Instead he was looking at Phul, as was the judge. She stood humbly, wrapped from head to foot in her widow-like sari, and she pleaded in a low voice, ‘Send me home.’
‘Home?’ Binny cried. ‘You are home. This is your home. You can move in right now with my husband – please, I beg you, the house will be empty. I’m taking my son to Bombay.’
Before she had finished speaking, Yasi had sunk to a footstool, embroidered years ago by a great-aunt now deceased. He buried his head in his hands and sobbed.
His parents exchanged helpless looks. Binny said, ‘He’s not well. It’s his headaches. He mustn’t be upset.’
And the judge said, ‘You’re right. We mustn’t upset him.’ United in concern like any two parents, they spoke as though they were alone in the room.
Now Phul came up behind Yasi and laid her hands on his forehead, pressing it as she had done with the judge’s feet. He seemed to relax into her touch, and his weeping stopped.
Binny noticed – and hoped the judge did, too – that Phul’s fingers were thick and coarse, unlike Binny’s own, which were adorned with several precious rings, some of them inherited from the judge’s mother.
Yasi resumed his lively social round and soon became so preoccupied with helping one of his girlfriends with a private fashion show that he was often out all night. So he was absent the morning the driver returned alone from his daily mission with the report that Phul was sick. At once, the judge asked for his three-piece suit, but when Binny found him trembling with the effort of getting his thin legs into his trousers – how frail he had become! – she put him back into his nightshirt and forced him into bed again. He pleaded with her to ask Yasi to take a doctor and some medicine to Phul. ‘She’s alone,’ he told his wife. ‘She has no one.’ Binny regarded him with angry concern, then turned away. ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ she agreed impatiently to his request.
It was almost night when she called for the car and driver. The bazaar was even more alive than on her previous visit – music and lights and announcements on megaphones, vegetables trodden into the gutters, bits of offal thrown for the overfed bazaar dogs. She took the outside staircase that Yasi had climbed as she watched him from the shoe shop. The room she entered had a very different ambience from the one in which Phul presented herself in the judge’s house. Gay and gaudy, with little pictures and little gods, and hangings tinkling with tiny bells, it seemed more innately Phul’s, as though arising from memories of the places and the people among whom she had lived before meeting the judge. A garland of marigolds had been hung around an image of a naked saint with fleshy breasts. Among the few bolsters scattered on the floor, there were only two pieces of furniture, both large: a colonial armchair, the twin of the one in the judge’s bedroom, and a bed, on which Phul lay. She wore a sort of house gown, as crumpled as the bed and with curry stains on it. When she saw Binny, she started up, and her hand flew to her heart – yes, Binny thought, she had every reason to fear the judge’s wife, after he had kept her holed up in this secret den for twenty-five years.
But it turned out that her fear was for the judge – that there was bad news about him that would leave her forever penniless, alone, unprotected. She let out a wail, which ceased the moment she was reassured. Then her first words were of regret for her inability to serve a guest. She blamed her servant boy, who regularly disappeared when needed. She spoke in a rush and in a dialect that Binny found hard to follow.
When the servant boy reappeared, Binny sent him for the doctor from the clinic next to the shoe shop. Phul lay resigned and passive on her bed, though her moaning grew louder at the doctor’s arrival. He was dismissive – some sort of stomach infection, he said. It was going around the city; he saw dozens of cases every day. He scribbled a prescription, ordered a diet of rice and curds. To Binny, it seemed that the room itself was a breeding ground for fevers and infections, with sticks of smoking incense distilling their synthetic essence into the air shimmering with summer heat. There was only one window, which was stuck. Watching her visitor wrestle with it, Phul got up and tried to help her and in her weakness almost fell, before Binny caught her. Struggling then to free herself – ‘No, no!’ she cried – she threw up in a spasm that spattered over Binny’s almost new blue and silver shoes. Then she allowed herself to be carried to the bed and lay there with only her lips moving. What she seemed to be saying was the English word ‘sorry’ – Binny thought how typical it was of the judge that among the few English words he had taught her was this abject one of apology.
Binny was wiping the judge’s face after his meal when he asked, quite shyly, ‘Is she better?’
‘For all I know, she may be, but not well enough to come here and infect us all.’
She wrung out the facecloth in the basin behind the screen. When she emerged, she saw that he was deep in thought. He made a gesture as though communicating with himself; his hand was unsteady but his voice was determined.
‘Yasi must take care of her. He promised. Send him again; send him every day.’
‘If you go on fretting this way, you’ll have another attack and kill the rest of us with having to nurse you.’
But it was she herself who went every day, with specially prepared dishes of healthy food. She ascribed the slowness of Phul’s recovery to the unfresh air in her room. With the one window now propped open, the incense and the bazaar perfume blended with the street smells – wilted produce, motor oil and a nearby urinal. And what was worse were the unhealthy thoughts in Phul’s mind, the despair that kept her moaning, ‘What will happen to me?’ One day, Binny found her up and dressed and ready to go to the judge; she sank back only when Binny asked her, did she really want to expose that sick old man to her infection? Then, for the first time, Phul spoke of Yasi and begged to see him.
It was also the first time that Yasi was told about her sickness. ‘Oh, the poor thing,’ he said. ‘I’d go to see her, but you know as well as I do that I catch everything.’
‘No, no, of course you mustn’t.’
He promised to go once the danger was past. Binny couldn’t help warning, ‘Only don’t stay with her all night and then tell me lies about music and poetry.’
‘If you’d just listen for once in your life!’ His exasperation lasted only a moment and he continued patiently, ‘I never stayed all night. I tried to get away as soon as I could, but she’s very clinging. And she’s also very stupid. And her singing, oh, my God, I wanted to pay her to stop. It’s his fault. It was her profession to entertain but he took her away to keep for himself before she could learn anything. Would you believe it, she can hardly read and write. I’d try to teach her, but it would be hopeless. Poor little Phul, and now she’s over forty.’ He had accumulated a fund of feeling, first for his mother and then for all women whom he considered to have had a raw deal.
In the early years of their marriage, the judge had taught Binny to play chess. Now, alone with him in his convalescence, she brought out the neglected chessboard and set up a table in his bedroom. He was a keen player, but that day his mind was not totally on the game. Instead of deploring her wrong moves, he asked if Yasi was looking after Phul. She said, ‘He’s done enough for you. Send someone else.’
‘There is no one else. I have no one.’
‘No one except her? And all she’s thinking is: what will happen to me? That’s all I ever hear from her – Yasi ever hears,’ she corrected. ‘That is what she thinks about. Not about you, about herself.’
‘I’ve told her about the will and the boy’s promise, and still she’s afraid.’
‘Of me? Tell her she can vomit all over me and still there’s no need.’
The judge clicked his tongue in distaste. He pointed at her castle, which she had just stupidly exposed. He wouldn’t allow her to take the move back, but scolded her for not keeping her mind on the game. It was true: she was distracted. If she hadn’t been, she wouldn’t have made her next move, which put his bishop in jeopardy. She was usu
ally more careful – she knew how much he hated losing. Intensely irritated, he reproached her, ‘It’s as impossible to have a serious game of chess with you as it is to have a serious conversation.’
She reared up. ‘Then let me tell you something serious. Whatever happens, God forbid, she’s safe in her cage: there’s no wild creature waiting for her outside. She can have everything. Tell her! Yasi and I want nothing.’ Without a qualm, she took his bishop.
In a voice like thunder, the judge shouted, ‘Call him! Call your son!’ He had leaped up and with one sweep of his hand he scattered the chess pieces, so that some fell in her lap, some on the floor. This sudden strength frightened her. She grasped his shoulders to make him sit in the chair again and, though withered, they still felt like iron under her hands. She had to match her strength against his; it didn’t take her long to win, but what she felt was not triumph.
She bent down to pick up the pieces from the floor and tried to replace them on the board. He waved her away, as though waving everything away.
‘You can’t do this,’ she said. ‘In your condition.’
‘Yes, my condition,’ he echoed bitterly. ‘Because of my condition, I lose my bishop to someone with no notion of the game.’
He allowed her to lead him from the chair to his bed. She brought him water, and after he had drunk it he gave the glass back to her and said, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, my goodness!’ she cried in shock. He had often done this – scattered the pieces when he was losing – but he had never before apologized for it. She understood what this was about and tried again to reassure him. ‘Everything will happen as you want it, the way you’ve written it. You have my promise, and Yasi’s promise.’
‘The boy is weak. It’s not his fault – no, not yours, either. You’ve done your best.’
‘Who knows what is best and what is not best,’ she said. Freud, she thought, bitter in her mind against her friend.
‘Fortunately, you’re strong enough for both of you. Sometimes too strong.’ He smiled, though not quite in his usual grim way.
He was looking at her, considering her, as she was now, as she had become; and though what she had become was not what she had been in her youth, he showed tolerance, even affection. It made her put her hands to her hair; she could guess what it looked like, what she looked like to him, how wild. She was overdue at the salon. She had been meaning to go for weeks – but what time did she have, between the judge and Yasi and this home and the secret one across the river, day after day, running from here to there?
The stories in this collection first appeared in the following publications:
‘A Loss of Faith’ – Like Birds, Like Fishes, John Murray, 1963
‘The Widow’ – New Yorker, 1963
‘A Spiritual Call’ – Cornhill Magazine, 1966
‘Miss Sahib’ – A Stronger Climate, John Murray, 1968
‘A Course of English Studies’ – Kenyon Review, 1968
‘An Experience of India’ – An Experience of India, John Murray, 1971
‘Two More under the Indian Sun’ – New Yorker, 1971
‘Desecration’ – New Yorker, 1975
‘Expiation’ – New Yorker, 1982
‘Great Expectations’ – East Into Upper East, John Murray, 1998
‘Two Muses’ – East Into Upper East, John Murray, 1998
‘Ménage’ – My Nine Lives, John Murray, 2003
‘A Choice of Heritage’ – My Nine Lives, John Murray, 2003
‘A Lovesong for India’ – A Lovesong for India, Little, Brown, 2011
‘Pagans’ – A Lovesong for India, Little, Brown, 2011
‘At the End of the Century’ – A Lovesong for India, Little, Brown, 2011
‘The Judge’s Will’ – New Yorker, 2013
RUTH PRAWER JHABVALA, born in 1927, wrote several novels and short stories, and in collaboration with James Ivory and Ismail Merchant, she won two Oscars for Best Adapted Screenplay (for Howards End and A Room with a View). She won the Booker Prize in 1975 for Heat and Dust. She died in 2013.
ANITA DESAI was born in 1937 in Mussoorie, India. Her novels include Fire on the Mountain—which won the Winifred Holtby Memorial Prize—Clear Light of Day, In Custody, and Fasting, Feasting, each of which was short-listed for the Booker Prize. Her latest novel is The Artist of Disappearance.
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