I asked if she was married.
She giggled and said she was not.
Babu came back with a dripping glass. She squatted on her heels and let Babu pour the water into her cupped hands, from which she drank. Very little was spilt.
She stood up, swung her pot on to her head, and with a reluctant ‘A-jo’, she went on her way to town.
So I made my first friend in India; and I grew to love her and many of the other women of the villages round about – much to the disgust of the middle-class ladies, when they returned to the flats above ours. In their opinion, village women were not people with whom one made friends.
The owner of the falsetto voice had evidently gone round the back of the building and up the main staircase to the other flats. He now came round the front.
Wrapped in a shawl and carrying a staff, he bowed before me obsequiously and said in broken English: ‘Me Udharbhai Watchman. Yesterday night sick malaria not come to flats.’
I considered this telegramlike communication and sought for the Gujerati word for ‘well’. It came to me and I asked if he was now quite well. He did not understand my bad pronunciation and I asked again in English. He still did not understand, so he grinned all over his unshaven face, said ‘OK’ rather doubtfully and pottered off into the bush, where I afterwards found he had a small mud house, in which he lived with his mother, who was reputed to be a hundred years old.
Without being asked to do so, Babu brought me a cup of tea, sweet and scented. Evidently Kamala’s remark that a new bride should be comforted had impressed itself on his mind.
He held the cup out to me tentatively, as if coaxing a young animal to eat. I exclaimed with pleasure and took the cup from him. Realising that I was pleased, his lips parted to show a set of teeth stained red with betel nut.
As I drank, the exhaustion of crying and the fears of the morning receded. I began to think constructively about my future life with Ajit.
Meanwhile, Babu produced a bunch of soft rushes tied together, and swept the rooms. He squatted on his haunches and shuffled along under the bed and table as he swept with the side of his broom. He swept with slow, steady strokes and sang a little song about Lord Krishna.
Soothed, I got up from the steps and walked through the flat. Although it was not dirty, it was in a dreadful muddle. The shelves were strewn with every bit of junk a bachelor could have collected in a lifetime. The bed, as yet unmade, was a jumble of sheets. In every corner lay suitcases and trunks, the contents sticking out where I had hastily rifled them that morning, and on the veranda the bedding roll still lay; and the steps certainly needed further washing, as Ajit had said earlier, although the mud had dried.
‘Bachelors,’ I thought grimly, as I wiped my eyes and then took a pinafore from one of my trunks.
Ajit had bought only the barest essentials for the house, pending my arrival, and nothing had been done to make it into a home. I left Babu to sweep and wash, and firmly opened the cupboard door to reveal the chaos within.
‘Young woman – not so young woman,’ I addressed myself as I unearthed a mass of crumpled shirts and undarned socks, ‘your husband has not known much comfort during the past weeks. He has started a new and responsible job in a strange province, apart from arranging for the arrival of his wife, and it is your duty to make him both comfortable and happy – whether you have to do it in Wetherport or in a bally desert – and even if he is a pig in the mornings.’
At one side of a shelf, in a space cleared for it, I found a package wrapped in silk. Unrolling it I discovered a battered envelope and in the envelope a much-thumbed photograph of myself. I wrapped it up again carefully and replaced it on the shelf. I was smiling softly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A sweat-soaked Ajit came home for lunch. I heard the hiss of the bicycle tyres through the sand and opened the door for him as he staggered up the veranda steps. He came through the door and sat down in the nearest chair without saying a word, exhaustion apparent in every line of him.
‘It’s hot,’ he said at last, and then as the coolness of the room had its effect, he looked about him and added: ‘You have made the room look nice.’
‘Do you like it?’ I asked, anxious for approval.
‘Indeed I do. I am sorry that I had to leave you this morning.’ He mopped himself with a towel which I had brought for him. ‘I had only one day of leave.’
He pulled me to him and kissed me and I realised that whatever the trouble of the morning had been, it was now past. I chatted about how we would arrange the silver ornaments and the pictures which I had brought from England. Perhaps we could buy some curtains, a wardrobe, and a desk in which to keep his papers.
‘We could buy cloth for curtains when we go to the bazaar this evening,’ said Ajit.
‘You should wear your sari to the bazaar,’ he went on, as Babu came in with the lentil soup and rice. He took his place at the table and then got up again suddenly: ‘I forgot,’ he said, ‘Mother gave me a present for you.’ He went to a trunk in the bedroom, which I had not yet had time to explore, and brought out the saris which his mother had given to him earlier.
I unfolded them, and was enchanted by their colours and texture.
‘I must write and thank your mother.’
Ajit looked embarrassed. ‘Father – er – does not know about the present – and he would open the letter.’
‘Oh,’ I said regretfully. ‘Then you must thank her on your next visit.’
‘I will,’ he said, depression in his voice.
To change the subject, I asked him how his work was progressing, but the depression merely changed to irritation.
‘Too many people are making money out of the power house. Only this morning a dealer offered me Rs.500 to pass an installation which I know will break down in no time.’ He ground his teeth and waved his spoon in the air. ‘I refused. So I have made an enemy who will go to the Minister and tittle-tattle about my corruption.’
I was shocked, and he saw the concern on my face.
‘Don’t be afraid, darling. I know how to deal with these matters. The Minister is a friend of my father’s, and he knows the calibre of our family.’
‘Is there much corruption?’
‘No more than in many countries in the West – but it makes me angry.’
He finished his meal, went and washed his face and mouth, kissed me tenderly and went back to work, leaving me with much to think about. My respect for my husband increased considerably.
After he had gone, I washed the sari that I had worn the previous day, and watched fascinatedly as it dried on the veranda rail in a few minutes.
I put on one of the saris which Ajit’s mother had sent. There was no mirror in the flat, but when I stood by Babu, who was sitting smoking in a shady corner of the veranda, there was no gleam of amusement in his eyes so I supposed that I had tied it correctly. I prowled contentedly round the flat, occasionally tripping over the front folds of my sari.
In the kitchen, I opened the small store cupboard and immediately recoiled with disgust. Evidently Babu’s knowledge of housekeeping did not extend to cupboards. Old tins and bottles lay about in profusion; half a dozen different containers, ranging from an old cigarette tin to a cracked saucer, held dirty bits of fat; a forgotten cup of curd had gained an amazing growth of mould; an old kerosene tin held flour in which I could see black insects burrowing. When I moved the kerosene tin, a family of large, leggy beetles ran for cover, and I stifled a shriek as one ran across my hand.
‘Babu,’ I shouted.
There was no response.
I went to the veranda. Babu was curled up asleep in a corner.
He resented bitterly the interruption of his afternoon sleep, but I was adamant and made him get up and come to the kitchen. I pointed to the insects in the flour.
He grinned fatuously.
I had a strong desire to slap him.
He made some unintelligible remark, yawned and strolled to the storeroom, from wh
ich he fetched a tray. He set the tray on the floor and emptied the flour on to it. Still yawning, he carried it outside and set it in the sun. I followed.
The heat hit me as I stepped into the sunlight. It burned my bare feet intolerably and clutched my body like a vice. Gasping, I covered my head with my sari and narrowed my eyes against the glare, but curiosity kept me by the tray.
The insects crawled out of the flour and off the tray, burying themselves in the sand. I nodded and went back on to the veranda. After a few minutes Babu brought the tray to me. I ran my fingers through the flour and found no sign of life. Wheat was so severely rationed that I dared not throw the flour away, so I motioned Babu to bring the tray indoors.
‘We will now make the tin and the cupboard clean,’ I said. ‘Make a fire and boil water.’
Looking thoroughly sulky at the loss of his afternoon sleep, Babu said that the water in the tap would be hot from the sun. I made him bring me a bucketful and found it was as hot as my hands could reasonably bear.
I put on my pinafore, cleared out the cupboard and scrubbed it, telling Babu to throw away the accumulation of rubbish. I noticed, however, that he secreted the bits of fat in a corner of the storeroom. I presumed he would take them home to his mother and made no comment, but made a mental note that when I gave him a holiday I would present him with a new tin of fat as a gift for his mother.
While I was finishing the cleaning, I told Babu to prepare Sahib’s tea, at the same time cautioning him to look through everything he used and if he found insects or dust he was to tell me.
He did as he was bidden, sighing all the time like a morning breeze. I think he believed me to be mad and was most put out at my criticism of his housekeeping.
When Ajit came home and I told him about it, he roared with laughter. ‘Darling, you must daily look at all the food. Keep it also behind locks, because otherwise Babu’s family will eat as well as the insects.’ He squeezed my hand affectionately. ‘You will soon learn everything.’
‘Babu,’ he shouted.
‘Sahib,’ came a subdued voice from the kitchen. Babu appeared, wiping his hands on the towel he wore round his neck.
‘What have you been doing with my stores, letting insects as big as buffaloes graze on them?’
‘Sahib, they were few – the Memsahib does not understand how quickly they come.’
‘No insects in future, Babu, do you hear me – and don’t let me find the Memsahib having to make your kitchen clean in future – what do I pay you for, hey?’
‘Sahib,’ said Babu, his lips pouting.
‘Memsahib will look daily at the cupboards.’
‘Ji, hun,’ came the polite assent.
It was getting cooler, so we ate our tea quickly, and after Ajit had given my sari a few hitches to make the hemline straight, we started for the bazaar.
As we walked along the path that led through the thorns to the bus stop a mile away, Ajit swung the cotton shopping bag cheerfully, and a comfortable feeling of comradeship enveloped us.
‘Step carefully over those big cracks in the earth,’ he said. ‘Snakes sometimes sleep in them.’
I stepped very carefully thereafter, although my mind was not occupied by thoughts of snakes.
‘Why were you so angry with me this morning?’ I asked.
Ajit stopped and looked at me amazedly. ‘Angry? Me? I have no anger for you, my darling – only love.’
‘You must have been angry,’ I said stubbornly, determined to get to the root of the matter. I gave him a nudge to start him walking again. ‘You shouted at me, and asked for things most rudely. You never even said “good morning” or gave me so much as a peck of a kiss. Altogether, young man, you were a perfect pig.’
Ajit looked most distressed; then suddenly he laughed.
‘It is no laughing matter,’ I said. ‘I was hurt.’
He slipped his arm through mine. ‘I am a wretch in the morning – but I did not mean to be rude. Here I am at home and I do not modulate my voice as is done in England. We all shout at each other – but not in anger – a loud voice does not mean anger.’
‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘You ordered me about as if I was a slave – bring this – bring that – without a single courtesy.’
‘Arree, I forgot you were English – an Indian wife would feel that her husband did not love her unless he kept her near him and allowed her to wait on him.’
‘In that case, you are forgiven – and may give me the kiss I did not have this morning,’ and I lifted my face to his.
He looked about hastily and, satisfied that there was no one in that barren place to see us, he kissed me heartily.
‘You are to tell me,’ he instructed, ‘when I say words which sound hurtful. My English is not good – and I may not understand always the inference of what I say. Promise this.’
‘I promise.’
He took out his handkerchief and dabbed the sweat from my face. ‘I do not wish to make your life harder than necessary,’ he said. ‘You have much to endure.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The bus, borne along by a cloud of dust, rattled into the centre square of the town and drew up by a large bus shelter. We descended, while the driver removed his turban and used the end of it to wipe the sweat from his face.
‘It is very quiet,’ said Ajit, looking round the almost-deserted square. Then he spotted a Thanedar and six policemen standing near. ‘Arree, trouble,’ he exclaimed. ‘See the rifles.’
I looked apprehensively to where he pointed. It was true. All the police were armed with rifles.
‘Inspector Sahib,’ said Ajit to that dignitary, who had just finished telling the cringing driver of our bus that he was late. ‘Has there been some disturbance in the city?’
The Inspector flicked the dust off the brass badge pinned on the pocket of his shirt. When the words ‘Shahpur Bus Company’ were again legible, he twiddled his moustache ends, stuck out his chest to show his importance, and examined earnestly the top of the only tree in the square. ‘A little trouble, I believe,’ he said in sing-song English. ‘But I am not one to spread rumours. Rumours are the prerogative of Hindus and Muslims.’
Ajit’s lips tightened. I looked at the Inspector with interest. He was the first Anglo-Indian I had seen. I hated him on sight. His rudeness was unpardonable.
‘What has happened?’ asked Ajit patiently.
‘A Muslim tongawallah was beaten up on the Pandipura road last night. The Muslims say it was done by Hindus. They are quite capable of it.’
‘That is not sufficient to cause the police to be armed.’
The Inspector transferred his interest from the tree top momentarily to me and then examined his patent-leather shoes.
‘A Sikh taxi driver’s house was set on fire and Muslims were seen running away from it. The house was gutted. The police are looking for the culprits now.’
‘I see,’ said Ajit, and propelled me across the square towards the main bazaar.
‘We will keep well inside the Hindu bazaars,’ he said. ‘A riot can start so quickly. It may be that the raid on the Sikh’s house was retaliation for the beating up of the tongawallah, and the police are being careful to see that the Sikhs don’t start any more trouble.’
I nodded. I had heard in England and on the boat coming over of the horrors of the partition riots, and for the first time in my life I was glad to see an armed policeman.
The vegetable bazaar seemed to be functioning normally. It was packed with people, among whom unattended cows and goats nosed their way. Along the pavement sat village women dressed like Kamala. They had round baskets of vegetables set in front of them and they shouted hopefully to likely customers. Each woman had a small, heavy stick by her side, with which she hit the wandering cows if they tried to steal from her basket; she had also a pair of scales which she held up before the purchaser, manipulating them with skilful fingers so as to give light weight to the unsuspecting. Almost all the women had heart-shaped faces and at least one
in every three would have been considered a beauty in England. I wondered why Ajit had bothered to bring a wife from England when such beauties were scattered everywhere.
In the bazaar itself, the police were armed only with lathis, and I watched them idly while Ajit bargained. It was apparent that the people feared them. Women lifted their baskets up and retreated a little as they ambled past. There was none of the easy aplomb of an English policeman on his beat. No one spoke to them.
The vegetable women made jokes about my fair hair, and Ajit said ruefully that I had caused a price boom in the market. When bargaining for fruit with a man who had a small shop facing the market, the man said flatly that for someone who had an English wife Ajit drove too hard a bargain.
At last we were finished, and I had received my first lesson in shopping in a market where there was no fixed price for any product. I wondered if I would ever gain enough patience to bargain for every vegetable I bought. Ajit assured me that I should eventually regard it as an amusing game of skill.
We were fortunate in catching a bus immediately we arrived at the square, but by the time we reached the end of the bus route it was dark.
‘I forgot to bring a torch,’ said Ajit, annoyance in his voice.
A voice from the neem tree which marked the end of the route said: ‘Sahib.’
I jumped with fright.
Babu emerged from the shadows. He had brought the torch.
‘How thoughtful of him,’ I said to Ajit.
‘He probably wanted to visit someone down here and sought for an excuse to leave the house,’ said Ajit sourly. The bazaar had frayed his temper.
Babu took the shopping bags and Ajit the torch.
We came to a tiny restaurant – no more than a thatched roof supported on poles, with a couple of old iron chairs set under it and the owner’s cooking utensils and other small belongings stacked in a corner which had been made by draping sacking from the roof.
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