked his mother anxiously, having observed a spasm cross his face.
He looked at her, and she saw to her concern that something was indeed wrong, but he answered gently: ‘I am quite well.’
‘It is my imagination,’ she said. ‘I thought you were troubled.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
When writing to his father from England, Ajit had, of course, told him that he had obtained the post of instrument engineer at the new power house being built at Pandipura, near Shahpur. The old man, in reply, had said frankly that he had expected to have to pull a number of political strings before getting his younger son settled in life; even in a country short of technicians, competition for the better-paid posts was formidable, and Ajit’s qualifications must, therefore, have been considered exceptionally good. Ram Singh had spent thousands of rupees to send Ajit to England to continue his studies, and he now felt that his appointment to Shahpur had more than justified this expenditure.
Ram Singh was, therefore, in an extremely good temper on the morning following his son’s return home. Before calling the boy to him, he bathed and dressed and went through his usual routine. He sat cross-legged on a stool in the small, pillared prayer room in a tower at the corner of his house, and said his morning prayers; when the light of the dawn became stronger, he took up his Gita and read some of the Lord Krishna’s injunctions to Arjuna, and then meditated on them, after which he went for a short walk.
Ram Singh’s life had been a difficult one, a life of constant compromise between the British rulers of India, whom he served, and his revolutionary countrymen, with whom his sympathies lay. As a District Magistrate, his livelihood depended upon the goodwill of the British, and when Gandhiji started to lead India towards independence, he had been faced with the choice of throwing up his career, as did many of his friends, and joining the passive resistance movement, with its inevitable prison sentences and, sometimes, death; or staying where he was and tempering the wind to the shorn lambs of revolution, as they came before him in the courts. Lacking the courage of his convictions he had done the latter, and many a Congressman had been relieved to receive from him the minimum of sentences.
When the day came for the British to leave India and the Congress Party came to power, they had remembered his clemency and his secret contributions to their funds, and he had served them until his recent retirement.
Now, as instructed by the scriptures, he was trying to turn his mind towards God, and to that end he had retired to his house outside Delhi and built himself a prayer room, in which he could pray, meditate and study holy books.
Knowing that he was getting old and that before he died it was his duty to find a wife for his son, he had recently consulted various friends of his own caste, who had families of the same age, and had found one with a daughter a few years younger than Ajit – a girl whose horoscope, cast at her birth, proclaimed her to be a suitable match.
Ram Singh knew the girl well. She was a friend of Nulini, his elder son’s wife, and often visited his house, and presumably she would fit in happily if she became a member of the family. She was noted for her hot temper, but she was fair-skinned and healthy, and he had no doubt that marriage would tame her. Being a Punjabi, she was bigger built than many, and that would suit Ajit, who, by Indian standards, was not a small man. He found upon inquiry that she was a talented embroideress and could play the vina well. Furthermore, her father was offering a good dowry; this dowry could in turn be used to dower Ajit’s younger sister, and so save her father parting with the dowry he had obtained for Bhim. This latter dowry he would keep in reserve, for use if he should be faced with the dowering of a niece or other relation left unexpectedly fatherless.
There is no doubt that Ram Singh felt very satisfied that his son’s future was neatly taken care of; and as soon as he had eaten his morning meal and spent a few minutes gossiping with his wife, he sent for Ajit to acquaint him with his plans.
Although tired out by his long journey, Ajit had not been able to sleep during the night. He had lain and tossed on his hard wooden bed, wondering how to explain his unfilial behaviour to his father. For months he had pushed this gnawing worry into the background. Now it could no longer be pushed away; it had to be brought out, be examined, be tossed about from tongue to tongue through the family, until it would sound as if he had committed a major crime.
He sweated when he thought of how his uncles, who lived in the house next door, would counsel his father to coerce him into breaking the marriage, even to the point of making him marry someone else. They would suggest that his father obtain his dismissal from his new post, that he be confined to his room until his ardour cooled, that he be cast out from his caste and family. He knew them – they would enjoy his disgrace, since it would show to good advantage the virtues of their own sons.
Ajit loved his proud parent, and he desired to love and serve him in his old age as a good son should. He knew that his marriage would come as a great shock, and he winced as he thought of the family humiliation it might well involve, the loss of caste and the domestic calamity.
His father was noted for his toleration of the unorthodox behaviour of others, and, in fact, his own household was by no means orthodox. Many Western innovations had crept in
. He had, however, insisted upon the observance of certain customs. No meat or eggs ever entered his house, although he had been discreetly deaf when busybodies told him that his sons ate both of these in restaurants. Prayers were said, fasts and festivals were kept, food was prepared in accordance with caste rules, and his charity was unfailing. He accepted his sons’ Western mode of dress, since it had long been adopted by civil servants and he himself wore it on official occasions; but when he was at home he wore the village-woven shirts and dhotis of his own people. When his father, Ajit’s grandfather, died, Ram Singh abolished purdah throughout the family, much to his mother’s disgust. He expected, however, that his womenfolk would not go out alone and would behave with modesty.
A few modifications to the old ways of life had sufficed up to now to keep his family happy. He still received the veneration of his younger brothers and their families, as well as that of his own family; his word was law in the old family mansion next door, which they shared – and which Ram Singh had deserted, when on the neighbouring plot he built his present house, which was more suited to his position as a senior civil servant.
Ram Singh ruled with justice what was still really a communal family, banded together for safety in troubled times and for the protection of their weak and helpless ones. He considered every action and every question raised from the viewpoint of what was best for the family as a whole, and this frequently meant the sublimation of the desires of one member for the good of the many. For generations this sublimation had been taken for granted; it often stifled the initiative and ability of one individual, causing him much suffering, but it ensured the survival of the family. The family’s coffers filled as many toiled together, and their widows, orphans and cripples were fed. The amount of gold worn by their women increased generation after generation; there was gold for necessary bribes and there were plenty of young men to defend the walls of the old house when need arose.
As the family were not Brahmins, there was no taboo about their crossing the sea, and the family had early sent some of their men to study in the West and thus fit themselves for Government posts under the British. One of those chosen had been Ajit, and by their standards Ajit had played the traitor – and Ajit knew it.
So he tossed and turned all night, longing for me to be there, he said, to soothe and advise, and yet cursing his selfishness that put his own pleasure before the family’s well-being. The independence of outlook which he had acquired in England slipped from him and he was again a younger son, to be pushed hither and thither at the behest of his elders.
And yet, in his heart, he was sure, he said, that I could be fitted into his family without undue upset, if he could only persuade his father that it could be done. He believed in my discretion and adaptability; I had seen so much in my life that was strange. His family was a normal, kindly one, so that I ought not to find it too difficult to bow a little to their customs and they to mine.
When Thakkur came to ask him to go to his father, he rose reluctantly and his feet dragged as he traversed the verandas. He had put on a dhoti and homespun shirt, and they flapped against his body, reminding him that he was an Indian at home, not a student enjoying the social whirl of the West, dividing his time between study, long technical arguments and dates with girl friends.
In the lounge, off which his father’s study led, he hesitated. The chairs and tables, specially carved to his father’s order, the green upholstered settees and the brocade curtains all spoke of Western influence, but Ajit knew the room was rarely used by the family, and had been intended for the many European visitors who came to Ram Singh’s house before the British left India.
Ram Singh had heard his son’s slippers flip-flapping across the drawing-room, and called: ‘Come in, my son.’
His clerk, laden with papers, came out of the study, salaamed as best he could under his burden and scuttled away. Ram Singh’s personal servant and chauffeur was squatting outside the office door and he quickly got to his feet and salaamed as Ajit approached. He was a new servant engaged during Ajit’s absence, and Ajit stopped to ask his name and from where he came.
‘I am called Khan. My home is near Dava – near the river Sutlej.’ His Hindi was faltering.
‘A hill man,’ thought Ajit, his interest for the moment obliterating his own troubles, ‘from Tibet, presumably.’
He looked at the man with some admiration. He was small but perfectly made, and the muscles rippled under his thin shirt. There was, however, no time to ask more. His father called again: ‘Come in, my son.’
There was no escape, so Ajit went in, bowed and touched his father’s feet. He stood and waited for Ram Singh to speak.
Ram Singh greeted Ajit jovially, pushed to one side the mahogany desk on which he had been working, and bade him sit down beside him. Ajit removed a pile of files, put them on a dusty side table, and climbed up beside his father. They sat cross-legged, nearly facing each other; and Ajit seemed to be again a little boy about to learn from his father a few more lines from the Ramayana.
‘Ah, a dhoti,’ said his father with approval and leaned forward to pat his son’s muslin-covered knee.
He was in a high good humour. He often said that there was nothing he liked better than a good wedding, with the house swarming with relations, a kitchen stuffed with cooks and storerooms stuffed with food; and probably something of this was in his mind as he sat with his son. Certainly Kasher Chand Rana would spare no expense over his daughter’s wedding – his wife would see to that.
‘I am sad,’ he said to Ajit, ‘that you can stay only a short time with us. I had hoped that you would be able to live at home on your return from England – and that I might soon have a grandson to play with, eh?’ His eyes twinkled.
Ajit stirred and hoped that his discomfiture was not apparent. Ram Singh might easily have a grandson quicker than he expected. The thought of my having a son made him feel better, he said, and strengthened him.
‘Sir?’ he queried, feeling that Ram Singh had something special to say to him.
Ram Singh smoothed his whiskers and knitted the heavy brows that had frightened many a malefactor in the courts. It signalled that he was about to deliver a pronouncement of importance. Then he sniffed and seemed to think better of what he was about to say.
‘Describe to me, my son,’ he said, obviously changing his tactics, ‘the work which you will do in Shahpur.’
Thankful for a subject on which he could talk freely, Ajit explained the irrigation scheme, of which the power house was a small part, and how landless refugees from Pakistan would be settled in the district as soon as deep wells could be bored and electricity was available to pump up the water. In his enthusiasm he foretold an era of prosperity for the whole province. He loved India and longed to see the peasants freed from famine. His work would be to him a crusade against hunger.
Ram Singh had, of course, heard of the scheme, but he was interested to hear details of it.
‘The future of India,’ he said, ‘lies not in the hands of those who rule but in the hands of our village people. Their content or discontent will be the factor which will decide who shall rule. Full stomachs will do more to keep the Congress Party in power than any other reform. I rejoice that you will be concerned, if only indirectly, in the alleviation of hunger.’
He smiled at Ajit, and continued: ‘Bhim will one day be a magistrate, perhaps a judge. I have trained him to be incorrupt and to be careful to weight the scales of justice as far as possible in favour of the poorer man. I am happy to think that I have two sons who will be of some use to our patient villagers.’ He wagged his finger at his son. ‘Never despise a man because he is of lower caste or lives in a mud hut. He feels as we do. Remember!’
Ajit said: ‘I do not despise any honourable man.’
This was getting away from the subject of Ajit, however, and the old man asked where Ajit would live and what he would earn.
Ajit explained that he would start on Rs.700. His friend, Chundabhai Patel
, had warned him, however, that Shahpur was an expensive town in which to live, as middle-class people were few and the bazaars catered either for the many rich industrialists or for the thousands of poverty-stricken mill workers. There were few districts in which a man of modest means might live comfortably. The Government had, however, found accommodation for the senior staff of the power house, and had allotted to him a small flat in the same building which housed most of the staff of a nearby college. Although the flat was six miles out of town, it was not very far from the power-house site.
‘And who will look after you?’
‘I thought Mother might have a servant here, who would come with me,’ said Ajit guardedly. ‘Servants are hard to get in Shahpur – the mills take many men and the building of the power house has attracted most of the surplus labour from the villages round about.’
‘Hum,’ said Ram Singh, taking out a handkerchief and mopping his face. The weather was already getting hot.
‘Doubtless Mother could spare you somebody, but – er – um – would it not be pleasant to – er – have someone else to share a flat with you?’
Ajit said nothing. He saw with horrid clarity the proposal which was about to be made, and he was appalled. Although it was inevitable that his father should have in mind the question of a wife for him, he had hoped that it would have been left unmentioned until he had been home for some time. What in the name of Ram was he to reply to his father?
He stiffened himself. Humility before his father was all very well, but he had some pride. Why should he fear to do what he knew was right just because it was not the custom? He held up his head and again mentally rehearsed the first words of his confession. His father, however, was burrowing in his desk, and from underneath the lid his muffled voice announced: ‘I have been thinking of you during your absence – I – er – have not mentioned marriage to you before because I wished you to complete your studies without distraction, but now you are thirty, and – er – your mother and I feel – er – that it is more than time you were married.’
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