House of the Sun

by Meira Chand

  ‘Money,’ he whispered to himself, and felt again the weight of the sorrowing room.

  *

  ‘You will work with him?’ Mrs Watumal screamed. ‘A thief. A strange man we do not know.’

  ‘You said yourself he is not a thief, you told him to his face,’ Lata reminded her. ‘And how can you say Sham is a stranger when I have grown up playing with him? Why must you say these things, Mummy?’ She put a dish of rice upon the table, and called her father and Mohan to the evening meal.

  ‘I think Sham’s idea will work. All we needed there was money and reorganization,’ Mohan decided, sitting down at the table, and sniffing the aroma of the food. He was beginning to feel some excitement now. Once he had made money he could reactivate the idea of the villas. He might soon have multiple business interests, and surpass Homi and Ranjit in entrepreneurship.

  ‘Before you were working in the factory with your father or brother. Now, sometimes, you may have to work there alone with this boy. What will people say?’ Mrs Watumal demanded, continuing her argument as Lata returned to the table from the kitchen, with a plate of fried aubergine.

  ‘They will say she is a very fast girl. Her reputation will be ruined,’ Sunita replied, with a satisfied smile.

  ‘Then we must find a boy soon for her,’ Mrs Watumal said grimly. ‘We must waste no more time in making arrangements.’

  ‘It is useless to try,’ answered Lata. She was no longer afraid of her mother’s threats of marriage. None had ever come to fruition, and she had a future of her own making now. She sat down at the table and helped herself to some rice.

  ‘Someone has been suggested for me,’ Sunita volunteered.

  ‘Where have you heard this?’ her mother screamed, looking anxiously at her husband across the table, swallowing quickly a mouthful of aubergine. Nothing had yet been said to Mr Watumal upon the matter of the eligible widower.

  ‘From your own lips,’ Sunita replied. ‘You sent me to my bedroom while you talked out here with Mrs Bhagwandas.’

  ‘Is this news true, wife? What family has been suggested for our Sunita?’ Mr Watumal asked with a sudden grin of happiness. Mrs Watumal returned her concentration to her food, and did not reply immediately.

  ‘Speak now, we are waiting, no need for shyness if the girl has heard. She is not seventeen, she has a right to some say in the matter.’ Mr Watumal beamed. Mrs Watumal pursed her lips.

  ‘He is a widower,’ Sunita replied. ‘Forty-five, with three children.’ She pulled a face and stared at her plate.

  ‘What?’ Mr Watumal half-rose in his chair. ‘And you will offer our daughter for such a match? This is an insult,’ Mr Watumal stormed. Mrs Watumal closed her eyes, and wished the unseen powers of Burmawalla were already at work on her behalf.

  ‘Such offers now are bound to come,’ she replied curtly. ‘As you have said, she is not seventeen. This is not a matter for discussion at our table. Later we will speak.’

  *

  ‘Is this true?’ Lata asked, incredulous, as they prepared for bed that night. Sunita nodded, brushing her hair before the mirror with a smug, tight smile.

  ‘It’s awful. It’s disgusting,’ Lata exploded, ‘Forty-five to your thirty-one. Why don’t you do something for yourself? I really can’t understand you.’

  ‘Don’t try,’ Sunita suggested, leaning close to the mirror to squeeze a pimple. ‘At this age, and without a dowry, who else is going to want me?’

  ‘How can you be so calm?’ Lata asked. ‘Just tell them you’re not interested. Oh, it’s disgusting.’

  ‘Why is it disgusting?’ Sunita inquired, dabbing some ointment on the pimple. ‘I don’t mind considering him. I think I’m going to be in demand from now on, all these men in need of a second wife. I’m a good catch for them.’ She tossed back her hair.

  ‘How can you?’ Lata exclaimed, too shocked to continue undressing. ‘I can’t believe what I’m hearing.’

  ‘You can’t believe it because you don’t want to get married. But I do. I don’t want to be an old spinster, sitting here all my life, like this,’ Sunita hissed, eyes ablaze. ‘I don’t care if he’s been married before, or if there are children. I will live well in a home of my own, with a life of my own. I will no longer sit here, rotting. I will have a look at him and if I like him, I shall tell them to go ahead.’ Lata took a step back, speechless, and sat down on the edge of the bed. Sunita smiled shrewdly.

  ‘All you talk about is work, but I’ve been watching you, making eyes all the time at that Sham. What do you think you’re doing? Cradle-snatcher, he’s much younger than you. Don’t think all you want is your work.’ Sunita gave a harsh laugh. Lata sat silent, in shock. ‘Anyway,’ Sunita added sinuously, ‘a widower is also being found for you.’

  ‘No,’ Lata started up. ‘No. I won’t have it. Oh no.’ She burst into tears.

  Sunita shrugged. ‘I’m just repeating what I heard.’

  21

  ‘I will do my best,’ said Mrs Murjani. ‘But you know it won’t be easy in her present state.’

  ‘Rani won’t even realize,’ Mrs Premchand insisted on the telephone. ‘I’m taking them anyway to tea, in the Sea Lounge. What could be more natural than that you should join us? It has all blown up so quickly, but trust me, he is an excellent young man.’ Mrs Murjani had not found the first family she had viewed through Mrs Premchand suitable. It had been on the day of Lakshmi’s death, she remembered with a shiver. Mrs Premchand had quickly come forward with news of another suitable family, on the morning of Lakshmi’s funeral. She would not be put off from arranging a second introduction.

  ‘We shall be there,’ Mrs Murjani agreed, unsure of how this would be achieved. She put down the phone and sighed. Every day since Lakshmi’s death Dr Subramaniam came, took Rani’s pulse, looked down her throat and advised further days of rest.

  ‘It is shock, nothing more,’ he announced of the vague symptoms that filled her, headache and nausea and odd stomach cramps. ‘Such an experience can have this effect. Take her out. She must meet her friends. Let her be jolly,’ he said.

  Mrs Murjani had tried to impose this jollity by the planning of various treats, but Rani clung to her room, seeing only the friends who came to visit her. They came in concern and in awe of celebrity. The manner of Lakshmi’s death and the inquest that had followed, involving the startling evidence of the daughter of a famous industrialist, had been well reported in the press. Rani’s name buzzed about her college, drawing visits from curious classmates, avid for ripe detail. During these visits Rani fixed her gaze upon the horizon, filling the windows of her room, and assessed the light on the sea. ‘It’s too terrible to talk about,’ she said and soon they left again.

  Only to Pinky did Rani explain, but with Pinky it was different. In view of the state of Rani’s health and the advice about friends from Dr Subramaniam, Mrs Murjani made an effort to hide her dislike of Pinky Lalwani, who visited most days.

  ‘I don’t mind her coming today,’ Mrs Murjani said. ‘But tomorrow we are busy. I have promised Mrs Premchand to take you to tea at the Taj.’

  ‘I’m not going,’ said Rani, folding her arms.

  ‘She is concerned and wants to do something to cheer you up. It is kind of her,’ Mrs Murjani insisted.

  ‘I’m not going,’ Rani repeated.

  ‘I have accepted and she has invited other people,’ Mrs Murjani replied. Rani was at once alert.

  ‘What other people?’ she asked.

  ‘Just visitors, I believe. It will make a change for you.’ Mrs Murjani spoke as casually as she could.

  ‘I’m not going,’ Rani insisted, and was sure by her mother’s subsequent hysterics that more than tea had been arranged. The arrival of Pinky Lalwani interrupted Mrs Murjani’s pleas.

  Pinky walked into Rani’s bedroom accompanied by her cousin, Kamal. She wore a short, tight, Western dress that showed a stretch of leg. Mrs Murjani rose from where she had been sitting on Rani’s bed, and stared in disapproval; it wa
s a shameful way to dress. At least with jeans, however tight, flesh was decently covered. Amongst a frizzy mass of hair, Pinky’s thin face had the look of a rodent. A rat, thought Mrs Murjani in satisfaction. But how dare she walk into Rani’s room, with a boy they did not know. He too left much to be desired, in scruffy jeans and a faded tee-shirt that looked fit to be worn only by a servant. It did not seem proper even when she found the young man was a cousin of Pinky’s, on holiday in Bombay from the States, where he lived.

  It was impossible now to object to his presence. He was already seated and speaking to Rani, who appeared familiar with him. She would leave the door open, decided Mrs Murjani, so that nothing dubious could occur. She would sit in the living room with her embroidery and keep an eye on things. She left them then, to order soft drinks and biscuits sent in.

  ‘I don’t think your mother approves of you having a man in your room,’ Kamal said at once. ‘She gave me a withering look.’

  ‘She’s full of withering looks. Take no notice. She’s left the door open anyway, as a safety precaution.’ Rani sat cross-legged upon her bed, Pinky and Kamal sat on chairs beside her. She had not seen Kamal since the day in the Taj coffee shop, soon after his arrival in Bombay, the same day she had met Sham Pumnani.

  ‘Thank God my mother’s not like that. I don’t think I would survive,’ Pinky said.

  ‘We must take you out to a disco, before I go back to L.A.,’ Kamal said to Rani. Within a few weeks he would return to the States with his parents. ‘Pinky will chaperone you, and we could take your younger brother, if you think it will help,’ he said. ‘It will cheer you up.’

  ‘Nothing will help where my mother’s concerned,’ Rani sighed.

  ‘She’s right. I know her mother,’ Pinky agreed. ‘Nothing will help.’

  ‘You’ve been brought up in the States, your parents must be different, they’ve lived so long abroad.’ Rani sighed again.

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ Kamal said, suddenly glum. ‘They’re not as progressive as you think. The reason we’re all here is to get me married. I’ve finished my studies, I’ve got a good job. They reckon it’s time I got married, and don’t want an American daughter-in-law. So here we are. They had all the right girls lined up before I arrived, for me to have a look at; like choosing the right shampoo on the supermarket shelves. It’s worse than a cattle market, I tell you.’

  ‘Have you found anyone yet?’ Rani asked in sudden interest at this common plight.

  ‘I’ve no intention of marrying someone I neither know nor like,’ Kamal replied.

  ‘So what can you do?’ Rani asked.

  ‘Time will run out, and I’ll be back in the States. They can’t force you into marriage nowadays,’ Kamal said.

  ‘My mother’s at it already, there’s nothing else on her mind. Tomorrow I’ve got to go somewhere for tea, and sure as hell I know what it’s about,’ Rani exploded.

  ‘Watch your language,’ Pinky tut-tutted. ‘Just stand up for yourself. I wouldn’t be pushed around.’

  ‘Have a look at them all and say, no,’ Kamal advised.

  ‘But you’re a man,’ Rani cried, her heart beat with the injustice. ‘All I have to look forward to is marriage. They’ve cut out every other option. If I refuse, I’ll sit at home and rot like those Watumal girls.’

  ‘Pinky insists on doing what she wants,’ said Kamal.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Rani said in a low voice. ‘Pinky’s parents are different.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so weak, Rani,’ Pinky scolded.

  ‘I’m twenty-eight, I don’t mind getting married. But Jesus, not here, and in this way,’ Kamal said.

  ‘Hold out for what you want,’ he advised Rani as he left.

  ‘She doesn’t know how to,’ Pinky replied.

  Looking up from her embroidery, Mrs Murjani pursed her lips in disapproval. She noticed with regret the improvement of colour in her daughter’s face, as she walked to the front door with her friends.

  *

  Rani stomped up the stairs behind her mother, in the old wing of the Taj the next day. Mrs Murjani turned in despair. ‘Look a little happier. What will Mrs Premchand think?’

  Rani made no effort to change her expression and fell back further behind her mother. At the top of the stairs she paused before the window. To her right was the door to the Sea Lounge, beyond which waited a possible future, some terrible turning point in her life to which she would be welded, almost without choice. Across the road stood the Gateway of India, its brick majestic, its interior dim and soaring. It was hemmed in from the land by parked cars and taxis, men with trained monkeys and the unemployed. Behind it the sea stretched out to the horizon, and the dark bulk of Elephanta Island. The sky was heavy with gathering cloud as the rain prepared to blow in again. Looking at the sea, Rani remembered again the hours on the terrace of Sadhbela with Sham. Concentration on the horizon, he had told her, had given him a horizon of his own.

  She thought again suddenly of Lakshmi. She would hold out for what she wanted – further study and the choices it offered her. She knew she was right: her desires were those of the future, and her mother’s of a suffocated past. Lakshmi was dead because of that past. She gave the sea a last look, and turned towards where her mother waited. She need only say, no. Kamal was right.

  Mrs Premchand hurried forward with greetings; a stout woman in a canary-coloured sari and a diamond pendant at her throat. In the heat her make-up had melted, and set again in the cool of the Sea Lounge, giving her skin a thick, caked look. She smiled fondly at Rani, and pressed Mrs Murjani’s hands. Rani smiled politely through gritted teeth, and looked about for a forewarning glimpse of Mrs Premchand’s friends.

  The room was serene and well upholstered; there was a smell of fried snacks and expensive perfume. Groups of people sat upon sofas about small tables. Rani took an inventory, and by systematic reduction found in these groups only two possibilities. One candidate appeared older than expected, with a high laugh that echoed disagreeably across the room. The other was given to stoutness and picked at a spot on his cheek. Both met her scrutiny and returned it with interest.

  ‘Come along now. Our friends are waiting.’ Mrs Premchand led the way towards the young man with the disagreeable laugh. Rani speared him with a marble look, but Mrs Premchand led them on. They rounded a corner and faced a secluded alcove.

  Kamal Balani and his mother sat on a sofa in the alcove, and stood up at their arrival. Kamal stepped forward with a complacent grin. Mrs Murjani opened, then shut her mouth in shock, and was unable to utter a greeting. Kamal’s hair was now brushed, and he wore a suit and tie. He thanked Mrs Murjani for her hospitality the previous day, and made the introductions. It was Mrs Premchand now who manifested shock, who recovered and giggled and sighed.

  Kamal’s mother seemed young; her manner was easy and outgoing, and did not measure up to Mrs Murjani’s sense of dignity. Rani liked her immediately. ‘So, Pinky’s your friend, what a coincidence,’ laughed Mrs Balani. She wore green slacks and a blouse with fashionably padded shoulders. ‘Pinky’s mother’s my cousin,’ she informed them. Mrs Murjani pursed her lips, and found Mrs Balani’s slacks too tight and her manner too loose for a first meeting.

  ‘Oh, but let us be seated,’ Mrs Premchand cried. Mrs Murjani sat down next to Mrs Balani. ‘And let the young people sit together. Since already they know each other, there is no need for formality,’ Mrs Premchand laughed. Rani sat beside Kamal on a separate sofa, facing the three smiling women.

  ‘Well, what do you make of this?’ he asked, speaking quickly in a low voice to her. ‘I didn’t realize until I got here that it was going to be you. Jesus.’

  ‘The whole thing’s ridiculous,’ Rani fumed beneath her breath. ‘I’m not going to marry you.’

  ‘What’s wrong with me?’ he asked, with a look of hurt injustice. ‘My family connections are impeccable, my prospects are fantastic, there’s plenty of money. What girl could refuse me?’

  ‘Sto
p joking,’ Rani insisted, outraged at the duplicity of her mother and Mrs Premchand.

  ‘Mrs Balani even has entry into the first family in Delhi,’ Mrs Premchand was saying in hushed tones across the table. Mrs Murjani nodded and smiled, and scrutinized Mrs Balani more closely.

  ‘Don’t believe it,’ whispered Kamal. ‘That was my grandparents. My mother last met a prime minister when she was five years old.’ Rani wanted to giggle. Mrs Balani was explaining about their life in the States, the large home in Los Angeles and the honours Kamal had accumulated at Harvard Law School. She spoke with a strong American accent.

  ‘I’ve decided to take your advice and hold out against them all,’ Rani said. ‘I want to study. Why should I not?’

  ‘Great,’ Kamal answered. ‘That means you’re learning resolution.’

  ‘My mother can’t stand Pinky or her parents. She certainly won’t consider you, since you are related to them,’ Rani revealed with satisfaction.

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with your mother. You have to decide what you want to do,’ Kamal reminded her.

  ‘Of course,’ said Rani hastily.

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ he inquired.

  ‘What about?’ she asked.

  ‘Me,’ he replied in a low voice.

  ‘Just what you told me. I’ll say no, and hold out for what I want,’ Rani replied and waited for his approval. ‘Just like you’ve been doing.’

  ‘But I might be willing to consider things, if it was you,’ Kamal whispered. ‘I have to admit, you don’t leave me exactly untouched. I did not expect to say this to anyone here.’

  ‘What?’ Rani choked on some orange juice.

  ‘It might not be a bad idea for you either,’ he whispered in an urgent tone. ‘I mean, you would live in the States, far from your mother. She couldn’t even visit you at weekends. And you could study, anything you want. I wouldn’t mind, I’d encourage it. I don’t think I could respect a wife who just wanted to sit at home. It would be a good solution for you,’ he said. ‘Of course, you’d have to like me.’