‘That makes four rupees altogether,’ said Ajit ruefully. ‘I agree.’
Mohamed Ali climbed back on to the driver’s seat with remarkable alacrity, gave the horse a merciless thwack with the whip, and the carriage lurched forward. I clung to Ajit, to save myself being thrown out, and began to laugh. Ajit clutched me, and gasped: ‘Play-actor – all that trouble to get twelve annas.’
‘Such a waste of time,’ I said, trying to look sober.
‘Oh, no,’ said Ajit, ‘he earned twelve annas.’
So I had my first lesson in bargaining in a country where time is plentiful and cheap.
Ajit had told me on the train that he had obtained a boy servant for me. He had had great difficulty in getting one, as most labour was taken up by the mills; and his parents had not been prepared to send one from their house because they wished the marriage to be kept secret. He had, however, talked to the headman of the nearest village, and, knowing that Ajit was working at the power house and not wishing to antagonise a man who, if offended, might cause some of his people working on the power-house building to be dismissed, he had sent Ajit to the grain bazaar to see his brother, who dealt in lentils.
The brother was a wily-looking individual; he had none of the upright, honest air of his country brother, but he had recommended a boy who had just been dismissed by Shah Vakil.
‘Why was he dismissed?’ asked Ajit.
The grain dealer ran his fingers through some lentils lying in a sack by his side. ‘The Vakil said he was a thief, Sahib, but in my opinion, that Shah Vakil’s law practice is shrinking and he wished to get rid of the servant without loss of face.’ The lentil dealer spat on to the pavement. ‘The boy is honest, Sahib, and he can cook. He is an agriculturist by caste – a Patel – but, Sahib, you cannot expect to get a servant of your own caste in this town,’ and he shrugged his shoulders hopelessly.
The Sahib agreed with all the grain dealer had said, so Babu became our servant, and Ajit had been coaching him in his duties for a couple of weeks before my arrival.
Now, as the tonga tore along the narrow track, swaying perilously from side to side, Ajit said irritably that Babu should have put the front lights on in the flat, so that we could find our way. All the other tenants were spending the hot weather in the hills, so there was no other light to guide us. ‘Big building on the left?’ shouted Mohamed Ali, reining in.
‘That’s it,’ said Ajit, with a sigh of relief.
The tonga stopped and a hungry, weary couple made their descent. We had been travelling since early morning – but for me this lonely spot was the end of twenty-one days of journeying.
‘Babu, come and help Memsahib,’ yelled Ajit, ‘and take the luggage.’
The walls echoed back the cry and no one came. Outside the ring of light from the tonga lamps, the darkness encircled us like a wall. I moved closer to Ajit while he paid the driver, and they got down the luggage and dumped it into the sand.
‘Babu, chelo!’
But Babu did not come, and there was not a glimmer of light from the flats. The tongawallah whipped up his horse, quickly turned the carriage in the clearing near the house and started back to town.
Ajit struck a match and we picked our way through odd bricks and builder’s rubble, round to the entrance of the flat, which was on the ground floor and had a separate entrance.
‘Babu,’ shouted Ajit with real annoyance in his voice.
Only the echo answered.
‘He must have fallen asleep,’ said Ajit.
A flight of stone steps led up to a small veranda. Ajit ran up the steps ahead of me, but pulled up short at the top.
I too could see that the front door was open, and I too realised that in such a deserted spot any servant left alone would surely have bolted it shut. There was no light within.
Ajit backed quickly down the steps.
‘Peggie,’ he said softly, ‘just wait here quietly while I see that all is well.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I stood in the lonely dark and was dreadfully afraid. Far, too far, away, I could hear the jingle of the harness bells on the receding tonga.
Ajit bent down and picked up a brick, then glided up the steps with it poised for action. He paused on the top step and then moved swiftly to the entrance, and, standing on one side of the doorway, so that his body was shielded from any missile discharged from within, reached round into the room and switched on the light.
The light sent a pariah dog speeding away with fright, but I felt better now that I could see; and I picked up a brick and followed Ajit.
He had meanwhile peeped into the room, seen that it was empty, and crossed quickly to a second room which led off it; it was also empty. He turned to the other door leading off the main room and went through to the kitchen, and then to the bathroom and storeroom. Both were empty. In the kitchen a charcoal fire still glowed faintly in a tiny stove on the floor, and round it were grouped open cooking pots full of food. The back door was bolted.
He was puzzled. I stepped up behind him and he whirled round, brick raised to smash down on the intruder’s face.
‘It is only I,’ I said. ‘Don’t look so grim.’
Relieved, he lowered the brick and said: ‘It was not good that you followed me.’ He looked round. ‘I cannot understand. Babu has cooked – everything is in order – but where is the boy? Unwise to leave the front door open like that – dogs might have eaten our dinner.’ He laughed nervously, and put the brick down on to the floor.
‘I will bring in the luggage.’
‘I’ll come and help.’
‘You are to stay here,’ he commanded.
I started to object, but the look on his face was that of a man who expected to be obeyed, and I found myself acquiescing.
‘OK, Chief.’
He grinned and pinched my cheek, but he shot the bolts of the kitchen door as he went out so that I could not follow. I heard him cross the living-room and then a muffled exclamation. I ran to the bolted door.
‘Ajit, what is it?’
‘All is well. It is Babu. Babu, what have you been doing?’
‘Sahib,’ said a feeble voice. ‘Arree, Sahib.’
Ajit came and unbolted the door, and I nearly fell through in my haste.
‘Good heavens!’ I exclaimed.
A figure stood at the front door. It was clothed from head to foot in thick mud, out of which stared a pair of weeping, bloodshot eyes. A horrible odour rolled into the room and wrapped itself round us. Mud splodged on to the veranda, and there was a trail of it leading into the darkness.
‘What has happened?’ I gasped. ‘He can’t come in while he is like that.’
‘He can’t,’ said Ajit, his eyes twinkling.
‘Tell him to sit on the steps for a minute. My God, how he stinks.’
‘Betho,’ said Ajit, pointing to the steps, and Babu still weeping loudly sat down with a plop.
I flew back into the kitchen to fetch some water, but could not find a bucket. There was, however, a large earthenware jar on a stone stand. It was already full of water, so I staggered out on to the veranda with it.
‘Close your eyes. I’m going to pour water over you,’ I said, feeling that drastic action was necessary to clear the main coating of mud; and I tipped the water over his head.
Unthinkingly I had spoken in English. Babu had not, of course, understood, and I had acted too quicky for Ajit to intervene.
The boy leaped up with a shriek, as I cascaded carefully cooled drinking water over him. Gurgling and choking he fled down the steps and stood in the darkness, howling like a young animal, so that the pariah dogs, startled from the hollows in the sand where they slept, barked alarmedly.
‘Babu, Babu,’ shouted Ajit over the lamentations, trying hard to contain his laughter. ‘Come here. You must have a bath. Come now. Memsahib will not pour any more water.’
Snuffling and rubbing the mud out of his eyes, Babu came slowly back to the veranda. The water had had some e
ffect. His face and shoulders had emerged from their covering, and he proved to be a dark, low-foreheaded lad of about fifteen.
I said penitently to Ajit that I was sorry I had frightened the boy. ‘What shall I do? I had no idea the water was so cold.’
‘There is a bucket in the storeroom. Fill it with water from the tap – the tap water will be warm from the sun – and bring it here with an old cup and any soap you can find. I will stay here and calm him.’
I hurried to do as I was bidden, and when I returned with a bucket of water, Babu had stopped crying and was talking to Ajit in a slow, sulky voice.
Ajit stopped him and commanded: ‘Go to the foot of the steps. Take off your shirt and have a bath.’
Babu looked at me resentfully, took the bucket from me, scooped up the water with his hand and washed out his mouth. After spitting over the veranda rail, he carried the bucket down the steps and a moment later the splashing of water announced that the bath was in progress.
‘How will he take a bath out there?’ I asked.
Ajit smiled. ‘It will be somewhat cold, but he will use the cup to pour water over himself, then he will lather himself with soap, and rinse it off by pouring more water. Give him another bucket of water – and an old shirt and pyjamas of mine to wear. I think he has no clothes other than the ones he was wearing – I promised him two suits of clothes as part of his wages – I must order them.’
‘Won’t that be very costly?’ I asked, as I delved in the cupboard for clean clothes. The cupboard was in chaos – clothes, blueprints, detective novels and bars of soap, mixed with crumpled bed-linen and my letters to Ajit.
‘No,’ said Ajit, ‘it means only two each of shirts, cotton pants and vests.’
He fetched another pail of water and took it outside, with the garments I had found.
When he came back I was sitting on the floor in the kitchen, trying to coax the charcoal stove into burning again.
‘What happened to Babu?’
Ajit fetched some more nuggets of charcoal from an old kerosene tin in a corner, before answering. ‘I shall tell you – don’t trouble with the fire – Babu will make it burn when he comes in, but these coals will keep it from dying in the meantime.’ He sat down on the floor beside me and put his arm round my shoulder. He looked very tired, his eyes black-ringed.
‘Babu has a friend who is a shepherd,’ he said. ‘This man came to ask Babu for one or two bilis – the brown cigarettes village people smoke – and as dinner was ready, Babu sat on the veranda with him and they smoked, while the goats grazed around the house – at this time of year fodder is so scarce that they graze one herd during the day and another on the same ground during the night – anyway, the shepherd had a goat lying away under the trees at the back of the house, and it had just given birth to three kids. Two kids being the normal yield, Babu’s interest was aroused, and, forgetting that our door was open, they walked off to have a look.’
He paused to look down at me. Hunger had made me weak and I had laid my head on his shoulder. I did not really care about Babu as long as he was not hurt; all I wanted to hear was the rich cadences of Ajit’s voice and to feel him close to me.
Ajit sighed. ‘Babu saw the lights of the tonga flash as it turned, realised what it was and started to run back to the flat, hoping to get in before we spotted his absence – but he forgot about the sewage pond, and in the darkness he plunged into it. It is not deep – but the banks are slippery and it would be hard to get out of it.’
I smiled, roused myself and stretched. ‘Poor Babu,’ I said, ‘I think I should heat and serve this food – we are both hungry, and Babu must be exhausted.’
‘Babu exhausted? He is a village boy – very tough. Besides, my Queen, you do not know how to make the bread.’
‘That is true – I don’t know.’ I had heard about the bread-making which is the bane of every Indian household, but I had not been able to find anyone in Wetherport to give me a cooking lesson.
We resigned ourselves to being hungry a little longer. I felt as if I had been pummelled by new experiences and I resumed thankfully my former position with my head on Ajit’s shoulder, while he whispered into my ear that he loved me.
It was thus that a clean, damp Babu first saw us properly, as he stepped noiselessly into the kitchen, his master’s old shirt flapping round his knees. He looked at me with great curiosity, and then cast his eyes down.
‘Goddess Rhada’s sister, namaste,’ he said softly, putting his hands together in an attitude of prayer.
I sprang away from my husband. ‘Namaste, Babu,’ I said gravely, and feeling uncertain of my Gujerati I asked Ajit to tell him to serve dinner. ‘We shall all feel better when we have eaten.’
Ajit broke into Hindi, which Babu apparently followed quite easily; and, none the worse for his adventure, he moved stolidly about the kitchen collecting trays and brass cups, while the charcoal in the stove caught alight again.
‘No drinking water, Sahib,’ he said mournfully. ‘I boiled it specially for Memsahib this morning, and now she has thrown it away.’
Ajit looked anxious, and then said: ‘Make another fire and boil some more water; you can give me unboiled water.’ He explained to me that being English I was more likely to get dysentery than he was, so tonight I would have to drink tea, since there was no means of cooling the newly boiled water quickly.
‘Babu, Memsahib will show you how to make tea as it is done in her country.’
I acquiesced, and Ajit led me first to the bathroom to wash my hands – it contained only a small sink and an additional tap set shoulder high in the wall, and was neither very clean nor tidy. The towel was grey, so I wiped my hands on a clean handkerchief. We went back into the front room. Except for four straight chairs and a table, it was bare. Ajit closed the kitchen door and turned on the ceiling fan. We stood under its welcome coolness; and Ajit kissed me as I had dreamed of being kissed for many weeks.
There was a final clatter of cooking pots from the kitchen. Babu shouted: ‘Khana heh, Sahib.’
We let go of each other, chuckling like conspirators.
‘Food’s ready,’ said Ajit, and we sat down at the bare table, our weariness relegated to the background, each knowing that we had found again the sweet intimacy of our days in England.
Although I was so hungry, I viewed the coming meal with trepidation. I had tried to eat curries aboard ship but the mass of spice had nauseated me, and since then I had eaten English food both in the ship and on the train. This was my first Indian meal with Ajit, and I feared I would not be able to eat it.
I gathered up courage, as Babu, moving fast for once, came in with two large trays and set one before each of us. He paused anxiously. There is no doubt that he had cooked the food and arranged the trays with the greatest care, but he was not a professional cook and could not be sure whether his efforts would please me.
‘He is probably wondering if he can possibly please a Memsahib,’ said Ajit, sniffing appreciatively at the good odours coming from his tray. He motioned Babu back to the kitchen. The boy sighed and shot back to his breadmaking.
The tray in front of me was of well-polished brass and on it were three small, brass cups, each of which held a different curry. There was also a saucer with slices of raw onion, tomato and green chillie in it. A small heap of hot rice lay on the tray itself and by it a wafer-thin, hollow ball of pastry.
‘Bread,’ said Ajit in explanation of the latter, as he tore apart his own little ball and with a piece of it deftly lifted some curry from one of the brass cups and popped it into his mouth. ‘Babu,’ he shouted cheerfully, his round face beaming, ‘Babu, bring Memsahib a spoon.’
Memsahib was, however, trying to emulate her husband and managed to convey a little food to her mouth.
I do not know how to describe the bliss of that first mouthful of food in my new home. To my astonishment it had a delicate flavour compounded of potatoes, peas and tomatoes. No burning chillies seared my throat, no heavy,
fatty taste cloyed my mouth. It was very different from the curries of the ship, and, as I delved into the other little cups, I remarked on this difference.
‘They probably had Goanese cooks on board ship. They tend to make food very hot and rich. This cooking is nearly the same as that of my home – it is North Indian food. I also told Babu not to put many chillies.’
‘This is going to be fun,’ I said, more relieved than words can express. ‘If I can eat, I can face anything.’
‘I’m not going to starve you, darling,’ said Ajit, rather taken aback. ‘Even if you are not allowed to eat flesh here, you will not starve.’
‘Not allowed to eat flesh! – you always ate meat in England.’
‘We are living, my Rani, in a Jain community and they are against the taking of life. They tolerate us here only if we become vegetarians. That means no fish or eggs either.’ He paused to shout to Babu for more bread. ‘All the families normally living in this building are Jains, and since I am not from this province they asked the Government Agent, when they learned I was coming, to make it a condition of my tenancy that I would be a vegetarian.’
‘This is going to make life awkward,’ I remarked as I licked my fingers.
‘I know. It means a purely Indian diet for you – I had to agree, as this is the only vacant flat within two miles of the power-house site.’ He went on hopefully: ‘If Babu would agree to its being brought into the kitchen, we could buy some meat at present, from the Muslim bazaar, and you could cook it, as the other tenants have gone up to the hills for the summer. They all work in a Government College near here and get months of leave.’ He added regretfully: ‘We shall get exactly three weeks.’
I giggled at the idea of asking Babu’s permission to hold meat-eating orgies. ‘Don’t worry, darling,’ I said. ‘If all vegetarian food is as good as this, I shall not come to harm. If other wives can manage, I am sure I should be able to.’
Ajit blew me a kiss across the table.
When we could eat no more, Ajit produced cigarettes, and Babu took away the trays. I looked out of the barred window. The moon was high, lighting up a bleak, flat landscape. It looked cool.
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