The Peacock Spring

by Rumer Godden

  ‘Tomorrow or the day after,’ said Ganesh. ‘He asked me to buy him curd and milk, light the deeva for his tulsi plant. If he had … left,’ Ganesh would not say ‘gone’, ‘with the Miss-baba, why should he ask me to do that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Edward felt he was falling deeper and deeper into mystery. ‘You are sure the hut is exactly as it was?’

  ‘As it was,’ said Ganesh.

  ‘I have left nothing – nothing that could connect me with you,’ Ravi had told Una. His prize poems were with him in the small tin trunk. ‘All the copies?’ asked Una. ‘Remember I copied some of them for you.’

  ‘Do you not think I am extremely careful?’ But Hem could have warned Una that even Ravi’s extreme carefulness was careless and, ‘Wait,’ cried Alix. As Edward took the books out, she had caught sight of one at the bottom of the desk. It was an exercise book; she pulled it out and took it to the lantern Ganesh held. ‘Poems,’ said Alix. ‘Poems or drafts of poems,’ and, ‘Edward, it must be this Ravi. Look. Oh Edward! some are copied in Una’s hand.’

  They turned the exercise book over. The faded purple cover was stamped in gold, rubbed now and faint, but there was a crest, and a name. ‘St Thomas’s College,’ read Alix.

  ‘I remember him,’ said Professor Asutosh. ‘I think most people who met him would remember him. He had exceptional charm but Bhattacharya was an idealistic boy and easily carried away. He was difficult to deal with because he was so contradictory; he wanted to be popular, one of the college bloods, yet had fits of being solitary, idle and dreaming, cutting lectures, staying out after hours – he had plenty of money for bribery. When he was in these moods I thought he was most himself; that false swagger came from a feeling of inferiority.’

  ‘Was he inferior?’

  ‘Indeed no. He was most gifted and his father owned land, a big house – in fact, a whole village near Ambala – but Bhattacharya was kept at home, privately tutored while most of our students have had years at the Doon School or the Mayo College at Ajmer. Consequently, he lacked experience – and discipline.’

  ‘A mother’s boy?’

  ‘More a father’s. Sri Bhattacharya is elderly, a Brahmin of a sect extremely strict, and felt school might contaminate his son during the impressionable years. It was only when the family tutor confessed the boy was beyond him that he was sent to us – I believe at the mother’s insistence; it was too late to instil discipline and I was not surprised when young Bhattacharya got into trouble.’

  ‘What trouble?’

  ‘He joined the Praja Swaraj – I am sure, first of all, for idealistic reasons – a movement against the establishment; but, as these movements quickly do, it became violent and he had to drop out of college in his last term. A great pity; as I said, he had more than an ordinary gift. If this is true about your daughter …’

  ‘It must be,’ said Edward. ‘We compared the writing in her mathematics book. It was this Ravi’s.’

  ‘I still pray God it is not.’ Professor Asutosh was grave. ‘If it is, comfort yourself that she may have better taste than we have. Even in his college days, Ravi Bhattacharya was an outstanding poet.’

  ‘Then why a gardener?’

  ‘I suspect he had reasons for being hidden. In that connection,’ said the Professor, ‘there was something I could not understand. The boy had a friend, perhaps two years older, one of our senior students, a young man called Hemango Sharma. He befriended Bhattacharya – I think Hem took pity on him; Ravi was unmercifully ragged for his airs and graces when he first came, and he was not used to being ragged. I can guess, too, that Hem Sharma tried to persuade him away from the party – its ways are not gentle – and even after Hem took his degree he watched over the boy. Almost two years ago there was an incident at a factory near here where a group incited the workers to riot; a foreman came out, a respectable middle-aged man, simply – and I believe mildly – doing his duty. He was beaten, held, and acid thrown into his eyes. The group got away but one young man gave himself up and was arrested – Hem Sharma.’

  ‘Well?’ Edward could not see what this was to do with Una.

  ‘Please listen. Hem would never have done such an act – or been accessory to it. I knew that, but the Trial Court found him guilty and he was sent to prison. He refused a defence, could not be induced to name the others, though methods were used … but I made him appeal against his own sentence. Hem is too valuable a young man for our society to lose; the Appellate Court held his conviction baseless – the witnesses did not agree – and Hem was freed. Though he had taken a first here, he is, I am glad to say, qualifying as a doctor – I confess with my help.’

  ‘Well?’ Edward still did not see.

  ‘Only this: if you want to find Ravi Bhattacharya, I suggest you go to Hem Sharma.’

  ‘Ah!’ Then, ‘Not to the father?’

  ‘He would probably not receive you; besides, I doubt if Sri Bhattacharya has his son’s confidence. When the boy dropped out of college, his father ordered him to come home at once, or never come.’

  ‘And this Ravi did not go?’

  ‘I’m certain he did not go.’

  ‘Then where is he?’

  ‘I have told you, ask Hem.’

  Hem had been in bed when Edward’s car drove up; in bed but not asleep. He had not been able to sleep since Una had been in his room; lying on his side, staring into the darkness, Hem had to face that fact. He had left her case at Shiraz Road, slipping through their secret fence, depositing it on the verandah, slipping out again and cycling away, but he knew quite certainly that, sooner or later, Ravi would be traced to him, and Edward’s knock was no surprise. Hem, in his lungi – sleeping cloth – answered the knock and found Edward on the step.

  ‘May I come in?’

  ‘No.’ Hem was definite. ‘I know why you have come and it is evident that Miss Una changed her clothes here in my room – Ravi Bhattacharya has a key – but I was at the medical school for my studies. She changed here but, Sir Edward, I do not know where they have gone and I do not want to know.’

  ‘But you were party to this?’ Hem’s coolness made Edward’s temper hotter.

  ‘I was not party. I knew about their attachment, but my advice was to tell it to you. They would not take my advice.’

  ‘You mean this Ravi wouldn’t. I suppose it was a bit of a feather in his cap to seduce a well-brought-up English girl.’

  ‘There are well-brought-up English girls in the bazaar. I think I could have persuaded Ravi, but not Miss Una.’

  ‘Not Una. But …’ Edward was firm in his belief. ‘He has abducted her.’

  ‘Not at all. They decided to go together. She has come to love Ravi.’

  ‘Come to love him? Then this has been going on for some time?’

  ‘Quite some time.’

  ‘And you didn’t try to prevent it?’

  ‘Wasn’t that a task for you and Miss Lamont?’ Hem asked.

  ‘Besides, Ravi is not a child.’

  ‘My daughter is. Far under age. You must have known that your friend – this … this gardener – was committing an offence.’

  ‘Ah, but to begin with it was innocent. Ravi first spoke to Una out of pity.’ Hem had forgotten the ‘Miss’.

  ‘Pity! My daughter?’

  ‘It was because she was your daughter that she had cause to grieve. For one thing, Miss Lamont, as she was then, could not teach her.’

  ‘This is the first I have heard of it.’

  ‘It remains.’ Hem was imperturbable. ‘Forgive me for saying this, Sir Edward, but I do not think Miss Lamont is fully educated.’

  ‘She was at the Sorbonne.’

  ‘She was in Paris. I think Ravi is not the only one to masquerade.’

  ‘You said “was innocent”.’ Edward changed the subject abruptly. ‘Then you confirm, with Una and – Ravi, it is not innocent now?’

  ‘If to fall in love and make love is un-innocent; I am of the opinion your Adam and Eve did it before the Fa
ll.’

  ‘Good God, man.’ Edward cried. ‘Don’t you see I am in agony?’

  ‘I have seen Una in agony too.’

  ‘Then you won’t help me?’ said Edward.

  ‘I can’t help you. I repeat, I do not know where they have gone.’

  ‘And,’ said Edward, ‘he went in and closed the door.’

  Edward was in the inner sanctum of the police headquarters with the Inspector General of Police, Colonel Manoharlal Jaiswal.

  ‘Not the police,’ Alix had begged. ‘Don’t call in the police, Edward. Please. Please.’ She was almost hysterical.

  ‘Talking to Colonel Jaiswal is hardly calling in the police.’

  From Hem, Edward had driven back to the Srinevesans where the minister had come in. Sir Mahadeva Srinevesan had listened closely and was shocked. ‘It’s not possible,’ he said. ‘It’s … incredible!’

  ‘Not nowadays,’ said Lady Srinevesan. ‘You don’t know enough young people. Think what they know, hear, read, see.’

  ‘But with an English girl!’

  ‘The standing of English girls – any Westerner – is not very high here in India,’ she reminded him. ‘Remember how some of them behave; but Una – that, I grant you, is difficult to believe.’

  ‘She thinks she is in love.’ Edward had to defend her.

  ‘Besides,’ said Lady Srinevesan, ‘it has always been possible where there is a young man and woman. Why else,’ she asked, ‘used we to guard our daughters so rigidly?’

  ‘I thought I had.’ That was what gave Edward the most acute pain. ‘I thought I had.’

  Sir Mahadeva telephoned the Inspector General on a private line. ‘This must be kept completely hushed. It could break into a worldwide scandal, embarrass the government, to say the least. Think of the headlines.’ Edward closed his eyes with a rush of sickness. ‘Would you deal with it personally?’ asked Sir Mahadeva. ‘They must be found without a whisper.’

  ‘There are whispers already,’ Lady Srinevesan reminded him. ‘I can muzzle Bulbul but … well, we must try.’

  ‘We must not try,’ Sir Mahadeva had said. ‘We must succeed,’ and he had put his arm round Edward’s shoulders in a warm clasp to hearten him. ‘We shall succeed. You will see.’

  An officer came in and laid a slip of paper on the Inspector General’s desk. ‘Nothing seems known against the young man Bhattacharya, sir.’

  ‘I understood from Professor Asutosh he had joined the Praja Swaraj,’ said Edward.

  ‘We have no proof but it seems this Hemango Sharma has a police record. He was sentenced to three years.’

  ‘He appealed and was acquitted.’ In fairness Edward had to say it.

  ‘So it seems.’ The Inspector General was studying the paper. ‘All the same, it will make it easier to take him and, shall we say, urge him to talk.’

  Just before dawn, two plain-clothes men came for Hem. Edward was on his way to the village near Ambala.

  ‘Go, by all means.’ Unlike Professor Asutosh, the Inspector General approved. ‘You never know. You might pick up something.’

  ‘Can’t I come?’ Alix had pleaded.

  ‘You would only make things worse.’

  ‘Because I am Eurasian.’ Alix was open about that now. It was two in the morning, and Alix’s eyes had seemed sunken in ringed sockets, her hair was roughly tumbled; she had made Edward have sandwiches, drink coffee laced with brandy. ‘You have to wait while Chinaberry eats,’ she argued. ‘He can’t drive all night on nothing,’ and she had packed a basket for them too, and filled a flask with more hot coffee. Edward neither thanked her nor looked at her, simply drove away.

  ‘Sri Bhattacharya? I must apologise for coming at this hour and in this state, but what would you have done in my place?’

  ‘I should have washed,’ said Ravi’s father.

  Edward was not used to being snubbed. He and Chinaberry had found the village on the Sarsuti river, the strip of country called the Holy Land because it was the cradle of Hindu faith, the first home of the Aryans in India. At any other time, Edward would have been deeply interested, particularly now when, in the early morning mist that hung over the sacred river, villagers were going down to make their morning ritual, to bathe and pray, carrying their lotas through fields, harvested and pale with stubble. In a hamlet of mud and thatch houses, the car came to a wall built of ancient thin Punjabi brick, with a pair of closed wooden gates. They were not opened for the car; Edward had to wait while the gateman took in his card and wait another half-hour: ‘Sri Bhattacharya is taking his bath,’ Chinaberry explained. ‘He is making his meditation,’ was the next message and when at last Edward was beckoned in, it was only as far as the verandah where he was offered a wooden chair on which he had had to sit at least twenty minutes longer, listening to the house noises, splashing, sweeping, a pounding, perhaps of grain, subdued voices. There was a daybed on the verandah, spread with a white sheet and set with a takia covered in spotless white cotton and, when Sri Bhattacharya finally appeared, walking stiffly and acknowledging Edward only by a silent namaste, he took his place there, drawing up his legs and sitting upright against the bolster, the folds of the white lohi he wore over his shoulders falling round him.

  Was it possible, thought Edward, that this little old thread of a man was father to the magnificent young gardener? Sri Bhattacharya’s legs and arms were so thin that they looked brittle; his head was covered with short grey stubble except where one lock was left raggedly long in orthodox Hindu fashion. He had not shaved and his skin had a fig-purple tinge as if he were cold and he was toothless; probably, thought Edward, he disdains false teeth, but nothing could have been more unattractive than that watery mouthing as his lips moved. Was he praying? But a spot of fresh sandalwood paste on his forehead showed that he had already made his prayer. Chewing perhaps? Or was it a querulous habit? Edward could well understand why Ravi did not want to go home.

  Sri Bhattacharya looked far over Edward’s face, as if he preferred not to see him, and spoke: ‘Why have you come?’

  ‘About your son,’ said Edward and, in a few short sentences, made his indictment. There was no interruption or exclamation, not a quiver in the other’s face, only the little eyes continued to look far beyond Edward.

  When he had finished, Sri Bhattacharya said, ‘I have no such son.’

  ‘Ravi Bhattacharya is your son.’ Edward said it steadily. ‘He has committed an offence against my daughter. If he brings her here—’

  ‘She would be immediately returned to you. Such a girl would not be permitted in my house.’

  Angry colour rose in Edward’s haggard cheeks. ‘If you have daughters—’

  ‘I have no daughters. I had an only son.’ There was a spasm in the face but, at the slight on Una, Edward’s temper broke.

  ‘You understand, Sri Bhattacharya, that I have no alternative but the police. This could be a criminal charge. My daughter is not yet fifteen. Your house could be searched—’

  ‘They may search it. He …’ Sri Bhattacharya would not say ‘Ravi’, nor ‘my son’. ‘He has not been here for two years, and he will not come back. I have given orders. His mother may have kept a few small things …’ The folds of the lohi, too, were quivering now and Edward’s temper gave way to compassion; here was a wound, perhaps worse than his own.

  ‘Sri Bhattacharya,’ but the shorn grey head was held higher. ‘I can do nothing to help you. It is time for me to take my meal. Good morning, Sir Edward.’

  The village, thought Alix, is ten miles from Ambala; that makes it some hundred and twelve miles from here. Chinaberry may take time to find it and I expect the road will be bad. Edward will need to talk with the Bhattacharyas … and Alix calculated he could not be back in Delhi before the afternoon, but soon after eleven o’clock he telephoned. ‘Send Ram Chand down to the office with a change of clothes and my shaving things.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To Varanasi. The embassy people have been more than kind
and are lending me their private plane. The Inspector General is coming with me.’

  ‘You have found out something?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Edward was curt.

  ‘Then why—?’

  ‘I have a possible clue – that is all.’

  When Edward had come out of the Bhattacharya house, or been dismissed from it, he had found a woman waiting by the car – a lady, he corrected himself. Though her sari was plain-white red-bordered muslin and worn in the old-fashioned way on the right shoulder, her jewellery unobtrusive, only a thin gold chain, gold stud earrings, her head bare, her feet in village sandals, she was – unmistakably noble, thought Edward. ‘How do you do, Sir Edward. I am Ravi Bhattacharya’s mother.’ Her husband’s English had been stilted; hers was as smooth as Edward’s own. Years younger than her husband, she was taller than Alix; no wonder their son was such a splendid specimen, and she had his golden complexion – bright wheat; more, there came to Edward a feeling of immense capability as she spoke quickly. ‘At times one is forced to eavesdrop and I heard. Sir Edward, try to understand: no worse blow could have fallen on my husband. Though he seems unfeeling, our son is his heart – and was his hope. In our gotra – the table of our family – there are ten generations of Bhattacharyas in the direct line. I am the mischief,’ she said in earnest. ‘I was educated in the Western way and brought new ideas, persuaded him over Ravi and now, to him, Ravi is tainted.’

  ‘And my Una, even if she were old enough to be married, would be the final taint?’

  ‘There would be no pure heritage,’ said Srimati Bhattacharya, ‘so, even if circumstances were different, to my husband such an union would be unthinkable.’

  ‘And to you?’

  ‘It is the way the world is moving, barriers are breaking, but she is so young and they have been – unprincipled.’

  ‘Unprincipled? Yes,’ said Edward. ‘Tell me, did a brother-in-law or your brother die yesterday or the day before that?’

  ‘Indeed no.’

  ‘That was why your son asked for leave.’

  ‘That was certainly unprincipled – but what I came out to tell you,’ she said, ‘is that I think it possible they – Ravi – might have gone to his grandmother, my mother who lives now in retirement in Varanasi. She would take them in without question. Here is the address.’