Thursday's Child

by Helen Forrester

  Thakkur rose at five, cursing all dogs and uncivilised Gujerati builders who failed to build compound walls round houses. He was not up before Mrs Singh. She was already taking her bath preparatory to saying her prayers.

  I fell asleep.

  Awakened by the clank of the milkman’s pail and the shouts of the drovers of a passing camel train, Ajit was surprised to find the visiting half of the household already busy. When he stirred I woke up; but all that Mrs Singh would allow me to do was to say my prayers and take a bath.

  I was troubled that my visitors were having to work, but Ajit pacified me by saying that in any case Mrs Singh would not take food cooked by me, so Thakkur would have to cook for her, and it was not much more trouble for him to cook for us as well. To Thakkur the work of our little house would be nothing, he assured me. I was to rest and enjoy myself.

  He moved my mat and pillow on to the veranda, and I lay down thankfully. Now was my chance to get well.

  Ajit realised that on that day his home would be run like his father’s house, so he took his bath leisurely and sat and talked with Mrs Singh and me, until at nine o’clock Thakkur presented us with a full meal of rice, lentils, vegetables, curd and bread – bread so light I said the fairies must have made it. Ajit promptly translated this remark for Thakkur’s benefit and the old man’s dismal face showed the faintest suggestion of a smile.

  Again I had to be content with rice, lentils and curd, with the addition of one piece of bread.

  Ajit explained that this meal was meant to last him until evening; there would be no lunch, although something good would probably arrive for nibbling with my tea, and there would be a good evening meal, to all of which Mrs Singh nodded agreement as she sat cross-legged on a chair like a jolly, feminine Buddha.

  As the day progressed, I learned just how much work a good Indian servant could do. The sweeper came and washed the dishes and swept the floor; but Thakkur, without fuss or hurry, cooked, cleaned grain and had it ground, and went to the city to buy vegetables. He returned with finer vegetables than I had ever been able to buy, and as he spread them out on the newly scrubbed storeroom floor I was amazed at their succulence. When I admired them, he gave me the first real grin he had been able to muster since he arrived.

  Mrs Singh spent hours talking to me, and it was remarkable what we managed to say to each other with the aid of a dictionary. Once or twice, I drew pictures on my writing pad to illustrate clearly what I meant; and Mrs Singh laughed at the little drawings until her ear-rings rattled.

  The youngest Miss Shah, a bundle of agonised shyness, came to inquire after my health, and at the same time the Brahmin lady from upstairs slipped in through the back door, keeping her face closely covered until Thakkur had moved away. She kept purdah from preference, her husband being quite willing that she should go out if she wished. From the demeanour of the two women in front of my mother-in-law, I realised that I had omitted many forms of outward respect to Mrs Singh. After they had gone and she had expressed her approbation of such well-behaved acquaintances, I asked her forgiveness if my Western ways seemed very disrespectful to her.

  She smiled affectionately upon me and said that she had been surprised how much I had learned of Indian ways; I asked her if she would teach me the usual forms of behaviour before certain people and she readily agreed. ‘There is no strict etiquette, as the English have,’ she said.

  I was feeling better. When Ajit saw me that evening, he was pleased and his own spirits went up. As I reclined on my mat in the moonlight like some Indian Cleopatra and Mrs Singh sat cross-legged on a cushion, he regaled us with funny stories, all of which seemed to begin: ‘There was once a Sikh …’

  Mrs Singh stayed with us for a fortnight and during the whole time she never made me feel jealous or left out of proceedings. There was no doubt that she loved Ajit deeply, but her thoughts always seemed to be for us as a pair. She made me feel that I was part of Ajit and, therefore, to be cared for equally with him. No word of criticism ever passed her lips and yet she managed to teach me how to put my house in order. I begged that Thakkur should give me some cooking lessons, which the old man happily did, and before they left I could at last make good bread.

  When Thakkur found that I could not sit cross-legged without pain, he suggested to Mrs Singh that he should buy from the bazaar a cheap table and a ‘piece of the cloth that does not burn’, so that the stoves could be put on the table and I could cook standing up.

  Ajit reproached himself for not having thought of this before, and Thakkur was despatched to the carpenters’ bazaar with instructions to buy a strong table and a piece of asbestos.

  I also had a private conference with Thakkur, with the result that he came back with a proper, long-handled English broom and a similar mop, things which I had not been able to find in the bazaar. At Mrs Singh’s suggestion, he also bought a big water boiler. Thakkur carried none of these purchases himself, but engaged no less than three coolies for the purpose. The table and boiler were, of course, too heavy to be carried in any way except on the head, and it was beneath the dignity of a member of the warrior caste, such as Thakkur, to be seen carrying brooms.

  Apart from teaching me the simplest method of running a house, Mrs Singh taught me to make puja, that is, to say my prayers while accompanying them with small offerings of spice and oil thrown on to the first fire of the day. The ivory Lord Krishna had incense sticks burned in front of him, and Mrs Singh, when she heard that the Raphael print was a picture of the Lord Jesus, asked me if I would like to place incense sticks in front of that as well; to please her I placed them there also. God is God, no matter what his manifestation, and this was one way of acknowledging his existence.

  The preoccupation of Indians with matters of the spirit was strange to me after the lukewarm interest of my fellow countrymen. The fact, however, that death sits grinning on the shoulder of every man in a country of famines and huge natural disasters, makes an interest in the next world imperative if one is to avoid being always afraid. An Indian peasant’s burden of suffering is so terrible that he tends to draw away from the agony of the present and to dream of a rebirth into a higher, more privileged caste or of his return to his Maker.

  Various political parties were trying to convince people that their current lives could be made much more bearable, by their own efforts; but it was a slow and difficult task, and to most men life was still something to be borne patiently until death gave release from it.

  New ideas were, however, stirring among the young; I occasionally saw newspaper reports of local leaders of dynamic personality who had succeeded in obtaining co-operative action, and practical results had followed, such as a village road built or a new type of well bored.

  As I lit the incense sticks and said my muntras, I vowed that when I was well and had a reliable servant, I would help in one of these new movements.

  ‘Do not meddle with customs you do not understand,’ my conscience warned me.

  ‘I will first learn to understand,’ I muttered to myself. ‘I will be humble; first learn and then teach.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  At last Mrs Singh’s bedding roll had to be buckled up and farewells said. A tonga was ordered to come from the city to take us to the station.

  Before they left, Ajit managed to extract from Thakkur the details of Mrs Singh’s arrangements for her visit. Thakkur venutred to say that the Big Sahib should have come too; he would have enjoyed the visit. The little Memsahib was not at all like the Memsahibs he had met before Independence; she was like an Indian lady but more peaceable.

  Ajit laughed when he told me this. At least I had gained one adherent in his father’s house, he teased. He did not tip Thakkur in the ordinary way, but bought him some good, white-papered cigarettes and slipped a ten-rupee note into the tin.

  I was sufficiently recovered to drive into the city with Ajit to see the visitors off. At the station, I placed round my mother-in-law’s neck a farewell garland of flowers, and it wa
s with real sorrow that I waved goodbye.

  ‘I will send a servant to you soon,’ shouted Mrs Singh, as she leaned out of the purdah compartment in which she had elected to travel for safety’s sake.

  ‘Namaste, namaste, Sahib, Memsahib,’ called Thakkur from the servants’ compartment, his face contorted into a smile. ‘Come soon to Delhi – come soon.’

  Come soon! How could we visit until Ajit’s father gave permission? Though we did not know it, at that moment he was in no mood to even look at his foreign daughter-in-law.

  We took a tonga home, since my legs were still not too strong; and against the jingling of its bells we did not at first hear the shouts of the Misses Shah, who, when we arrived, were all standing on our veranda instead of on their own.

  In front of our flat was a coolie cart in which reposed a very large wooden box; two coolies, one woman and one man, were squatting on their heels nearby smoking bilis, while in a tiny hammock made by a piece of veiling attached to the shaft of the cart, a baby lay whimpering.

  ‘What can it be?’ I asked. ‘Have you ordered something?’

  ‘I haven’t ordered anything. I would not do so, without consulting you first,’ said Ajit, a trace of indignation in his voice.

  As we descended from the tonga and paid the tongawallah, a man who had presumably been knocking on our door fluttered down the steps. He peered at us through silver-rimmed spectacles and his nail-brush moustache quivered like a rabbit’s nose. In one hand he held a fountain pen and in the other a piece of paper.

  ‘Singh Sahib?’ he queried.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sign here, please,’ and the pen was pushed into Ajit’s hand.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Ajit. ‘Who are you and what is this?’

  The little man drew himself up and thrust out his chin. ‘Shahpur Electrical Supply Company associated with the Bombay Marine Electric Company one refrigerator Class A ex our Bombay associates,’ he recited without taking breath.

  ‘Ramji,’ exclaimed Ajit, appalled. ‘I have not ordered a refrigerator.’

  ‘I forgot,’ said the representative of the Shahpur Electrical etcetera. ‘I have a letter to deliver to you also.’ He drew out a crumpled envelope from his shirt pocket and handed it to Ajit, while the eyes of the Misses Shah nearly popped out of their heads as they murmured: ‘A refrigerator? A letter?’

  Ajit ripped open the envelope and, holding the letter close to his eyes in order to see in the waning light, he read it.

  I fidgeted with impatience.

  A slow grin spread over his face and became a great laugh.

  ‘Well, I am surprised,’ he said, a very sweet expression on his face.

  ‘Tell me, tell me,’ I implored like a child.

  ‘It’s a wedding present,’ said Ajit, ‘from Chundabhai. Take the letter and read it.’

  ‘A wedding present?’ chorused the Misses Shah, as I read. ‘Whoever heard of a refrigerator for a wedding present? Most extraordinary! Quite unorthodox!’

  I read: ‘Dear Ajit Sahib, I am sorry that this fridge has been so long in coming to you, but it took some time to get it shipped from Bombay. Nevertheless, it comes to you and to Peggie with all good wishes for a long and happy married life from my wife and me. I feel that it will probably give Peggie more pleasure than a pile of saris – and somebody has to make ice cream soufflés for me! Kindest regards and good wishes, Yours, Chundabhai.’

  Feeling dazed, I slowly folded the letter up. I had forgotten that such things as refrigerators existed.

  ‘It’s a tremendous present,’ I said. ‘Should we really accept it?’

  ‘Of course we are going to accept it,’ Ajit said. ‘Chundy is my oldest college friend, and he is simply rolling in money – if he had sent saris or silver it would have been quite expensive. He is so good-natured that he probably spent weeks cogitating over what to give us – and by Heaven, he could not have thought of anything more helpful than this.’

  ‘Fresh milk,’ I said, a sob in my throat, ‘no more rancid butter – meals prepared ahead of time – only one journey a week to buy vegetables. Oh, darling, what a present!’

  Ajit put his arm round me and hugged me. The Misses Shah giggled and the coolies stirred out of their lethargy. He dropped me as if I was a newly-made piece of bread redhot from the tava, and took the delivery note and signed it. The coolies got up reluctantly and with much puffing, blowing and complaining, heaved the box up the steps and into the living-room. They then opened the wooden packing case under the direction of the representative.

  The refrigerator was large, with a commodious freezing section. Its white, polished glory looked incongruous in the stone-floored, colour-washed Indian room; but to me it was a marvellous release from labour.

  ‘How could he guess what it would mean to us?’ I asked, as I ran my fingers tremulously along the immaculate metal shelves and the enamelled boxes.

  ‘He was in England for six years,’ said Ajit, as he tipped the coolies.

  I hastily fetched water for both the coolies and the representative and they departed. It is doubtful if the coolies knew what they had unpacked.

  The Misses Shah, although they knew the purpose of a refrigerator, had never had the opportunity before of examining one closely, and they stole round it as if it was an unexploded time bomb.

  ‘Will it really keep food from rotting?’ asked the eldest lady.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Ajit. ‘An electric power line is being run out here soon, and when the refrigerator is plugged in, food will keep for days in it.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ they chorused.

  ‘It has no lock,’ remarked the second Miss Shah. ‘How will you avoid a servant’s stealing from it?’

  I was nonplussed, and looked at Ajit.

  ‘We shall keep it in this room,’ he said firmly. ‘We can lock the room when we go out.’

  My first reaction was that I could not have a refrigerator in the living-room, but on consideration I realised that it was the only place in which to put it, to avoid pilferage when a servant occupied the kitchen.

  The Misses Shah declined tea, being quite unable to refrain from speeding up the stairs to our other neighbours to tell them of the extraordinary arrival.

  The younger neighbours, being educated, had few taboos, and merely called in a body the next day to inspect the wonderful machine; but a few old parents wagged their heads in horror at the thought of eating food which had been kept for days. It was against the laws of nature and of caste.

  We did not care what anybody thought. We were blissfully happy as together we cooked our dinner, after Ajit and the watchman had managed to ease Chundabhai’s magnificent present into a corner. When we had eaten, Ajit dragged the bed to the front door and we sat on it together, enjoying the coolness and the songs of the insects.

  I saw that from Ajit’s shirt pocket a letter protruded, and I asked him from whom it was. He immediately drew it out.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I picked it up from under the door as we came in this evening. It is for you.’

  I straightened myself, took the letter, saw it was from Mother and opened it. It was a long and garbled letter, full of bits of local news. Towards the end she wrote: ‘You will be pleased to know, dear, that James’s practice has grown so much that he is taking an additional partner in – his mother is very proud of him. Naturally your dear father and I hope that he will marry Angela – though they do not see as much of each other as they used to do.

  ‘Angela is very quiet these days. She does not go out much – not like her usual self at all – I get quite worried about the amount of work the child is doing. Sometimes she goes on far into the night – says she is writing another paper. Dr Wu has called several times, and talks to her about her work – far above my poor head, I fear. Such a nicely behaved young man, but Father gets furious about his visits. I can’t imagine why – he does not stand a chance with Angela now that James is doing so well – Angela has such a matter-of-fact outlook
on life and would not prefer a penniless oriental student to the most successful solicitor in town …’

  There were several paragraphs more, but my mind did not absorb their contents. How little Mother and Father knew about their daughters. I could imagine Father’s fears of another oriental son-in-law, and yet I sensed that Wu could give Angela all that she needed most to make her flower into a warm-hearted, contented woman. James might have been able to help her, but his chances had been spoiled by his brother.

  ‘Bad news?’

  ‘No.’ My voice was hesitant.

  ‘What is it, Rani?’

  I snuggled my face into his neck.

  ‘It is nothing.’

  ‘Something is.’

  ‘It’s Wu.’

  ‘Wu?’

  ‘Yes. He is courting Angela and my parents don’t like it.’

  Ajit’s laughter was deep and rich. ‘Good old Wu,’ he said.

  ‘I want him to marry her,’ I said.

  ‘Well, why not? He is my good friend.’

  ‘My parents don’t realise how excellent a man he is; they would like her to marry James.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I remember James – he would not be good for Angela.’

  I looked up at him. ‘You realise also what Angela needs?’

  ‘I know, my dear. She is very like you.’

  ‘Like me?’

  ‘Yes – only you are afraid of the world and of people and shrink away from them – you need always to have a little protection to which to retire, while Angela plunges into life, and nearly drowns.’

  ‘How do you know she nearly drowns?’

  ‘Her trials are written on her forehead.’

  Then he smiled at me. ‘I think Wu will win her,’ he said.

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘This James looked very cold fish to me,’ remarked Ajit, as he flicked a moth off my pillow.