Travelers

by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala

  Asha saw Gopi sitting in the circle on the grass. He was singing vigorously and sometimes he turned his head to smile at the girl in gold tissue beside him. “Go and get him,” Asha whispered to Raymond, though at the same time she continued to sway her head to the music to make it appear that there was no slackening of attention on her part. Raymond also went on swaying his head, pretending he hadn’t heard her, but she nudged him so that he had reluctantly to get up.

  As he approached the other circle, the lady minister waved him into it. She rounded her mouth to sing the words more clearly and nodded at him to try and repeat them after her. “Ishwar Allah Tere Nam,” she sang, and the others sang—Rao Sahib and Sunita both trying to look as if they were enjoying themselves, singing wholeheartedly though like everyone else stumbling over the words. Gopi, however, seemed quite familiar with them and was able to sing out lustily; he was also one of the few people there to whom it came naturally to sit cross-legged on the grass. The girl next to him kept shifting uncomfortably, arranging her voluminous gold skirt this way and that; and although Gopi tried to teach her the words as they went along, she kept getting them wrong and that made her dissolve in giggles. Gopi too was amused. He seemed really to be enjoying himself, and not at all pleased when Raymond whispered Asha’s message to him.

  “Sabko Sanmati De Bhagvan!” the lady minister ended with a flourish. She turned to Raymond and translated the line for him: “Give us all good sense, O Lord!” she said, adding humorously, “Yes, and I think we need it—we Indians are not very famous for our good sense.” That was a good joke spiced with truth and everyone appreciated it; and amid the general laughter she cried, “Come now, once again!” and in exhilarated mood began to lead them from the beginning: “Raghupati Raghav Raja Ram—louder!” she cried. “With all your heart and soul! Let Gandhiji himself hear us from up there!” Then they all raised their voices with hers, drowning the delicate strains that came softly sobbing from the other part of the garden, where Asha reclined alone against her silken bolster.

  When Raymond came back without Gopi, she looked at him inquiringly. In reply Raymond shrugged. “He won’t come.”

  “He won’t come?”

  “Sh.”

  The tabla player had now begun to accompany the maestro, and they were working themselves up to a contest where each tried to outwit the other with superior skill. The sitar flung a phrase of unmatchable beauty toward the tabla, which responded by not only matching but even surpassing it, so that the sitar was forced to try again: and so they continued to cap triumph with triumph, challenging one another to soar higher and higher and up to heaven if possible. Each of them secretly smiled to himself, and sometimes they also exchanged smiles in a mischievous way, for each knew what pride there was in the other’s heart. They were too engrossed to be conscious of their audience, and by this time they had also reached a crescendo of noise under cover of which it was easy for Asha to question Raymond.

  “What’s he doing there?”

  “Singing.”

  “Who’s that girl? . . . Don’t shrug like that! You look stupid. What did he say?”

  “Nothing. How could he? He’s singing.”

  Asha said a bad English word. After a moment she said, “Tell him I want him to come at once.”

  Raymond didn’t answer. He smiled at and with the musicians, wishing he could be allowed to listen in peace and let his excitement mount with theirs.

  “If you don’t go, I shall go myself.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Asha.” He laid his hand on her knee to soothe her. “Why don’t you just sit here and listen. It’s so marvelous.”

  She pushed his hand away and got up and walked away. Once she looked back at him as if defying him to stop her. But he made no attempt to do so, and only looked after her in despairing resignation. He saw her step over several people in the circle and make her way toward Gopi. He saw those people stop singing to look up and gape at her. Rao Sahib started to his feet and tried to reach her but too late, for she had already got to Gopi and was standing over him. She appeared to be tugging at his hair; Gopi put up his hands to defend himself—she tugged harder—was she trying to pull him up by his hair? Whatever it was, it was sufficiently disturbing to stop the singing and the lady minister, who had been clapping in time with the hymn, remained frozen with her big arms held apart in mid-air.

  Now the sitar and the tabla had reached their highest crescendo—higher than this it was not possible for human beings to go. Then there was nothing left but to cry “Enough!” in surrender and bend across playfully, gloatingly, triumphantly to slap each other’s instruments and laugh. And Raymond cried “Bravo!” and they turned toward him, those two courtly artistes, and acknowledged his applause with humility and grace.

  part II

  THE HOLY CITY

  Asha Packing

  “Don’t let her go!” Bulbul cried.

  She flung herself flat on the floor and grasped Rao Sahib’s feet in supplication. Rao Sahib tried—in vain—to shake her off, and at the same time looked helplessly at Asha, who was throwing things into a suitcase with grim abandon.

  “Why are you doing this?” Rao Sahib appealed to her. But she didn’t stop. “There is no need,” Rao Sahib appealed again.

  Asha turned on him for a moment. “You yourself should be telling me go away, get out of my house!”

  Rao Sahib suppressed a sigh. How many scenes of this nature he had gone through with his sister! As always on these occasions, he was affected with mixed but strong feelings; to relieve them somewhat, he turned on Bulbul and kicked his feet in a renewed attempt to free them. Asha also turned on Bulbul, cursing her for a mischievous, wicked old woman, but in fact Bulbul rather enjoyed being the center of their attention. She released Rao Sahib and raised herself from her horizontal position on the floor to a more vertical one on her knees. She stretched her hands folded in prayer into the air and turned now this way to Rao Sahib, now that way to Asha, to implore them both. To Rao Sahib she said, “Don’t let her go.” To Asha she said, “Take me with you, don’t leave your old Bulbul behind.” She moaned in distress but all the same there was a glint in her eyes which looked not unlike enjoyment.

  Rao Sahib and Asha knew it was not possible to stop her, so they ignored her instead. Rao Sahib sat down on the bed and said, “Why do you want to go?”

  “I have to go,” Asha said. She left off packing and became quite calm and sat next to him. “Not only because of what happened—oh, God!” she cried, remembering.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Rao Sahib said. Actually, it did matter—the lady minister had been much offended—but for the moment, seeing his sister suffer so, Rao Sahib was prepared to forget.

  “I want to go away,” Asha said. “I want to leave everything behind. Give it all up.”

  Rao Sahib had heard her talk like that before. So had Bulbul. It threw the latter into a new paroxysm of distress and, pointing at the small suitcase Asha had been packing, she cried, “This is what she is taking!”

  Asha had packed only her plainest, simplest saris, and just a few of them. Everything else was left behind. She said, “It is all I need from now on.”

  Rao Sahib asked, “Are you going to Banubai again?” He argued, “What use is that? You know what happened last time.”

  “Last time I wasn’t ready yet.”

  “And now?”

  Asha cried out loud, “What else is there!”

  Rao Sahib wanted to help her only he didn’t know how. He had never known how. Asha was so different from him, from Sunita, from everyone he knew: nevertheless he loved her. He said, “Why don’t you learn Russian? It’s good to learn different languages,” he urged in reply to her look of surprise. “It needn’t be Russian. Any language will do: for instance, Persian or Arabic would also be very good. Or Turkish. Don’t cry, Ashi. I’m saying this only for your own good.”

  “I know,” she said, crying more.

  “You should have something to occupy your
mind. And learning a new language is a very fine discipline.”

  She kissed his nose, making it wet with her tears, and said, “Let me go to Banubai. At least let me try with her.”

  Rao Sahib sighed in resignation. “Should I book your plane ticket to Benares?”

  “No, no plane. I shall go by third-class train.”

  “Aie!” cried Bulbul in shock and horror.

  “I don’t care at all,” Asha told Rao Sahib. “What does it matter if I travel third-class or first-class air-conditioned? That’s nothing. Really, I’m so tired of it all. Of all this,” she said, plunging her hand among the silks billowing all over the bed and the floor where she had tossed them in her frenzy of packing. Now she tugged at the first one that came to her hand—a rich orange sari with a gold border—and threw it toward Bulbul. Bulbul caught it skillfully. Asha pulled out another one and was about to throw that as well when Rao Sahib put his hand on her arm to restrain her. He said soothingly, “You can do this later. Tell me about the ticket first.”

  “Tomorrow. Tonight. As soon as possible.”

  “Will you take Bulbul?”

  “No. I don’t want her. You keep her. Let her stay here in the quarters.”

  “If you want her, you can write.”

  Bulbul took no interest in this exchange, though it concerned her so intimately. She was busy folding the orange sari that had come her way. She turned it this way and that, stroking it lovingly, and also scratched her finger along the border to test the pure gold thread.

  Gopi the Gay and Gallant Bridegroom

  One of Gopi’s uncles had come with a momentous proposal, which threw the family into a turmoil of excitement. Only Gopi refused to be excited; in fact, he refused to discuss the matter at all. This necessarily dampened everyone’s spirits, for without Gopi’s cooperation nothing could proceed.

  The proposal the uncle had brought was for one of the sisters—aged nineteen, and certainly high time for her to be married—and it was from a prosperous family in Benares, the owners of a sugar mill. The boy was eminently suitable, twenty-two years old and after studying for a B.A. had already entered the family business; a tall boy, a little dark in complexion perhaps but otherwise handsome, healthy, and sober. The uncle had brought a photograph, which was scrutinized by all the family, and the sister in question managed to get a peep too, after which she became very quiet and introspective. The boy also had a younger sister whom her family desired to settle at the same time; and what could be more desirable than a double wedding, for as everyone knew such double ties within a family strengthened the bonds of mutual interest and affection. The uncle had also brought a photograph of the girl and everyone looked at it eagerly except Gopi, who refused to look at all.

  His uncle urged him: “With such a family your whole future is assured.” But Gopi said nothing. He was aware of the desperate looks all the women were throwing at him and the way they hovered round him. The uncle’s tone became a mixture of cajolery and testiness: “At your age I was married, settled, one child, another on the way.” Gopi looked with heavy dreamy eyes into the distance, attempting to hear, see, think nothing. The uncle’s testy note increased. “Yes, in those days we were not asked—when the family said we were to be married then we were married, finished, no talk.” Gopi’s expression did not alter, only his eyes blinked once as he continued to stare into fathomless space. “And that was the right way!” suddenly shouted the uncle and banged his fist so that the teacups rattled on the tin tray.

  Gopi’s mother came hurrying up, making soothing shushing sounds. The uncle was trembling, and it was evident that there were many harsh things on his tongue; but he controlled himself, thus bowing to the spirit of the times. Nowadays young men could no longer be commanded by their elders as of old, but some show had to be made—God knows why—of consulting their opinions. As if anyone that age could have any opinions! Anger swept over him again; he poured tea into his saucer and sucked it up, trembling with emotion. Gopi’s mother looked at Gopi imploringly; at the same time she slowly passed her hand over his back round and round in a massaging movement as she had done when he was a baby suffering from indigestion.

  This affectionate hand passing soothingly over Gopi’s back burned him with red-hot irons of reproach. He knew exactly what it was saying—please, for my sake, you’re my good son, and what about your sister? Round and round it went, tirelessly as only a mother can be tireless.

  Gopi got up so abruptly that his mother started back and his uncle had a shock and spilled tea out of his saucer. Gopi dashed out of the room. One of his sisters was hanging up clothes on a line strung across the veranda. He brushed past her and went into their second room, in which he found some more sisters and their friends. They were all sitting on the floor with their knitting and when he came in they looked up at him and burst out laughing as if they had just been talking or at least thinking about him in a special way. Seeing all these round young faces laughing up at him, he felt better, and when they shifted to make room for him in their circle he was glad to sit down there. He had always enjoyed the company of these girls and had grown up playing games and having jokes with them.

  Now they were playing an old favorite called the alphabet game. They went through the alphabet and round the circle, each having to say a particular thing beginning with a particular letter. They had been through films, countries, names of people they knew, and had got on to animals. Gopi joined in with zest. A—for ass, for antelope, for ant, for anteater—as they went round, the girls in the latter part of the circle were having difficulty thinking up new ones and Gopi rushed in to help them with cheeky suggestions. “Alephant!” he shouted and was slapped for it, “Alpana!” he said, mentioning the name of one of the girls, and promptly two of them gagged him by holding their hands over his mouth. Then they got on to B—buffalo, bison, and bird—but the fourth girl looked mischievously at Gopi and, sticking out the tip of her tongue, said, “Bridegroom!” That was a lot of fun for all of them—yes, then the tables were turned on him and how they giggled and mocked at him and called him “Gopi the Gay and Gallant Groom.” He took it in good part, he loved being teased by them. Then the next girl carried the joke further—“Bride!” she said—so that they all looked at Gopi’s sister, for whom the proposal had come, and it was her turn to be teased. Overcome with shyness and pleasure, she hid her face behind her veil but managed for a second to peep at Gopi over the top of it. He interpreted this glance in a way that was not agreeable to him, and it threatened to spoil his enjoyment. Only he wouldn’t let it, so firmly he cried, “Bear!”—to which they protested it wasn’t his turn, but he outshouted them with “Boar!”—“Bee!”—and “Bull!” and finally called the name of one of the girls—“Bina!”—and then “Beautiful Bina!”—and for this they all turned on him and beat him with their slippers till he hid his head in his arms and laughingly begged for mercy.

  With Banubai

  Asha’s life with Banubai was simple but not dull. Banubai lived in a house by the river; it was an old house with many unexpected little rooms and verandas in which unexpected activities went on. One room held the offices of the University of Universal Synthesis and also served as the living quarters of its founder-president; an exponent of the Kathak school of dance held his classes on a veranda; in another room a scholar of the Purva-Mimamsa philosophy was editing his papers. Many people came

  and went, and most of them were visitors for Banubai. She liked to help people and give them spiritual comfort, so they came to her and she talked to them. She wasn’t in the least surprised to see Asha turn up; in fact, she said she had been expecting her. Asha shared Banubai’s simple meals and at night she rolled out a mat on the floor of Banubai’s room and lay down to sleep on it. She had left all her jewelry behind and wore only white cotton saris. She was at peace.

  This may have been partly due to the atmosphere of the city, which was an ancient and holy one, but mostly it was the effect of Banubai’s personality. Banubai wa
s an extraordinary woman. She came from a rich Parsi family and had had a pampered upbringing and the best education possible at convent schools in India and finishing schools abroad. But she had always been an unusual person with unusual gifts. She could look deep into other people’s personalities, and it enabled her to have so immediate an intuition of what activated them that it was often possible for her to tell them something about their past and make a guess at their future. She gained quite a reputation that way, and people began to come to her for guidance. At that time she was still living with her parents in Bombay in a large rococo Edwardian house. It was a strange experience for her parents to have all these people coming to visit their daughter, and it was only because they realized that Banubai was too special a person to be kept only to themselves that they managed to tolerate these visitors who brought their Hindu smells of asafetida and sweat among the Persian carpets, French furniture, and English silver.

  Her reputation was not only established among poor people—always the first to recognize a saint—but extended to the educated classes. She even had a number of sophisticated, highly Westernized visitors, and if most of them came in the first place to see her as a curiosity, some of them were truly impressed by her powers. That was how Asha had first come to her—many years ago when Asha was still young and beautiful and Banubai in early middle age. Asha had come with a party of friends; it had been a sort of outing for them, in between some other social events. Banubai didn’t take much notice of any of the friends but she was at once interested in Asha. It was as if she saw something in her that others couldn’t see. She told her that she had a spiritual nature, and although the friends tittered, Asha suddenly became very serious. When it was time to leave, she told her friends to go ahead and she herself stayed behind and had a long talk with Banubai. That was the beginning of their association, and although many years passed during which Asha felt no need of her, in her moments of deepest crisis she often turned to Banubai.