Sharmila, who had never had occasion to leave the city she was born in, thought it was a joke and laughed. But Miss Tuhy was very much in earnest. She remembered all the holidays she had gone on years ago when she was still teaching. She had always gone to the Simla hills and stayed in an English boarding house, and she had taken long walks every day and breathed in the mountain air and collected pine cones. She told Sharmila all about this, and Sharmila too began to get excited and said, ‘Let’s go,’ and asked many more questions.
‘Sausages and bacon for breakfast every morning,’ Miss Tuhy reminisced, and Sharmila, who had never eaten either, clapped her hands with pleasure and gave an affectionate squeeze to her youngest child playing in her lap: ‘You’ll like that, Munni, na? Shaushage? Hmmm!’
‘They’ll get wonderful red cheeks up there,’ said Miss Tuhy, ‘real English apple cheeks,’ and she smiled at the sallow city child dressed in dirty velvet. ‘And there’ll be pony rides and wild flowers to pick and lovely cool water from the mountain streams.’
‘Let’s go!’ cried Sharmila with another hug to her child.
‘We’ll go by train,’ said Miss Tuhy. ‘And then a bus’ll take us up the mountains.’
Sharmila suddenly stopped smiling: ‘Yes, and the money? Where’s that to come from? You think she’d ever give?’ and she tossed her head towards the room where her grandmother lay, immobile and groaning but still a power to be reckoned with.
Miss Tuhy waved her aside: ‘This’ll be my treat,’ she said.
And why not? The money was there, and what pleasure it would be to spend it on a holiday with Sharmila and the children! She brutally stifled all thoughts of caution, of the future. Money was there to be spent, to take pleasure with, not to eke out a miserable day-by-day existence which, in any case, might end – who knew? – tomorrow or the day after. And then what use would it ever be to her? Her glasses slipped and lay crooked on her nose, her face was flushed: she looked drunk with excitement. ‘You’ll get such a surprise,’ she said. ‘When we’re sitting in the bus, and it’s going up up up, higher and higher, and you’ll see the mountains before you, more beautiful than anything you’ve ever dreamed of.’
Unfortunately Sharmila and the children were all very sick in the bus that carried them up the mountains, and so could not enjoy the scenery. Sharmila, in between retching with abandon, wept loudly that she was dying and cursed the fate that had brought her here instead of leaving her quietly at home where she belonged and was happy. However, once the bus had stopped and they had reached their destination, they began to enjoy themselves. They were amused by the English boarding house, and at mealtimes were lost in wonder not only at the food, the like of which they had never eaten, but also at the tablecloths and the cutlery. Their first walk was undertaken with great enthusiasm, and they collected everything they found on the way – pine cones and flowers and leaves and stones and empty cigarette packets. As Miss Tuhy had promised, they rode on ponies: even Sharmila, gasping and giggling and letting out loud cries of fright, was hoisted on to the back of a pony but had to be helped down again, dissolving in fits of laughter, because she was too heavy. Miss Tuhy revelled in their enjoyment; and for herself she was happy too to be here again among familiar smells of pine and wood fires and cold air. She loved the pale mists that rose from the mountainside and the rain that rained down so softly. She wished they could stay for ever. But after the third day Sharmila and the children began to get bored and kept asking when they were going home. They no longer cared to go for walks or ride on ponies. When it rained, all four of them sat mournfully by the window, and sighed and moaned and kept asking, what shall we do now? and Sharmila wondered how human beings could bear to live in a place like this; speaking for herself, it was just the same as being dead. Miss Tuhy had to listen not only to their complaints but also to those of the management, for Sharmila and the children were behaving badly – especially in the dining-room where, after the third day, they began demanding pickles and chapattis, and the children spat out the unfamiliar food on the tablecloth while Sharmila abused the hotel servants in bazaar language.
So they went home again earlier than they had intended. They had been away less than ten days, but their excitement on seeing the old places again was that of long-time voyagers. They had hired a tonga at the station and, as they neared home, they began to point out familiar landmarks to each other; by the time they had got to their own neighbourhood bazaar, the children were bobbing up and down so much that they were in danger of falling off the carriage, and Sharmila shouted cordial greetings to the shopkeepers with whom she would be fighting again tomorrow. And at home all the relatives and friends crowded into the courtyard to receive them, and there was much kissing and embracing and even a happy tear or two, and the tenants and servants thronged the galleries upstairs to watch the scene and call down their welcome to the travellers. It was a great homecoming.
Only Miss Tuhy was not happy. She did not want to be back. She longed now for the green mountains and the clean, cool air; she also missed the boarding house with its English landlady and very clean stairs and bathrooms. It was intensely hot in the city and dust storms were blowing. The sky was covered with an ugly yellow heat haze, and all day hot, restless winds blew dust about. Loudspeaker vans were driven through the streets to advise people to be vaccinated against the current outbreak of smallpox. Miss Tuhy hardly left her room. She felt ill and weak, and contrary to her usual custom, she often lay down on her bed, even during the day. She kept her doors and windows shut, but nevertheless the dust seeped in, and so did the smells and the noise of the house. She no longer went on her daily shopping and preferred not to eat. Sharmila brought food up for her, but Miss Tuhy did not want it, it was too spicy for her and too greasy. ‘Just a little taste,’ Sharmila begged and brought a morsel to her lips. Miss Tuhy pushed her hand away and cried out, ‘Go away! I can’t stand the smell!’ She meant not only the smell of the food, but also that of Sharmila’s heavy, perspiring body.
It was in these days of terrible heat that the grandmother at last managed to die. Miss Tuhy dragged herself up from her bed in order to attend the funeral on the bank of the river. It was during the hottest part of the day, and the sun spread such a pall of white heat that, seen through it, the flames of the pyre looked colourless and quite harmless as they first licked and then rose higher and enveloped the body of the grandmother. The priest chanted and the eldest son poured clarified butter to feed the fire. All the relatives shrieked and wailed and beat their thighs in the traditional manner. Sharmila shrieked the loudest – she tore open her breast and, beating it with her fists, demanded to be allowed to die, and then she tried to fling herself on the pyre and had to be held back by four people. Vultures swayed overhead in the dust-laden sky. The river had dried up and the sand burned underfoot. Everything was white, desolate, empty, for miles and miles and miles around, on earth and, apart from the vultures, in the sky. Sharmila suddenly flung herself on Miss Tuhy and held her in a stifling embrace. She wept that now only she, Miss Tuhy, was left to her, and promised to look after her and tend and care for her as she had done for her dear, dead granny. Miss Tuhy gasped for air and tried to free herself, but Sharmila only clung to her the tighter and her tears fell on and smeared Miss Tuhy’s cheeks.
Miss Tuhy’s mother had died almost forty years ago, but Miss Tuhy could still vividly recall her funeral. It had drizzled, and rich smells of damp earth had mixed with the more delicate smell of tuberoses and yew. The clergyman’s words brought ease and comfort, and weeping was restrained; birds sang cheerfully from out of the wet trees. That’s the way to die, thought Miss Tuhy, and bitterness welled up into her hitherto gentle heart. The trouble was, she no longer had the fare home to England, not even on the cheapest route.
A Course of English Studies
Nalini came from a very refined family. They were all great readers, and Nalini grew up on the classics. They were particularly fond of the English romantics,
and of the great Russians. Sometimes they joked and said they were themselves like Chekhov characters. They were well off and lived gracious lives in a big house in Delhi, but they were always longing for the great capitals of Europe – London, Paris, Rome – where culture flourished and people were advanced and sophisticated.
Mummy and Daddy had travelled extensively in Europe in easier times (their honeymoon had been in Rome), and the boys had, one by one, been abroad for higher studies. At last it was Nalini’s turn. She had finished her course in English literature at Delhi’s exclusive Queen Alexandra College and now she was going to the fountainhead of it all, to England itself. She tried for several universities, and finally got admission in a brand-new one in a Midland town. They were all happy about this, especially after someone told them that the new universities were better than the old ones because of the more modern, go-ahead spirit that prevailed in them.
‘Dearest Mummy, I’m sorry my last letters haven’t been very cheerful but please don’t get upset! Of course I love it here – who wouldn’t! – and it was only because I was missing you darlings all so much that I sounded a bit miserable. Now that I know her better I can see Mrs Crompton is a very nice lady, she is from a much better class than the usual type of landlady and I’m really lucky to be in her house. I have a reading list as long as my arm from classes! It’s a stiff course but terribly exciting and I can hardly wait to get started on it all. The lecturers are very nice and the professor is a darling! Social and cultural activities have begun to be very hectic, there are so many societies to choose from it is difficult to know where to start. There are two music societies, one for classical music and the other for pop. You won’t have to guess very hard which is the one I joined . . . ’
Yes, there was the classical music society, and more, a poetry society, and the town had symphony concerts and a very good repertory company playing in a brand-new theatre financed by the Arts Council. It was a good place, full of cultural amenities and intelligent people, and the university was, as Nalini and her family had been told, modern and go-ahead, with a dynamic youngish Vice-Chancellor in charge. Nalini’s letters home – she wrote three or four times a week – were full of everything that went on, and her mother lived it all with her. Sometimes, sitting in her drawing-room in Delhi on the yellow silk sofa, the mother, reading these letters, had tears in her eyes – tears of joy at the fullness and rapture of life and her own daughter a young girl at the very centre of it.
But Nalini was not as happy as she should have been. She did everything that she had always dreamed of doing, like going for walks in the English countryside and having long discussions over cups of coffee, but all the same something that she had expected, some flavour that had entered into her dreams, was not there. It was nothing to do with the weather. She had expected it to be bleak and raining, and she had spirits high enough to soar above that. She had also learned to adjust to her landlady, Mrs Crompton, who had ‘moods’ – as indeed it was her right to have for she had been the injured party in a divorce suit – and to be sympathetic when Mrs Crompton did not feel up to cooking a hot meal. Of course, she missed Mummy and Daddy and the boys and the house and everything and everyone at home – dreadfully! – but it was the price she had been, and still was, willing to pay for the privilege of being in England. Besides, there was always the satisfaction of writing to them and as often hearing from them, and not only from them but from all the others too, her cousins and her college friends, with all of whom she was in constant correspondence. Every time the postman came, it was always with at least one letter for Nalini, so that Mrs Crompton – who wasn’t really expecting anything but nevertheless felt disappointed to have nothing – sometimes became quite snappish.
Nalini was not lonely in England. She got to know the people at college quite quickly, and even had her own group of special friends. These were all girls: they were friendly with the men students, and of course saw a lot of them during classes and the many extracurricular activities, but special friendships were usually with members of one’s own sex. So it was with a number or just a single girl friend that Nalini roamed over the college grounds, or sat in the canteen, or went to a concert, or out for a walk; and very pleasant and companionable it always was. Yet something was missing. She never wrote home about anything being missing, so they all thought she was having as grand a time as her letters suggested. But she wasn’t. Really, in spite of everything, all England at her disposal, she was disappointed.
One day she was out walking with her friend Maeve. They had left the town behind them and were walking down the lanes of an adjoining village. Sometimes these lanes were narrow and hemmed in by blackberry bushes that were still wet with water drops from recent rains; sometimes they opened up to disclose pale yellow fields, and pale green ones, and little hills, and brindled cows, and a pebbled church. The air was clear and moist. It was the English countryside of which the English poets – Shakespeare himself – had sung, and of which Mummy had so often spoken and tried to describe to Nalini. Maeve was talking about Anglo-Saxon vowel changes and the impossibility of remembering them; she was worried about this because there was a test coming up and she didn’t know how she was ever going to get through it. Nalini also did not expect to get through, but quite other thoughts occupied her mind. Although she was fond of Maeve – who was a tall strong girl and looked like a big robin with her ruddy cheeks and brown coat and brown knitted stockings – Nalini could not help wishing that she was not there. She wanted to be alone, in order to give vent to the melancholy thoughts with which she felt oppressed. If she had been alone, perhaps she would have run through the fields, with the wind whipping her face; or she might have leaned her head against a tree, in which a thrush was singing, and sighed, and allowed the tears to flow down her cheeks.
The men students at the university were all very nice boys: eager and gentle and rather well mannered in spite of the long hair and beards and rough shirts that so many of them affected. One could imagine a charming brother-and-sister relationship with them, and indeed that seemed to be what they themselves favoured when they went as far as establishing anything more personal with any of the girls. It would not have done for Nalini. She had enough brothers at home, and what she had (even if she didn’t at the time know it) come to England for, what she expected from the place, what everything she had read had promised her, was love and a lover.
A girl in such a mood is rarely disappointed. One of the lecturers was Dr Norman Greaves. He took the classes on Chaucer and his Age as well as on the Augustans, and although neither of these periods had ever been among Nalini’s favourites, she began to attend the lectures on them with greater enthusiasm than any of the others. This was because Dr Greaves had become her favourite teacher. At first she had liked the professor best – he was handsome, elegant, and often went up to London to take part in television programmes – but, after she had written her first essay for Dr Greaves, she realized that it was he who was by far the finer person.
He had called her to his office and, tapping her essay with the back of his hand, said, ‘This won’t do, you know.’
Nalini was used to such reactions from the lecturers after they had read her first essays. She could not, like the other English students, order her thoughts categorically, point by point, with discussion and lively development, but had to dash everything down, not thoughts but emotions, and moreover she could only do so in her own words, in the same way in which she wrote her letters home. But all the lecturers said that it wouldn’t do, and when they said that, Nalini hung her head and didn’t know what to answer. The others had just sighed and handed her essay back to her, but Dr Greaves, after sighing, said, ‘What are we going to do about you?’ He was really worried.
‘I’ll work harder, sir,’ Nalini promised.
‘Yes, well, that’s nice of you,’ said Dr Greaves, but he still looked worried and as if he thought her working harder wouldn’t do all that much good. Nalini looked back at hi
m, also worried; she bit her lip and her eyes were large. She feared he was going to say she wasn’t good enough for the course.
‘“In Troilus and Criseyde”,’ read Dr Greaves, ‘“Chaucer shows how well he knows the feelings in a woman’s heart”. That’s all right, but couldn’t you be a bit more specific? What passages in particular did you have in mind?’
Nalini continued to stare at him; she was still biting her lip.
‘Or didn’t you have any in mind?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said miserably; and added – not, as far as she was concerned, at all inconsequentially – ‘I think I’m a very emotional sort of person.’
He had given her essay back to her without any further comment; but there had been something in his manner as he did so which made her feel that a bad essay, though unfortunate, was not the end of the world. The others had not made her feel that way. Dr Greaves soared above them all. He was not handsome like the professor, but she found much charm in him. He was rather short – which suited Nalini who was small herself – and thin, and exceptionally pale; his hair was pale too, and very straight and fine, of an indeterminate colour which may have been blond shading into grey. He was no longer young – in his thirties, at the end of his thirties indeed, perhaps even touching forty.
Nalini’s life took on colour and excitement. She woke up early every morning and lay in bed wondering joyfully how many times she would see him that day. Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays she was secure because those were days when he lectured; the other two days she was dependent on glimpses in corridors. These had the charm of sudden surprises, and there was always a sort of exquisite suspense as to what the next moment or the next corner turned might not reveal. But of course the best were lecture days. Then she could sit and look at him and watch and adore an hour at a time. He walked up and down the dais as he talked, and his pale hands fidgeted ceaselessly with the edges of his gown. His head was slightly to one side with the effort of concentration to get his thoughts across: he strove to be honest and clear on every point. His gown was old and full of chalk, and he always wore the same shabby tweed jacket and flannel trousers and striped college tie. He was not, unlike the professor and several others of the lecturers, a successful academic.
At the End of the Century Page 10
