by John Masters
‘You really must drive slower,’ Janaki said, not quite so sharply, realising that I wasn’t altogether with them. ‘The police will stop us.’
There were no police on that southward road from Bhowani, after the post we had passed, without incident, at the edge of town; but I tried to keep it down. Obviously I could not get away from Sumitra by driving like a maniac, when she was in the back seat of the same car.
I drove all morning. Near Itarsi Janaki bought food and brought it to the car while I had the tank filled. We ate later, by the roadside in thin jungle. I drove all afternoon, and at dusk we reached the place Janaki had chosen for the day’s destination. I didn’t know it, but she had driven this road many times. It was a dak bungalow on a side road which had been by-passed by more modern construction. A faded signpost pointed to Gonaghar Dak Bungalow, 3 miles, and soon there it was, standing back in calm decay in a clearing off the deserted road. Even the bullock carts used the new tarmac now. The ancient chowkidar staggered out from one of the servants’ quarters, and made a low salaam. ‘Will you be staying the night, presences?’
Janaki said, ‘Yes’, and the old man’s eyes lit up. It must have been a year since anyone had stopped there, except a district commissioner or a forest officer, on tour. Perhaps not even one of them. These bungalows were built for men who travelled on horseback. For years they’d been declining as everyone dashed past in cars.
I got out and opened the doors for the women. Then in three trips I carried their suitcases and bedding rolls into the bungalow. Every time I went near Sumitra I felt dizzy. When I returned for the cheap cardboard case they had given me, I started automatically for the bungalow again. Janaki nudged me, glancing towards the servants’ quarters, and I headed back there.
The chowkidar lived in the quarter nearest the bungalow. He had no woman. I took the quarter farthest from him. It was the usual cell, about nine feet by five, containing a string charpoy and a string chair, both in advanced disrepair. Outside, on a small brick platform, there was a standpipe and a brass tap. I washed my hands and face and went back into the cell. The walls might have been whitewashed ten years ago, but now were cracked and peeling and kicked away at the bottom, showing the dusty brick underneath. The floor was of broken and pitted cement. A door hung on one hinge. There was no window.
Now, in my role, I should drag my bed out into the dusk, and squat on it, smoking a bidi. Soon the old man would come down from fussing about the bungalow, installing the ladies, and pull his bed close to mine, and sit on it. We would pass the bidis back and forth, holding them in our cupped hands between the outer fingers, sucking in the smoke so that our lips never touched the end. We would discuss our employers, the government, the crops, and the weather. I could not face it, and walked away.
The servants’ quarters backed on a mango grove. In the dusk the formal dark-green leaves shone with an oily smoothness, and the boles marched away into outer darkness like a parade of soldiers waiting for some ceremony to begin. Yellow lights shone out of the dak bungalow’s windows as the chowkidar lit the lamps, giving the impression of lights in a temple. It struck my fancy that the parade and the lights were for a funeral ceremony, the funeral of the Last Sahib. The chowkidar would be pleased if he knew he had spoken to a real sahib, a vilayeti sahib. It wouldn’t disturb him much to realise that it was a funeral he was officiating at. After all, the play’s the thing, and if it happens to be a tragedy, it’s a tragedy.
The Last Sahib at the Last Dak Bungalow. I looked with a bitter longing at the ramshackle bungalow, the faded whitewash, the warm yellow of the lamps in the windows. These were mine, these and the mango grove, the jungle behind, the invisible hills beyond, and the abandoned road.
The chowkidar’s voice called me: ‘Ohe, driver, food is ready!’ I went back to the servants’ quarters and we ate rice and dal off neem leaves. The old man said I reminded him of Golightly Sahib, the Forest Officer. Golightly Sahib stayed here often. In 1906 and ‘07. Perhaps he was hinting that I might be this Golightly’s son, but I repeated that I came from Goa and after we had finished eating he shuffled off to carry their dinner up to the ladies.
After an hour’s silent smoking I dragged the charpoy back into the cell, leaving the door open, lay down, and tried to get to sleep. The long dusty day’s drive had worn me out, and I did sleep, a sleep absolutely blank of thought, dream, memory, or expectation.
I awoke with a hand gently shaking my shoulder, and a voice saying softly, ‘Rodney.’ I recognised her voice, but even if I hadn’t, the dizziness and the stabbing pain in my skull would have told me. I opened my eyes and vaguely sensed her shape beside me. ‘It is I, Sumitra,’ she said.
She squatted down on her heels against the wall, her face on a level with mine. She said, ‘I must speak. I cannot make you listen. I only beg you to, for your own sake as well as mine ... Margaret and Janaki have made me promise never to go near you alone, but I must ... I have had three weeks now to think of what I did, and what I must do. I love you, Rodney. I did wrong in deceiving you, and I ask you to forgive me. I have learned that there is nothing more valuable than love ... For the future, I must go into politics. India needs women leaders more than men. Our future depends on the women. I ask you to come with me. At first you are bound to be under my shelter. There is no way of avoiding it. [The probing needles in my head were without pity.] Soon, though, it will be the other way round. Your mind is stronger than mine, and you know the real India better than I do, in spite of my blood. You will be the brain and the will, and I the hand. There isn’t a decent politician in the country who wouldn’t like to find, somehow, a way to use you and all that you represent. I ask you to be my lord, my husband.’
My wound gave me a slow long stab of pain, her blurred shape twisted and writhed, though I knew she did not move. Inside my head, I could stand no more.
‘Come here,’ I whispered.
She knelt forward and leaned over me. The trembling lake was the wet sheen in her huge eyes. ‘Oh, Rodney ...’
I put up my hands and grasped her round the throat. For ten long seconds, while my fingers tightened and cut off her breathing, she knelt absolutely still. Then her hands began to jerk, and she beat frantically at my wrists. I released my grip a little, just enough, and heard her croak, ‘Must live ... not for my sake ... let me ... ‘
I squeezed tight again, and said, ‘Beside you. On the chair.’ My head was clear, without pain.
Her right hand, reaching urgently, found the chair, and the pistol lying loaded on it. When she had it in her hand, I locked my grip and waited. There was no fear in me, no pain, no emotion of any kind. As soon as I saw this faded dak bungalow by its empty clearing in a forgotten jungle I recognised it as the end of the road. The pistol jabbed and wavered against my forehead now, but she was losing her strength. Another few seconds and she would not be able to pull the trigger. I released my grip, let her draw four wheezing breaths, and squeezed again.
Her head bowed forward, her arms lowered, and the pistol dropped with a heavy clatter to the cement. Her struggles ceased. But it was not the failure of her strength, it was the victory of her will. She had made up her mind that I should not die by her hand.
For a moment longer the power flowed into my wrists, then, as suddenly as the turning off of a tap, it failed - just vanished, leaving my arms and fingers and body full of a chill, trembling water. Even the final gesture, even the forlorn hope, had failed.
I heard her slump to the floor. Her breathing was strangulated, loud, and groaning. Gradually it settled into a painful but steady inhalation. Then I heard the rustle of her clothes as she rose to her feet, heard her stand up, move to the door, one hand slithering along the wall for support, heard her go out. All sound died, and that was the end, the absolute end.
Chapter 19
Margaret Wood watched stiffly as Sumitra stumbled out of the quarters. Sumitra did not raise her head when Margaret put one arm around her waist and under her shoulders and, thus suppo
rting her, helped her up to the bungalow. Still she did not speak while Margaret guided her into her room, eased her on to the bed, and lit the lamp. She lay on the bed, looking up at the ceiling cloth, her eyes wide, while Margaret sponged her blotched face, and her neck with its livid finger marks.
When she had done all that she could, Margaret said, ‘Do you have any sleeping pills, or shall I give you some of mine? I got them for him.’
Sumitra said, ‘I have some. That bottle on the table.’ She drank the water, swallowed two pills, and lay back. ‘You followed me? You were there the whole time? Outside?’
Margaret said, ‘Yes. Yes. Yes.’
‘You didn’t want to save me? Or him?’
Margaret said, ‘You - no, except for the trouble it would have caused him. Him -I couldn’t interfere. It was between him and you. ‘
‘I see,’ Sumitra said slowly. ‘You hate me?’
Margaret said, ‘I try not to. Now will you go away and leave him alone?’
The woman on the bed said, ‘Yes ... You can’t really mend a broken jar, can you? What would you have done if it had ended differently tonight? Would you have gone away?’
Margaret said, ‘No. I have no politics to turn to, no power, no position, no money. You would have betrayed him again, sooner or later ... What did you mean, when you said it wasn’t for your sake, that he should let you live?’
Sumitra’s congested, bloodshot eyes turned slowly up to her. ‘Nothing. Leave me now, please.’
Margaret turned and left the room. Outside Janaki’s door she hesitated. But Janaki must be told, and she was a woman to be trusted. She entered quietly, whispering, ‘Janaki?’ The other awoke and Margaret sat on the edge of the bed and told her quickly what she had seen. Janaki muttered, ‘Is he all right? Will he try to do it again tomorrow? Or kill us all in the car?’
Margaret said, ‘No. It’s finished.’
Then she went to her own room, and, knowing that she would have no need of tablets, being utterly spent, fell into bed and asleep.
In the morning after breakfast Rodney came, pale and contained, to load their baggage into the car. By eight o’clock they were on their way again through the awakening spring of a warm February day. The hours passed in almost total silence. Sometimes Sumitra talked in a low voice with Janaki in the back seat - Margaret noticed she made no attempt to hide the marks at her neck - but her talk was of nothing, things seen by the roadside, comments on people known, small bursts of human sound that broke up the inhuman silence in the car. She herself spoke occasionally to Rodney, searching for half an hour to find something to say, then saying it. Rodney answered monosyllabically, his voice dry. The Ford raced on, driven fast but safely.
Late in the evening they entered the outskirts of Bombay. At half past eleven, when passing slowly down a raucous street near Victoria Station, Rodney pulled in to the kerb.
Janaki sat up, yawning. ‘Where are we? Why are we stopping here?’
Rodney did not answer but went round to the back, opened the door and pulled out his suitcase. ‘I am leaving you here,’ he said. ‘I do not need help any more. It will also be dangerous for you. Thank you for everything you’ve done.’
Margaret tried to pull open her door, but he was leaning against it. His cold, dead glance turned momentarily on her, and he said, ‘Stay there, please. I do not want your help, either.’ He walked up to a taxi parked a little in front, and got in. The taxi drove away.
The three women sat without motion for a minute. Then Sumitra said, ‘I’ll drive. Your grandmother’s house is on Douglas Road, isn’t it?’
She slipped behind the wheel, and they went on without another word. At the big house they all got out and a horde of women, children, and servants ran down the steps. Sumitra said, ‘Would you mind calling a taxi for me?’
Once again, there was no argument, no talk. They waited in the drive, and in a few moments a taxi came. The servants transferred Sumitra’s baggage into it, she climbed in with a final ‘thank you’, the taxi drove away.
Then Janaki introduced Margaret to the people crowding round: her sister; the sister’s husband, a banker in the city; two female cousins; a fat aunt; a dozen assorted children, shy, wide- eyed, but yawning, for it was long past their usual bedtime; her mother, a widow for twenty years; and her mother’s mother, a widow for forty years and the head of the household - a frail, thin-skinned old lady with piercing black eyes and a plain white sari, who said, as she held out her thin arms, ‘Welcome, child ... you are the first English person to enter any house of mine.’
The mother led Margaret to an upstairs room with the smell of the sea blowing in through open windows, escorted by the whole family so that she felt she was in a football crowd at home. For five minutes they all wandered round, each little boy and girl proudly pointing out a light switch, a cupboard, the table where she could have chota hazri, until at last Janaki cried, smiling, ‘Leave the lady in peace. We have had a long day.’
Then they crowded out with profuse expressions of apology, and Margaret sat down on the bed. Janaki remained standing. ‘What are we going to do now?’
‘We?’ Margaret said listlessly. ‘He isn’t your problem any more.’
Janaki said gently, ‘I loved him myself, once ... We are tired, and there’s nothing we can do now, unless we call the police.’
Margaret sprang up, crying, ‘No!’
Janaki smiled faintly. ‘You are like a tigress ... Of course we cannot. In the morning we will talk, eh? Now, go to sleep.’
In the morning, after the servant brought the chota hazri, Margaret got up and looked out the window. Between palms standing stiff in the airless morning, through the heavy sea-laden atmosphere, she could see a corner of the Indian Ocean, and a ship on it, gliding out of Bombay harbour four miles to the south round the curve of the reclaimed land, drawing a trail of strong black smoke across the blue-sheened water. The ship was going west, towards Aden, the Red Sea, and England. She watched it a long time, until only the smudge of its smoke hung above the sea line, then turned back into the room and began to dress.
As she had asked, they brought her breakfast to the room, and at ten o’clock Janaki came.
They sat in high hard chairs by the window, looking out across the Indian Ocean. Janaki came to the point at once. ‘Margaret, is it any use suggesting that you should go back to England, now? He doesn’t seem to care for you. Excuse me being frank, but it would be foolish to ruin your life out of an illusion. The worry, the strain, are making you ill.’
‘Do I look ill?’ Margaret interposed.
Janaki said, ‘Thinner ... feverish. You look now the way I always expected missionaries to look, but you never did, the few times we met when you were a missionary - twice, wasn’t it?’ Janaki threw out her palm. ‘I am not speaking the truth. You do look feverish, but it suits you. You are more beautiful than you have ever been.
Margaret said, ‘Now I really am a missionary, with faith, and a cause I believe in, and love - the love Henry wanted me to have for Jesus. I suppose it’s blasphemous, but I can’t help it.’
‘So many women go the other way,’ Janaki said, ‘turn from men to God. No, it’s not blasphemous, not to a Hindu, at least ... I knew it was no use arguing with you. I only wanted to be sure that you understood what a long, hard road you have chosen. What do you want to do?’
‘Find Rodney,’ Margaret said promptly. That was all. That filled the whole of her thought.
‘And then?’ Janaki’s voice was gentle but insistent.
Margaret gestured impatiently. ‘Work for him, look after him, feed him, love him. Sumitra killed him. I must bring him back to life. I don’t care what he does. He can beat me, steal from me, make me go on the streets, have other women in my bed, I don’t care.’
Janaki sighed. ‘Very well. Now, how are we going to find him?’
Margaret could not answer. They sat in silence, staring out at the flat blue sea.
‘Private detectives?’ Janak
i said. ‘They are terribly expensive, but … ‘
‘I’ll get the money somehow,’ Margaret said. ‘I have eight hundred rupees in the bank, and passage back to England that the mission gave me. I can get a refund on that. I can work, too.’
‘Yes,’ Janaki said, ‘you can make a lot of money, with your training, particularly in private nursing.’
‘That wouldn’t give me enough time, and they usually want you to live in.’
‘What about the Wadalia Hospital, then? It’s run by the Parsees. It’s very good - and they pay decent wages.’
‘If only we could reach him with a message,’ Margaret muttered.
Janaki’s voice had a thin edge. ‘What message? That you want him? He knows that. What can you say in a newspaper advertisement that would make him come out?’
‘A newspaper advertisement,’ Margaret said, ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Will he read the papers?’
‘Not for a bit, probably. Even if he does, what are you going to say?’
Margaret got up. ‘I’ll think of something. Now, how do I find a private detective agency?’
It was Janaki’s turn to be without an answer. At last she said, ‘I don’t even know if there are any.’
‘There must be!’ Margaret cried. ‘They have divorces here, too, don’t they? And cashiers they don’t trust? I’ll go to Sir Andrew Graham and ask him. And then, if you’ll give me his name, to the chairman of that hospital.’
Ten minutes later Margaret left the house in a taxi, sitting impatiently on the edge of the seat all the way to McFadden Pulley’s head office in the business district. That was the last taxi she took for a week. That was the beginning of an endless time when every day contained too few hours for the fulfilment of her restless desire for action, and every night too many ...
Sir Andrew Graham ushered her personally into his office. Although she never said it out plain, he understood the situation clearly, and tried to warn her against banking too much on a man of Rodney Savage’s proven instability and violence. She shook off his warnings, and then he answered her question. Yes, he knew of a reliable private investigation agency. Yes, he would be happy to lend her money, over and above what he would give as a small contribution.
