‘Oh,’ she said. And he, too, to his surprise, found he was not as pleased as he thought he would have been.
2
‘BE careful with that jar,’ Prem’s mother said. ‘It is your favourite pickle.’ Prem smiled rather sheepishly, and helped her to climb into the tonga. ‘Are all my things here?’ she asked. ‘They won’t fall out?’ She had a lot of baggage: there was a steel trunk with a big padlock to it, a roll of bedding, a great number of cloth bundles tied with thick string, a basket and an earthenware water-container. Prem did his best to accommodate all these things safely in the tonga, while the tonga-driver sat perched up on his seat, with his whip in his hand, and watched him. The horse stood with its head patiently lowered and the porter stood waiting for his money.
At last they started off and Prem’s mother asked, ‘How much did you pay him?’ When Prem told her, she said, ‘That is too much. I never give more than two annas to a porter. They don’t expect more.’ Prem said nothing, only lowered his eyes as if he felt the justice of her rebuke. ‘You must learn not to be extravagant,’ she said. ‘Now that you will soon have a family of your own.’
When they got home, she looked Indu up and down. ‘You don’t show,’ she said, almost accusingly.
Indu turned away her face and drew up her sari to hide her bashful look. Prem hovered around them; he felt nervous, without quite knowing why.
Prem’s mother sighed and said, ‘May it be a healthy boy.’
A string-cot had been put up for her in the livingroom, and she had soon accommodated herself, her steel trunk, her earthenware water-container and her basket. She sat on the bed and began to untie her many cloth bundles. There were Prem’s favourite biscuits, pickles, chutneys, guava cheese, sherbet—all of which she had made at home for him before she came. As she unpacked and displayed them, she sighed, ‘I know how much you like these things.’ Her sigh at once made clear the infinite labour she had undergone in the preparation of them.
Indu went to bed early. Prem was tired and would have liked to follow her soon after, but his mother had a lot to tell him. She gave him all the news about his four sisters and complained about her four sons-in-law. One did not earn enough, another spent too much time at the Club, the third expected his wife to massage his legs every evening, the fourth made too many children. All of them were lacking in respect towards their mother-in-law. ‘If your father had been alive,’ she kept saying, ‘things would have been different’; and she wiped her eyes with a corner of her sari.
Prem’s sisters were all considerably older than he was, and though he was fond of them, he was not as interested in their affairs as his mother’s lengthy recital assumed. On the other hand, he very much wanted to know about some other aspects of his Ankhpur life, but when he asked about these, she was not able to give him any information. ‘And Rajinder—he is still in his uncle’s business?’ ‘Have they made Ganpat’s marriage yet?’ ‘Has the new cinema been opened?’ ‘Who has replaced Mr. Williams as station-master?’ To almost every question he asked, she pursed her mouth and said, ‘What do I know of these things?’
Besides his sisters and their families, the only other topic on which she cared to dwell was that of Ankhpur College and its Principal. ‘Things are becoming worse and worse,’ she reported. ‘He is ruining that college. All your father’s lifework he is undoing.’ Prem shook his head and tried to look troubled. Though really he had never had much affection for Ankhpur College. It was housed in a grim nineteenth-century Gothic building which had once been the municipal offices, and its main purpose was to turn out graduates to fill the lower-rank posts in the U.P. Civil Service. ‘Just think,’ his mother said, ‘in this year’s B.A. results there was no one in the first division and only four students in the second division!’ Prem clicked his tongue, as seemed expected of him. ‘What sort of man is he to replace your father?’ his mother demanded. ‘And his wife …’ Here she had a lot more to say. Prem did not listen very carefully. He was wondering when she would allow him to go to bed. Indu was probably asleep by now. At last his mother said, ‘Come, son, I have had a tiring journey.’ Prem left her and lay down next to Indu in their bedroom. He fell asleep in a somewhat gloomy state of mind.
The following night Indu again went to bed much earlier than she usually did. As soon as she had gone, Prem’s mother said in a flat and melancholy way, ‘She seems a good girl.’ Prem made no comment; as a matter of fact, he felt very much embarrassed and pretended that there was something wrong with the leg of the little cane table which urgently needed his attention.
‘I did my best for you, son,’ his mother said with a sigh. ‘If your father had been alive, perhaps …’ and she gave another deeper sigh. Prem turned the table right round and hit at its leg with the flat of his hand.
‘Her family could have given you some more things,’ she said. ‘Look at this room—how bare it is.…’
Prem mumbled, ‘They have given us a bed.’
‘One bed,’ his mother said. She added, ‘It is not as if the girl is very pretty.’ Prem bent his head lower to hide his flushed face. What could he say?
‘And she is not very much educated,’ his mother said. She scratched under her bun of hair with her finger-nail, then looked at the finger-nail as if she expected to find something in it.’ She is not even very good at household duties.’
Prem said in a strangled voice, ‘I think I will go to bed. I have to get up early in the morning.’
‘My poor son. You work so hard.’ She heaved another sigh.’ God’s will,’ she said, and laid herself sadly to sleep.
Prem very much wanted to say something to Indu. She seemed to be asleep, but he hoped that she was only pretending. ‘Listen,’ he urgently whispered, and when there was no response: ‘Listen, it is very important.’ ‘What?’ she whispered back, rather suspiciously. He tried to think what he could tell her that was of any importance. ‘You have not forgotten Sunday the fourth,’ he finally said.
‘What?’ she said sleepily.
‘Sunday the fourth—the Principal’s tea-party.’
‘You have woken me up because of that?’
‘You don’t understand—it is very important. You see, we must make a good impression so that Mr. Khanna will give us——’
‘Please let me sleep.’
‘Listen to me.’
‘Son?’ inquired Prem’s mother from the living-room. Prem sank back on to the pillow. Indu flung herself to the extreme edge of the bed, where she again pretended to be asleep.
‘Son? Is something wrong?’ Prem shut his eyes and kept silent. ‘Shall I come, son?’
‘We are sleeping, Mother!’
There was a slight mutter from the living-room, then silence. Prem did not dare talk again to Indu. He could only lie there, feeling guilty towards her; he knew he should have said something to his mother to let her know that Indu was not such an inferior girl as she seemed to suppose.
With his mother staying there, the atmosphere in his small flat became rather strained. It seemed to him that both his mother and Indu were waiting for him to resolve the strain, but this he always failed to do. It was so unpleasant for him that, if he had had somewhere else to go, he would never have come home in the evenings. So that he looked forward quite eagerly to Saturday, which was the day Hans and Kitty were going to take him to a party.
But it turned out not to be a real party at all. By party Prem understood some kind of festivity—a wedding, a name-giving ceremony, a Puja celebration—with fairy lights in the trees and auspicious banana-leaves, and marigold garlands; with sweetmeats oozing syrup and ghee, and excited children, and shouting and laughing and music and spontaneous singing, and bejewelled women shimmering in satin with jasmine in their hair. But there was nothing like that at this party. It was out in the garden, but no one had bothered to put up any pretty decorations. People sat on cane-bottomed chairs with high stiff backs to them, and all anyone did was talk. There were a great many middle-aged European ladies. S
ome of them had Indian husbands with them, who sat staid and subdued on the chairs while their wives ran about and eagerly talked. Others had no husbands, but they had all, Prem gathered, been in India a long time. They were worn-looking ladies in floral frocks which did not fit very well and from out of which came pallid white legs with blue veins on them. When they talked, they interspersed the flow of rapid English with a number of Hindustani words, which they pronounced fluently enough but with a strange accent.
Both Hans and Kitty seemed to enjoy themselves tremendously. Both of them were too busy to take much notice of Prem, who was consequently left sitting unintroduced on a hard-backed chair by himself, From time to time Hans threw himself on to the chair next to him, which was mostly left vacant, shouting, ‘I have just had the most marvellous conversation!’ But he never had time to explain what it was about, for he soon caught sight of someone else he wanted to talk to and jumped up with a great bound to join them. Prem could see him talking emphatically and with many gestures, from time to time wiping the saliva from his lips which had gathered there in the excitement.
‘Having a nice time, dear?’ Kitty asked Prem absent-mindedly, as she passed near him, deep in conversation with another lady. He stumbled hastily to his feet and said, ‘Thank you, I am enjoying very much.’
‘Isn’t he a nice boy,’ Kitty said. ‘Well dear, if you like, we’ll have a discussion on it next week.’
‘Of course it must be discussed,’ the lady said earnestly. She had big teeth like a horse and a long neck thrust slightly forward round which she wore a bead necklace.
‘The soul must be aired, so to speak,’ Kitty said. She turned to Prem: ‘Don’t you think so, dear?’
‘Who is he?’ the lady with the bead necklace inquired, looking keenly at Prem who shuffled his feet and smiled ingratiatingly.
‘Ever such a nice boy,’ Kitty said.
‘Is he aware?’ asked the lady with the necklace.
‘Oh, I should think so. He’s ever such a—there’s a sandwich crumb on your lip, dear,’ she told Prem, who hastily began to brush at his mouth.
The lady thrust her head forward at Prem and told him, almost viciously, ‘You may be Indian by birth, but we are all Indian by conviction.’ She pulled back her head and looked complacent.
‘Marvellous!’ cried Hans who now came up to join them. ‘How well you spoke it: Indian by conviction.’
Prem cleared his throat and began to speak. ‘All through our long struggle for Independence, our convictions——’
‘Don’t drag politics into it!’ cried the lady. ‘What does it matter, Independence or no Independence?’ Prem was horrified. Was she suggesting that India should not be free? All his patriotism bristled up.
‘Can anyone rule the spirit except the Self?’ the lady fiercely demanded, stretching wide her blurred yellowish eyes as if to make them flash.
‘Bravo!’ cried Hans, clapping his hands together.
‘Afghans, Moghuls, British, Hindus—what does it matter who rules the body of India? Her soul is always free and calm and lost in contemplation of the Self.’
Hans was radiant with delight. He looked with eager eyes from the lady’s face into Prem’s, as if he were now expecting the latter to retort with something equally forceful. But Prem did not know what to say. Nevertheless Hans exclaimed: ‘What marvellous discussion we are having!’
‘How sick I am of petty politicians!’ the lady cried, glaring at Prem.
Kitty said, ‘It does seem awfully like putting the cart before the horse, doesn’t it?’
‘Horse?’ said Hans.
The lady gave an indignant tug at her necklace: ‘Politics are all very well for other, materialistic countries, but here first things come first.’
Prem cleared his throat. ‘A nation must be free,’ he said and though he tried to speak up bravely, his voice came out timid and rather squeaky.
‘No dear,’ Kitty said, laying a kind hand on his arm. ‘That’s not quite what we’re talking about.’
The lady shut her eyes and said, ‘What’s the use of talking to people like that.’ Prem realized that he was creating a poor impression and that made him feel very bad.
‘I will explain,’ Hans said. ‘Prem, you see that none of us are Indian by birth but we are all here. Why?’
‘You had a dream,’ Prem murmured.
‘Quite right!’ Hans cried. He held up a forefinger in the air and seemed pleased. ‘I had a dream—“Come, Hans,” the swami said. But there are others who had no dream. They came to this India, perhaps for business, perhaps for studies. They thought it was only for a short time, but they also had to stay. They know only in India they will find themselves.’
‘The thing is to become complete,’ the lady with the necklace said. To give the last word special emphasis she drew back her lips and bared her long yellow teeth. And then, to Prem’s surprise, she stretched her mouth wider, revealing more teeth; she was smiling, and not only smiling, but smiling at Prem. She said archly, ‘Perhaps you are complete already.’
‘He does look a nice boy,’ Kitty said.
Hans threw his arm round Prem’s shoulder: ‘The first time I met him he was in contemplation. Yes, yes,’ he cried at Prem, ‘don’t try to deny, you were sitting there on the park-bench lost in contemplation—I could see from your eyes.’ He squeezed Prem’s shoulder affectionately: ‘I am proud you are my friend.’ Prem did not feel as stirred by these last words as he should have done. When Hans said ‘friend’, Prem thought of Raj, and he wished he were with Raj.
‘I must go home now, please,’ he murmured. Nobody heard him, for they had all turned away to listen to a wizened white lady in a cotton sari, who was recounting her experiences with a very advanced yogi in Lucknow.
When it was their day for meeting, Raj again failed to turn up. After waiting for a considerable time in the vestibule of the cinema, Prem began to think that perhaps something was wrong with Raj or his family—why else should Raj neglect to meet his only Ankhpur friend? The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that something untoward was preventing Raj from keeping his appointment. He resolved instantly to go and see him.
It took him a long time on the bus to get there, and when he did arrive, it was difficult for him to find the house, for he had never been there before. It was in a large colony of houses for Grade Three Civil Servants. There were rows and rows of hutments, each one with an oval door, a little veranda and a tiny rectangle of grass in front. It was evening, so all the doors were open and the men sat outside, relaxing after their day in the office, neat, thin, earnest clerks off-duty in vests and dhotis. There were many children running around, playing and shouting and throwing balls; a triangle of grass had been converted into a playground for them, and here they swung on shabby swings or turned slowly and with an air of boredom on a creaking roundabout. There was also a row of shops, a chemist, a dry-cleaner lit up by neon-lighting, a grocer with rice and lentils and red chillies kept in tall tins, a barber and a dried-fruits store. A radio played loud wailing music from out of the barber’s shop.
Raj sat outside his hutment, looking very much like all the other clerks sitting outside their hutments. He too was wearing a vest and a dhoti. He was trying to read the morning’s paper but was distracted from this by a little girl who kept plucking at the grass and falling over. ‘Come here, Babli!’ Raj called in an anxious voice. He ran after the little girl and picked her up and then carefully dusted the earth from her knickers. He was engaged in this when he looked up and saw Prem. He became frozen for a moment, then hastily put his child down. He did not seem at all pleased to see Prem; on the contrary, he even looked rather sulky. Prem felt as if he had gone to see a stranger, and not his friend Raj at all.
‘I was waiting for you in the cinema,’ Prem said. But seeing Raj’s frown deepen, he was afraid that this might sound like a reproach, so he added hastily: ‘I thought perhaps you were ill, that is why I——’
‘There has been
great pressure of work in my office,’ Raj said. ‘You can have no idea how work piles up in a Government office.’ He put his hand to his forehead to indicate the load of work he was made to sustain.
Prem smiled at the little girl and beckoned to her with his hand. But she hid behind her father’s dhoti and hung on to his leg. ‘She is shy with strangers,’ Raj said. ‘One day your boss in the office will decide that certain inventories in File G must now be classified with other inventories in File M. Then there is one mad rush all day to get together all the inventories from File G—you can sit down if you like,’ he said, pointing to the basket-chair in which his opened newspaper still lay crumpled; ‘rest for a moment.’ He turned his head and called into the house: ‘Bring the other chair!’
Prem removed and carefully folded Raj’s paper and sat down. A moment later a stout square woman, in a blue cotton sari with a red border to it tucked round her waist, carried out another basket-chair. Prem assumed that she was Raj’s wife, but as no attempt at introduction was made, he pretended not to see her. She stood for a moment in the oval of the door, scratching her elbow and staring at Prem, before disappearing again inside.
‘Come, I will show you something nice,’ Prem said to the little girl. He took his handkerchief and wound it round his finger, making it look like a Sikh wearing a turban.
‘My brother-in-law has already shown her that trick,’ Raj said. ‘In our office a departmental note may come at three o’clock in the afternoon to say that seventeen copies of a notice must be instantly typed and dispatched.’ He laughed dryly: ‘That is how it is in Government service.’
‘What do you call her?’
‘Her pet name is Babli. People like you who have never held a Government post can have no idea what it is like.’
‘You won’t come to me, Babli?’ Prem smiled and patted his lap.
‘It is hell,’ Raj said with satisfaction.’ But what to do? If one has a family to support, one cannot pick and choose, one must work, work, work at one’s job.’
The Householder Page 8
