Ram Singh was contemplating with great attention the activities of a fly walking on his desk.
‘I cannot believe that your objection to my marriage is based entirely on Peggie’s lack of caste. You have on many occasions denounced its evils. Rather you must fear the scandal if Peggie should misbehave or should leave me.’
The fly was cleaning its wings.
‘If she came straight to Pandipura, you would not have to associate yourself with the marriage.
‘If it was not a success and Peggie left me,’ Ajit swallowed hard, ‘would you – in your goodness of heart – forgive me for my rashness? I would humbly admit myself in the wrong; and our family would feel that you had judged rightly, that I had been headstrong and you had wisely let me learn my lesson in this hard way, rather than cast me off.’
At the words ‘cast me off’ Ram Singh looked indignant – as if any good Indian father would dream of casting off any of his family, no matter what they had done.
‘Nothing was further from my mind than casting you off,’ he said defensively.
‘If our marriage was a happy one – and I believe it will be – then –’ Ajit hesitated, ‘perhaps you and Mother would receive Peggie into the family, forgiving us for our hasty marriage and taking pleasure in your grandchildren.’
He added: ‘Thus all would be well. Our respected uncles could not condemn you as lacking in wisdom. They cannot, at the worst, say more than that I have been a very foolish young man and have a very benevolent and long-suffering father. The ladies of our household will not be troubled by someone who does not know their ways; and any scandal would not reflect much on our family as a whole, as it will take place six hundred miles away, in a distant province, and people would hear only vague rumours.’
Ajit stopped, having nothing more to say. He wondered agonisedly if his mother was right in her belief that a compromise could be reached.
Ram Singh brushed the fly off his desk and leaned his elbows on the hard surface. The room was very still. Ajit would have given his meagre bank balance to know exactly what his father’s thoughts were, as he stood before him, and he was quite unprepared for the question which his parent suddenly asked.
‘Is a child expected?’ he asked, his eyes narrowing shrewdly.
Ajit smarted under the insinuation.
‘It is unlikely,’ he said sharply. ‘There has hardly been time.’
‘It would be as well,’ said Ram Singh reflectively, chewing the end of his moustache, ‘if no child arrived for eleven months from the date of the marriage.’
Ajit sighed with relief. His father might be willing to agree. Of course, if there was no child during this period, one subject of gossip would be eliminated. No one could say that Peggie had trapped him into marriage or that he had fathered the child of another man.
‘There is also the question of the gold and silver which my daughters-in-law will expect at my death,’ said Ram Singh from between bits of moustache. ‘Your wife shall have her share, but in practice her sister-in-law may make it difficult for her to claim it.’
Ajit interjected: ‘Father, do not think of death – you will be with us many years yet.’
‘My son, it is my duty to consider the well-being of all of you at all times. I will specifically mention in my will what she is to have.’
‘Father, you are indeed kind. You will not regret my marriage to Peggie.’
‘We shall see, we shall see,’ said Ram Singh testily. ‘In the meantime I have to tell Rana Sahib that I withdraw my offer for Bimla – and a good dowry will be lost, too.
‘Shall I never know peace in my life?’ he added savagely. ‘My sons never consider my feelings – never realise what their foolish actions mean to me.’
Ajit hung his head, and muttered: ‘Perhaps one of uncles’ sons would do in my place.’
‘Possibly – and there is another problem. No mention must be made to your uncles of this woman you have married.’
‘No, Father.’
While they had been talking, Ajit had been standing up, since his father had forgotten to tell him that he might sit. His father now said: ‘Sit down, sit down, boy. Why do you stand gawking at me? Here I am, trying to mitigate the result of your hotheadedness, and what do you do – you stand and say “No, Father”.’
Ajit sat down hastily on the edge of his father’s divan.
‘Khan,’ shouted Ram Singh.
The rapidity of Khan’s entrance indicated that he had been very close to the door, and Ajit hoped the servant was as discreet as his looks implied.
‘Bring tea,’ demanded Ram Singh, ‘with nutmeg and cinnamon in it.’
The old man is making peace, thought Ajit; he must be regretting his hasty words of yesterday.
It did indeed seem as if Ram Singh was anxious that Ajit should be right in his remarks about his marriage and that, having tentatively agreed to my coming to India, he wished that Ajit should not suffer more than was necessary from his ‘mistake’. He spent some time in counselling his son on the proper management of his affairs, both financial and matrimonial, and he lavished as much thought in lecturing him on the care of his wife as most English fathers would have done in advising their sons on the care of a pedigree dog.
While they drank tea, Ram Singh dealt with the details of the duties of a householder, ranging from the keeping of household account books to the saying of prayers twice daily; and as he went on his temper improved. It was apparent to Ajit that he feared a scandal most of all, and once the chances of that had become slender he was willing to co-operate with his son, to a degree.
When at last Ajit was dismissed, Ram Singh’s anger had evaporated and only a distinct coolness showed that his son was not yet restored to parental favour.
Mrs Singh was summoned to her husband’s room and informed of the marriage. She looked suitably surprised, murmured that Ajit was a sensible boy and that his father should be complimented upon his wisdom in not being too hard on him, at which Ram Singh cleared his throat and looked embarrassed.
‘May I give daughter-in-law a wedding present? And may I tell sisters-in-laws about the marriage?’
‘No,’ roared Ram Singh, so that Mrs Singh jumped.
‘No present?’
Ram Singh shook his head irritably, and dismissed the present with a wave of his hand: ‘You can give a present if you wish – but on no account is anybody to be told about this misalliance. Nobody must know of it – it will cause trouble enough without people speculating about it now. I shall speak to Bhim about it, after which the matter will not be mentioned either in my presence or in my absence.’
‘Ji, hun,’ said Mrs Singh.
‘I have only agreed to it, because I do not want my son to go away to England again and perhaps never come back.’
‘Ji, hun,’ said Mrs Singh, rising to her feet.
‘I don’t know what the younger generation is coming to – defying their parents as they do.’
‘Ji,’ said Mrs Singh as she moved towards the door. ‘Would you like some more aspirins?’
‘No,’ snapped Ram Singh, and added as an afterthought: ‘One sari will be sufficient present.’
‘Ji, hun,’ said Mrs Singh.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
In spite of the silence imposed by Ram Singh upon his family with regard to Ajit’s marriage, there was an undercurrent of sly whispers amongst the ladies present at the tea party. When Mrs Singh approached a group, the conversation ceased or the subject was changed.
Ajit also felt that his private affairs were the subject of gossip, so he sought the company of Shushila and the other children playing in the courtyard, and left the entertaining of the younger men to Bhim.
It is likely, he thought, that Bimla has heard of father’s negotiations with Kasher Chand Rana and has confided her hopes to her girl friends, and it has caused some speculative gossip. In any case, it was well known that the two mothers had been friends in their youth and had declared that their children should
marry each other. He had felt all eyes upon him when he made his bow to Bimla, who was gorgeously dressed for the occasion. Her jade-green shirt and trousers were silk and the matching veil was embroidered in gold. She turned languorous, brown eyes upon him and her voice was unusually soft, but Ajit felt cold at the idea of marrying her, and he excused himself and left her to his cousins, who were happy to take his place and flutter round her with tea and sweetmeats. Moths round the candle, thought Ajit.
The tea party was soon forgotten by Ajit as a minor unpleasant experience, in the rush of visits he had to make to old friends. He spent a considerable time playing with Shushila and in talking to his mother; his father avoided him as much as possible.
On the morning after the tea party, he accompanied his mother to the bazaar. She could easily have asked merchants to bring goods to the house for her to see, but Mrs Singh preferred to go to the bazaar herself. She was still near enough to her days in purdah to feel an exhilarating freedom in walking in public, and a certain wickedness in having her face unveiled and her head uncovered.
She and Ajit wandered in and out of sari shops together. Mrs Singh made several purchases of pieces of cloth for blouses. She bought no saris, however, and Ajit remarked on this as she usually bought sari and blouse piece together.
She said with a smile that she had plenty of saris.
When they returned home they washed the dust off their feet and Mrs Singh asked Ajit to carry her purchases to her room. He did so, and laid them carefully on a side table.
Mrs Singh took her keys from her waist, unlocked the storeroom which led off her bedroom, and vanished inside. Ajit sat down and switched on the fan. He was daydreaming when his mother came back loaded with multicoloured silks.
Taking a pale-blue blouse piece from amongst those she had just bought, she lifted from the pile of silk a length of almost exactly matching colour, ornamented at one end with silver embroidery.
‘One,’ she muttered, her forehead lined, as she peered at the colours to make sure they matched.
She did the same with a length of red silk, heavily patterned with geometrical designs in yellow and green, and then she added a third of yellow with a border of brown flowers and touches of gold embroidery.
‘Help me to fold them up,’ she commanded.
Ajit did so, and she lifted the neat pile and put it into his arms.
‘For my daughter-in-law,’ she said.
A lump rose in Ajit’s throat as he received the first wedding present from his family. Eleven saris might have been expected as the usual gift; but, as his wife was not being recognised by his family, his mother was obviously giving from her own wardrobe three of the best saris she had.
She turned to lock up the storeroom, placidly chatting at the same time about the fashion in which Peggie should wear the garments; and Ajit was filled with gratitude towards his simple, but astute, mother, who had not once upbraided him but had heaped kindness upon kindness.
He put down the saris and, with a sharp movement, went to her, and bowed to touch her feet. She lifted him and smiled and patted him.
‘My son,’ was all she said, but it expressed all her devotion and all her desire for the real happiness of her child. However much she feared for him in his strange adventure, she was doing her best not to make it harder for him than it already was.
‘Mother,’ he said, ‘Peggie will honour you, and I think she will always remember that her Indian mother was sympathetic towards her when she was new to this country.’
The bedroom door creaked, and they both jumped.
‘Respected Mother,’ said a silken voice, and Nulini slid into the room, ‘if you are agreeable, I will call on Bimla this afternoon.’
Mrs Singh hooked her key holder back on to the waistband of her petticoat, and said: ‘Yes, go. Take Ayah with you – Shushi can go too, if she has done her lessons.’
Nulini was dismissed, but she lingered, leaning against the door, her sari swaying in the draught. Ajit, who had stood silently behind his mother, noted her daringly short blouse, which hardly covered the generous curve of her breast and left her waist naked. He wondered that his mother did not demand that she should wear longer blouses – perhaps she hoped that Nulini’s modern dress would attract Bhim to her. In any case, there was no one else in the house who could be enchanted by a slim, bare waistline. She rarely met any men from outside the family and was invariably chaperoned wherever she went – it was doubtful if she had at any time been alone with a man other than her husband. His thoughts rambled on: ‘I suppose Mother is wise in not criticising her and spoiling the affection which seems to have grown up between them – Nulini probably realises that she is lucky to have as much freedom as she has and that she owes it to Mother’s understanding of her.’
‘What a fine blue silk you have there, Mother. I have not seen it before – it would look well on you,’ remarked Nulini, eyeing the sari covetously.
Mrs Singh looked guilty and said: ‘Yes, I have not worn it for years. Now go on your visit,’ and she turned away to open the window.
Behind his mother’s back, Nulini made a little moue with her mouth at Ajit, and then went out as quietly as she had come, leaving Ajit thoroughly shocked. Sisters-in-law, he wrote to me indignantly, should hardly look at their brothers-in-law, and in many houses they still covered their faces at the approach of their husband’s brothers.
Mrs Singh sighed. ‘Perhaps Paickie will also be a good friend to Nulini – and to Bimla. Bimla has a great capacity for friendship.’ She sat down on a mattress and tucked her legs under her slowly, as if they ached.
Ajit knew perfectly well what his mother was thinking about, and said: ‘I am sorry about Bimla, Mother.’
‘Arree, don’t worry about her – she is not in love with you.’
Ajit laughed, and picked up the saris.
‘Shall I bring you some cool water to drink?’ he asked.
She nodded assent.
He brought the water for her, and found her gazing abstractedly into her mirror. She put down the mirror and took the glass from him.
‘Your children will be very fair, Ajit?’ she asked.
‘They will be as fair as the women of Peshawar.’
‘Indeed? Ramji, that is very fair – and lovely.’
Ajit smiled and left her. He went to his room, and sat down to write to me.
Nulini, escorted by a grumbling Ayah and a jubilant Shushila, went to call upon her friend and confidante, Bimla Chand Rana.
Bimla found Shushila some coloured shells with which to play, and sent Mrs Singh’s Ayah to join her own Ayah in the shade of a nearby mango tree, then she sat down with her friend on the swing which hung from the veranda roof.
‘And how are things with you?’ asked Bimla, tossing back her long plaits. Nulini seemed to be more on edge than usual.
‘I am so bored,’ said Nulini, pulling irritably at the cushion under her.
‘Why? You have a good young husband.’
‘Hmm,’ sniffed Nulini, ‘I have told you many times that I might just as well be single. I wish I was back in my father’s house.’
‘You should say to Bhim that he must take you out – he is modern – why, you could even dance together, as long as Singh Sahib never found out.’
‘How can I tell these matters to a husband I hardly ever see alone? He never comes to my room – anyway, Shushila shares it with me – and he has asked that I should not go to his room unless he sends for me, as it interrupts his studies. Studies! Books!’ She almost spat out the last word.
‘He will be a great man one day.’
‘A great man? And what am I to do in the meantime, pray? So rarely he sends for me and when he does he has an abstracted air, as if he is thinking of something else. He gives me money and tells me to buy myself something pretty. I do not care about money – it will not buy me a son.’
She looked down at her flat stomach and tears came into her eyes. Her voice was bitter as she said: ‘Singh Sahib
should not have insisted upon his marrying yet – he does not want to be bothered with a wife or children. I could have been enjoying myself, dancing at the club at home or playing bridge – instead, I waste away sitting on the veranda and knitting.’
Bimla put her arm round Nulini. ‘If I were you, I would make him take an interest in me,’ she said stoutly.
‘You are different – you are not afraid of anybody.’
‘Just wait until I come to the house – I will change all this – Ajit will eat out of my hand. Together, we will make the brothers less stuffy.’
‘Arree, Bimla, troubled with my own woes, I forgot,’ and Nulini caught her friend’s hand. ‘Such an uproar there is over Ajit.’
‘Why, what has happened?’
‘He has married an English woman.’
Bimla was off the swing in a flash, her face contorted with dismay.
‘You lie!’
‘I do not. It is true.’
Rage enveloped Bimla. She grasped Nulini’s wrist.
‘How do you know?’ she hissed.
‘Let go, Bimla, you are hurting me.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I was told.’
‘By whom?’
Nulini twisted away from Bimla, and shrank into a corner of the swing.
‘I will not tell you.’
‘Have you been trying to win Ajit – and he has told you this to get rid of you?’
‘No, no, Bimla,’ said Nulini indignantly, as she rubbed her wrist.
‘Did Mrs Singh tell you?’
‘No.’
‘Then how do you know and how do you know it to be true?’
Nulini blenched. ‘Someone whose word I can trust told me.’
Bimla’s rage left her as quickly as it had come and curiosity mixed with vague suspicions took its place. A small flickering fear for her friend warned her not to press her further. She asked no further questions and accepted Nulini’s word that she had spoken the truth.
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