Thakkur felt that he was the centre of some great intrigue when at Jaipur he posted a postcard to his master from his mistress. He read the card before putting it into the box, and discovered that he and his mistress were supposed to have arrived safely at the house of his mistress’s sister at Jaipur, that sister was recovering from an illness and that they would stay about a fortnight. He was so glum for the remainder of the journey that although he remembered to buy a tray of food for Ma ji, he forgot to eat himself, and as he climbed the veranda steps in front of Mrs Singh, his feet were faltering.
The door was open and the house was very still. The lowering sun cast long rays straight through the entrance on to the bed. Thakkur gasped. As he told Ayah later, he saw stretched like a corpse on the bed the whitest lady imaginable. Even the hair spread on the pillow looked white in the sharp light.
He drew back for Mrs Singh to see.
She peered at her daughter-in-law and then glided over to the bed, signalling Thakkur to enter. Her keen eyes must have seen the traces of tears on my face, for she bent down and with one delicate finger brushed a tear away.
At the same moment Thakkur caught his foot on the ledge laid across the threshold to keep out snakes, and tumbled headlong into the room scattering luggage right and left.
I was up in a flash; the room seemed full of people made huge by the setting sun behind them.
‘Ajit,’ I shrieked in absolute terror, ‘Ajit! Dacoits! Robbers!’
CHAPTER THIRTY
Mrs Singh drained her teacup, her chubby face still creased with laughter over the fright she had given me. I was laughing too. The mother-in-law whose goodwill I so much desired was much less fearsome than I had imagined. She sat on one of our bamboo chairs, her legs tucked up under her, while in the kitchen the sweeper crept about in awed silence and succeeded in cleaning the lunch trays without her usual efforts at orchestral percussion between floor and brassware.
I had myself crawled out of bed and made the tea, as it was certain that Mrs Singh would not drink tea made by an untouchable – I was agreeably surprised when she took it from me. I had also served Thakkur, who, after moving the luggage into the bedroom, was sitting on the veranda viewing, with great disfavour, the heatwaves dancing across the landscape.
Mrs Singh at first spoke rapidly to me; but I did not understand, so she made her subsequent sentences short and said them slowly.
‘You have been ill?’ she asked.
‘I have had dysentery for some weeks,’ I said, wondering at the same time how I was to gather enough strength to cook an evening meal for the visitors – mercifully Kamala had brought some fresh vegetables.
My mind fidgeted over domestic difficulties, as Mrs Singh subjected me to a long scrutiny. She could not really know how a white woman would look when sick, but the lines on my face must have told her of a rapid loss of weight because she nodded and said: ‘You are thin.’ She put down her cup, and added, ‘I know how to treat dysentery.’
‘The dysentery is gone – but my legs are weak.’
‘Do you eat vegetarian food?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ignoring the eggs which I had consumed from time to time. ‘Yes, I do – although I cannot yet cook such food very well.’
Mrs Singh laughed. ‘Your servant will cook,’ she said.
I gathered together my Hindi and tried to explain the acute servant shortage, but was finding my vocabulary hopelessly inadequate, when there was a soft tap at the open door. The eldest Miss Shah entered, making shy salutations to us.
‘I came,’ she said, ‘to inquire how you are.’
I smiled within myself. The sisters’ curiosity was insatiable; the crisp, unwrinkled sari in which the eldest sister was garbed proclaimed that she had hastily changed into a clean sari and had come to find out who my visitor was. So few happenings stirred the sisters’ lives that my arrival had been a great event to them; and all my doings and my visitors were the subject, I was sure, of evening-long discussions between them and our other neighbours. They criticised the shortness of the summer frocks which I wore when doing housework, the frequent visits of Chundabhai Patel and my friendships with the villagers. I had heard, however, that their comments were not at all unkind and that when a particularly fantastic rumour of my immorality – fantastic to an extent only possible in India – reached them, they came quickly to my defence and corrected the too-vivid imagination of the offending neighbour. As all the neighbours also gossiped to me, most stories reached me eventually, and I followed the old Yorkshire adage of ‘hearing all, seeing all and saying nought’.
Miss Shah’s eyes gleamed with interest when I introduced her to Mrs Singh and she was delighted to act as interpreter.
The sweeper fluttered by the kitchen door to indicate that she had finished her work, and although I was loath to let her go I knew that she must cook for her own family and I therefore dismissed her. She covered her face with her veil and went out the back door.
Ajit’s bicycle wheels made a soft slurring sound through the sand and I usually heard his approach but that day he got a punture in one tyre and had to walk home. The first indication of his presence, therefore, was when a joyful voice suddenly shouted through the window: ‘Mother!’ He vanished; there was a cry of ‘Thakkur, Namaste,’ and Ajit was through the door in a bound and kneeling at his mother’s feet, babbling incoherently to her.
In that moment I realised to the full what being estranged from his family meant to Ajit. I saw the ropes of affection which bound mother and son – and I felt very alone – but I vowed that never again should he suffer such alienation if it could be avoided.
Mrs Singh raised her son up.
‘Arree, Ajit, have you been ill too?’ she asked, anxiously surveying his face.
‘No, Mother. It is Peggie who has been so ill.’
He looked round the room, and, seeing the teacups, he relaxed. Some hospitality had been offered. I slipped off the bed and found some tea still hot in a pan on the dying fire. I filled a cup and brought it to Ajit.
Miss Shah saw that it was time for her to go. As she slipped on her sandals, which she had removed at the door before entering, I thanked her for translating for me.
‘Don’t mention it,’ she said in her best English. ‘It is a pleasure to me.’
The evening that followed was a turning point in my life. Mrs Singh was the first Indian lady I had met whose life had not been greatly affected by Western influence. My neighbours had all attended University and were widely read in English; Ajit and Chundabhai were more English than Indian in their habits; but Mrs Singh still kept most of the rules of her caste, although she was wise enough to waive them when she found it necessary. As she talked, I realised that many of her caste rules were only those of cleanliness and that if I adopted them I might avoid further illness. I listened to all that she had to say, and determined that I would discard her advice only if, after much consideration, I felt that it was founded on superstition alone.
She was full of the wisdom and fun of a country-bred woman, and as I studied the open, cheerful face and the small, gesticulating hands, I saw that she had the same trustworthiness as Ajit. When her face was in repose it had the calm of self-reliance, rather than the patient resignation I had seen on my neighbours’ faces.
After sitting for a few minutes with mother and son, when Miss Shah had gone, I excused myself and went into the kitchen. I wanted to give them time to talk together, and also I had to prepare an evening meal. I leaned my head against the kitchen cupboard door to steady myself. Suddenly Mrs Singh’s voice was raised: ‘Where is my daughter-in-law?’
Ajit had watched me leave the room, anxiety clearly written on his face.
‘She is in the kitchen,’ he said.
‘In the kitchen! She must not work – she must rest and eat to gain health again.’ Turning to the door, she shouted: ‘Thakkur.’
Thakkur, who was nodding quietly in the first gust of the cool evening wind, leaped up from the steps on wh
ich he had been sitting and found himself appointed cook, starting immediately.
Since he had expected to cook for his mistress during the visit, it was not such a blow as might be imagined, and he installed himself in the kitchen without comment, while I was borne protesting back to bed.
I whispered to Ajit that I felt very embarrassed that I was dressed only in a faded wrapper and, as his mother was present, I would like to make myself neat and put on a sari. He was delighted at the suggestion of my wearing a sari, and Mrs Singh clapped her hands when he told her; so I tottered to the bathroom, bathed myself as best I could and put on one of the saris which Mrs Singh had sent to me.
When I returned, she made me stand in the middle of the room while she pattered round me, straightening a fold here and there – and then she noticed that my wrists and neck were bare.
‘What is this?’ she cried, giving Ajit a disapproving look. ‘No necklace – no ear-rings – no bracelets? What kind of a husband are you, to allow your wife to be seen without suitable jewellery?’
Ajit bowed his head and accepted the rebuke, omitting to say that he had not been earning for long, that the doctor’s bills had been heavy and, moreover, I had not received the customary wedding presents.
Hot in defence of my husband, in an extraordinary mixture of Hindi and Gujerati, I said: ‘I have a fine gold bracelet – and – and a loving husband is the finest jewel – I need no other.’
Ajit drew his breath apprehensively, feeling sure that my heated retort would offend his mother.
Mrs Singh, however, laughed. ‘You speak the truth,’ she said. ‘It is good, though, to own jewellery – it is your insurance against hard times – it belongs to you without dispute. Ajit must buy you some as soon as possible – and add to it throughout your life.’ She paused, then took a ruby ring off her finger. ‘See,’ she said, ‘I will begin the collection,’ and she took my hand and slipped the ring on to one finger.
I did not know what to say or even whether it was correct to accept such a present, which to my Western eyes was a valuable one; and I looked at Ajit for guidance.
He nodded his head slightly. I should accept.
There is no word in Hindi for ‘thank you’, so I did what I would have done in the case of an English mother-in-law: I bent and kissed her and said ‘thank you’ in English.
She looked quite stunned at such presumption. Ajit broke into explanations, to which she listened attentively. ‘It is a charming custom,’ she said firmly.
Tension slackened.
All this time Mrs Singh had been in her travelling clothes, although she had washed her hands and feet upon arrival, and I asked if she would like to take a bath before dinner.
She assented, so Ajit took her luggage into the bedroom and undid some of the locks for her, while I made another unsteady pilgrimage to get out clean towels and new soap.
While Mrs Singh made her toilet, I asked Ajit whether we should return the bed to the bedroom for Mrs Singh and ourselves sleep on mats on the floor in the living-room.
‘She might like to sleep in the same room as us, but, of course, we will give her the bed.’
‘Sleep in the same room!’ I exclaimed.
Ajit grinned and pulled my ears teasingly.
‘Oh, you English women with your stiff ideas of privacy! Family guests often share rooms with their hosts – they might feel lonely and lost in the middle of the night otherwise.’
I opened my mouth to protest, but before I could say anything, Ajit added: ‘I expect Mother will like to have the bedroom to herself – so that she can make puja.’
‘Say her prayers?’
‘Yes,’ said Ajit. ‘Now she is getting old, she will take more trouble over her religious observances.’
‘She can’t be fifty years old yet,’ I said.
‘Fifty is old in this country.’
I made a face. ‘I doubt if I shall be able to take to prayers and contemplation when I’m fifty,’ I said. ‘I shall probably want to play bridge, wear red saris and paint my face.’
Ajit looked serious and sat down by me on the bed. He put his arm round me – I was not much of an armful – and said: ‘And you will be able to do so, Rani. I shall always earn enough to indulge you in such simple pleasures; and if I die, I will leave enough money for you to make life as you please.’ He rubbed his nose delicately against my cheek, savouring my perfume, as he went on: ‘I ask only that you should say your prayers with me each day, so that we do not forget God, and that you give in charity either a little of your time or a little money.’
‘You are never to die,’ I said passionately, clutching one brown hand.
He promised dryly that he would not die just yet, and then sent me to see how his mother was managing.
I found her sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of a mirror on a stand, which Thakkur had evidently unpacked for her. She was rubbing oil into her freshly washed hair. I stood and admired the black, glossy waterfall of hair which touched the floor at the back, while I asked if I could help her.
She said promptly that I should rest and not walk about, but I lingered and she asked me to get a fresh sari for her out of the open tin trunk; when I had lifted out a neat bundle of pink cotton, she told me to go back to bed.
When she was dressed, she went into the kitchen, and I could hear her finding fault with everything that Thakkur had done. He was not cooking enough; he must cook lentil soup without spices for daughter-in-law; where had he put the lemon pickle which they had brought? – really, he was always mislaying things.
I heard her opening our grain bins and the shirr-shirr of the falling grain as she ran it through her fingers.
‘The quality of the grain ration here is deplorable,’ she said. ‘Why does not my son buy good grain on the blackmarket?’
Thakkur murmured something about the Sahib always having been extremely honest.
‘Am I not honest?’ asked the lady tartly. ‘Yet I always buy on the black.’
‘Ji, hun, ji, hun, most honest,’ assented Thakkur hastily.
Mrs Singh came within my line of vision as she crossed to the water pots. Standing on tiptoe, she took down the brass water-ladle from its hook, dipped it into one of the pots and filled a brass goblet.
She sipped.
‘This water is not boiled,’ she said. ‘Paickie must have boiled water.’
My heart sank. I had daily asked the sweeper to boil water for drinking and daily she had said that she had done so; but apparently she had lied. Miss Shah had, in any case, assured me that although the water was very salt the well was new and its contents pure.
Before eating herself, Mrs Singh supervised the arrangement of my tray and watched me eat a bowl of tasteless lentils, some rice and curd.
As I ate, she lectured me on the necessity of boiling every ounce of water that I drank and washing all fruit with water containing permanganate of potash.
‘Eat the fruit with a little salt sprinkled on it,’ she advised. ‘The salt kills little animals in it.’
She was vague about what kind of little animals, but I promised to do as she said.
‘But, Mother,’ protested Ajit, laughing at his mother’s vehement tones, ‘I have eaten and drunk the same things as Peggie and I am not ill.’
His mother sniffed. ‘Foolish man, you were born here. All English people suffer when they come. They insist on living in their English style and then wonder why they become ill. They should adopt our ways, eating no flesh, taking curd daily and remembering our caste practices. Do you wash your mouth out after every meal?’ she suddenly shot at me.
‘No,’ I said humbly.
‘Then do so, child. Also take a bath and change your clothes on coming from the bazaar. Keep specially some clean clothes to wear when cooking. Do not allow sandalled feet in your kitchen.’
On she went, giving out laws of cleanliness that would have done credit to a London surgeon, while I ate and listened hard.
I could see from the tr
epidation in Ajit’s expression that he feared I would be offended at his mother’s peremptory tones; he knew I was not used to submitting myself to the authority of an older woman.
He need not have feared; I guessed that Mrs Singh had not arranged her visit without opposition from the family, and that she had not, therefore, come from curiosity or to criticise. It was much more likely that she had come to help us and to heal the breach in the family.
I listened, therefore, and learned much. Ajit and I, I argued to myself, would spend most of our lives away from his family, and I could discard that part of the advice which seemed mere superstition and put to use the sensible part.
Thakkur brought trays of food for Ajit and Mrs Singh. It smelled delicious, and I said so hopefully – but Mrs Singh was adamant that rice, lentils and curd were all that I could have that night.
Ajit had previously asked after his family as a whole, but now he asked his mother cautiously if his father could not have spared time to visit us too.
Mrs Singh immediately looked so guilty and shifted about so uncomfortably, that Ajit guessed that she had somehow managed to come secretly, and he changed the subject; but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes.
To my relief, Mrs Singh elected to sleep alone in the bedroom, and Thakkur lifted our bed into it, opened her bedding roll and spread her own clean sheets and pillows.
We made ourselves comfortable on a couple of mats in the living-room. Thakkur also took a mat and curled up on the veranda. As no thief was likely to venture in while he lay there, we left the front door open so that we could have the benefit of the night breeze.
The floor was hard to one unaccustomed to lying on it, and I did not sleep much. Thakkur also had a bad night, because every time he went to sleep the pariah dogs crawled on their bellies up the veranda steps and sniffed at him from head to toe. One or two poked their noses through the door, but I quickly shooed them away.
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