Read A Lovesong for India Online
Authors: Ruth Prawer Jhabvala
A Lovesong for India (2 page)
Dinesh was very attentive to her. He took care that the water buckets were kept filled during the hours when the municipal supply was turned on (six to eight in the morning, six to nine in the evening – I remember it so well!). He noticed whenever she was running short of tea leaves and filled her little canister, buying tea with his own money, though of course she always paid him back. Neither of them could afford to be as generous as they may have wanted. But she took care of him as he did of her – she said he was like a younger brother to her. When his glasses broke, she mended them with tape; or she cooked a little more of the dish she prepared for herself and her husband for their evening meal.
This meal she and Sahib always ate alone in their bedroom. Usually the door was kept shut and no sound came from behind it. It was only when I came to read Dinesh’s novel that I learned how they did not eat in silence but amid fierce and bitter whispers, in which each blamed the other for what had happened. This too was revealed to me not by Dinesh but by scenes in the novel narrated by D.
It was D who described how Sahib had first met their two fellow conspirators. This had been in the same sort of coffee house where he could still be met – the same stains of ketchup on the tablecloths – but at that time he was part of a very jolly group that included freelance journalists, a doctor who had lost his licence and the younger son of an industrialist. This last was trying to start a business of his own, and he introduced his prospective partner into the circle of friends – a different type from the rest, with cruder jokes and more oil on his hair. A businessman, he called himself; eager to ingratiate, he stood treat for a round of chicken kebabs.
Sahib had completed his studies several years before but had not yet rented an office – he intended to do so the moment he had some clients; so it was at home that the two partners came to visit him. They said they needed a lawyer to draw up their contracts and he was just the person they were looking for. Bibiji served glasses of sugared lime water to get a look at them for herself. Later she confided to D that from the start she had doubts about the businessman but that she liked the son of the industrialist. He was not much more than a boy, very well spoken, and with manners learned at one of the best schools in the country.
They came every day, and soon they offered Sahib a partnership in their business venture. All they asked in return was a small investment to help with the initial purchase of gold from certain reliable sources, to be resold at fantastic profits via other reliable sources. He was hesitant, he said he would have to consult his wife. It was then, according to the novel, that they began their secret whispering behind their closed bedroom door. She objected to their total lack of business experience, he mentioned the promised profits, and they argued to and fro, their whispers getting lower and lower as though they were engaged in some criminal activity. And the two partners came every day, and every day Sahib told them he was thinking it over.
Then one morning, when Sahib had left on his usual round, the son of the industrialist came to see Bibiji. She was just enjoying a cup of tea and chatting with Gochi, her old sweeper woman, who squatted nearby with the glass of tea that was part of her wages. On the arrival of the visitor, Gochi gave a last hasty sweep to the floor before taking her bedraggled appearance out of sight, while Bibiji took out another cup to serve the guest. He admired everything – not only the cup but the sofa suite, the carpet and the wall-hanging of
Little Boy Blue
in cross-stitch that she admitted to be the work of her own hands. It was obvious to him, who was himself from a fine home, that she and Sahib came from good families. He admitted that this could not be said of his partner – but then went on to describe a deal this partner had successfully concluded, with astonishing profits. The same result could confidently be expected of their own project. One day, he promised, there would be an even costlier carpet on this floor, even bigger, heavier bangles on Bibiji’s wrists. And maybe she wouldn’t be in this house at all but in one of the new mansions in the diplomatic enclave, with a motor car standing before the door. No, he smiled, no need for her to learn to drive, a chauffeur would be at her disposal day and night.
Little Boy Blue
in cross-stitch that she admitted to be the work of her own hands. It was obvious to him, who was himself from a fine home, that she and Sahib came from good families. He admitted that this could not be said of his partner – but then went on to describe a deal this partner had successfully concluded, with astonishing profits. The same result could confidently be expected of their own project. One day, he promised, there would be an even costlier carpet on this floor, even bigger, heavier bangles on Bibiji’s wrists. And maybe she wouldn’t be in this house at all but in one of the new mansions in the diplomatic enclave, with a motor car standing before the door. No, he smiled, no need for her to learn to drive, a chauffeur would be at her disposal day and night.
He had to pay her only two more morning visits before she informed her husband that she was adding her jewellery to their input of capital. At that Sahib cried out in shock and touched the gold that had adorned her since the day of their wedding. She laughed at him: bigger, better bracelets would be bought, rings, and ropes of pearls, and what would he say to a motor car with chauffeur? All this was described in Dinesh’s novel – how she persuaded him, brought him around. His account is in no way censorious; it is with affection D describes her joyful little cries and gestures at the prospect ahead. It is in subsequent chapters that D narrates the scenes of the nightly whispering behind their bedroom door, each blaming the other for what eventually happened. ‘You were lucky,’ Sahib told his wife. ‘It was you – you who should have gone, you who were guilty, not I.’ For answer, she only raised her thin arms to show that their sole adornment now was some coloured glass bangles bought from a street hawker.
One day I found Bibiji on her sofa with Gochi squatting near her on the floor, both of them in tears. What had happened? It was explained to me that Gochi had been forbidden to come here any more by her daughter and son-in-law. Another job had been found for her where the salary was higher and also paid regularly. Her son-in-law was adamant, Gochi said, and no one in their house dared stand against him, a hard man who drank. She clutched Bibiji’s feet and wet them with her tears, and Bibiji’s tears fell on the spot on Gochi’s head where the sparse hennaed hair had worn away. Both of them were helpless and hopeless in their different kinds of poverty.
I suggested there could be more income by way of a third tenant for the empty room. So that was how Karuna – or Kay, as she told us to call her – came to us. I had met her in the Tibetan Colony, where impecunious foreigners like myself ate delicious messes that sometimes made us sick. We were joined there by a new kind of young Indian – modern enough to drop out of school, leave home and family to discover (using the same terminology as ours) their own identity. Kay had not exactly run away from home, but she had staked her claim for self-expression – which her father may not have understood but had tolerantly indulged. He was a brigadier in the army, in charge of a hill station cantonment. She often spoke of him and seemed to admire him, though laughing at what she called his dodo ways. He supported her with cheques sent regularly and frequent calls and letters that she only sometimes answered.
When I met her, she was living in a YWCA hostel. She made scornful jokes about this place, and when I told her about our empty room, she was ready to move in at once. I have to say here that the three rooms for rent in the house were no more than cubicles, each furnished with a string cot, a commercial calendar and a water jug on a stand. This spartan interior was what Dinesh was used to – he had never known anything else – and it suited me perfectly, asceticism being what I had come to India for. It suited Kay too, mainly for being different from her home. Anyway, she soon had a rug on the cement floor and had replaced the calendar with a poster of a dead rock star.
Bibiji liked her immediately and admired her, which Kay seemed to find natural. She was used to people wanting to be in her company, and she chattered away to Bibiji and to Sahib, who was also fascinated by her. I don’t think she ever told them anything new or interesting – it was she herself who was so for them, in the way she spoke and laughed at nothing in particular, unless it was the YWCA or her hopelessly bourgeois family.
Dinesh got her hired in the English section of All India Radio. She became the disc jockey of a request programme called
Yours, with Love
. She played recent pop songs from England or America, selected by listeners, with fond messages for their loved ones. She read these messages in a very seductive voice – ‘This is for Bunny and a million billion thanks, darling, for the fabulous times’ – which made Sahib nod and smile in some sort of recognition, and Bibiji look down shyly as if she were the one being addressed.
Yours, with Love
. She played recent pop songs from England or America, selected by listeners, with fond messages for their loved ones. She read these messages in a very seductive voice – ‘This is for Bunny and a million billion thanks, darling, for the fabulous times’ – which made Sahib nod and smile in some sort of recognition, and Bibiji look down shyly as if she were the one being addressed.
To get Kay to work on time, Dinesh often had to wake her. He shouted from outside her door and then, too shy to see a girl asleep in bed, he sent me in. She lay on her stomach, one hot flushed cheek pressed into the pillow, moaning for coffee. Sahib had bought a tin of Nescafé specially for her, and it gave him great pleasure to rush into the kitchen, where he otherwise never set foot, and to pour water over the powder and stir it before handing it over to Bibiji or me to deliver. Dinesh stood outside the door, looking up at the ceiling in simulated disgust.
But he too seemed to enjoy Kay’s company. He spoke to her in his usual torrent of often disconnected ideas – and although she kept saying ‘Fantastic’, she wasn’t really listening and interrupted him at intervals, usually with something so far removed from what he was saying that he stopped short in astonishment. I suppose her head was full of thoughts of her own that left little room for anything else.
But one evening she asked Dinesh, ‘What about them? . . . You know.’ She gestured in the direction of the Malhotra bedroom where presumably they were already asleep, or talking together in voices so low that no sound could be heard.
The three of us – their ‘paying guests’, as they called us – were in the little courtyard from which all the rooms opened up. It was like a well with the sun pouring in all day, but at night some cool air descended from the sky, of which we could see only a patch with a star or two. There was no need of further illumination – anyway, there was nothing to see except a bed with the strings broken, and Gochi’s broom of twigs leaning against a wall.
‘Their case,’ she went on.
Dinesh waved his hand impatiently. ‘That was twelve years ago.’
‘Twelve years! I was only eight.’
‘You must have been a very nasty little brat.’
‘I looked like an angel and I was one. Everyone said so.’ She ignored his exaggerated laughter. She was combing her hair, which fell around her in dark waves with auburn glints.
Dinesh had been watching her. I could see neither of them clearly in that dim starlight, but I was aware of his eyes gleaming – or maybe I was only aware of his stifled excitement. We could hear the comb as she slowly, lovingly drew it through all that silken luxury; at the same time she said, ‘Shall I cut it off? It’s such a nuisance.’
‘If you cut it off, it might get you to work on time and not be fired, which will happen any day now.’
‘Nobody is going to fire me. They love me too much. But seriously: were they both in jail?’
‘Who’s been talking to you?’
‘Oh, everyone talks. As soon as anyone hears where I’m living – aren’t those the people in the gold-smuggling case? . . . I suppose no one ever forgets.’
‘I suppose no one ever learns to mind their own business,’ Dinesh said.
‘Do you think they’re listening?’ She lowered her voice. ‘The two of them with their ears glued to the door?’
It was easy to imagine – the small couple crouching behind their closed bedroom door, their hearts beating, wondering, what are they saying? Are they talking – about us? What do they know? The thought seemed to make Dinesh angry and ashamed and he turned on Kay: ‘So you sit gossiping with your friends – my landlords did this, my landlords did that – ’
‘Well, did they?
Both
of them?’
Both
of them?’
Now he didn’t trust himself to speak but turned away and left us, so that Kay wondered, ‘But why’s he mad at me?’
She was truly puzzled by his attitude. She was used to being admired by men and took it as her due. There was Sahib every morning lingering in wait for the cry for coffee, and in the evenings he came home earlier. Already part of a lively social set, Kay was often on the point of going out – curses could be heard from her room, where she kept discarding one outfit for another. Sahib hovered smiling around the door, clutching a book, and as soon as she emerged, he held it up for her. ‘Are you acquainted with this book? What is your opinion of the writing?’ Mostly she had no time to answer; she would brush past him on a wave of energy and fresh perfume that drowned his disappointment in sheer pleasure.
When she was home, she wandered all over the house, talking to anyone who was around. If she had to write a letter home – with much underlining and many exclamation points – she preferred to do it in the living room where we could keep her company. This was Sahib’s opportunity. He had found a tattered old copy of a novel by Françoise Sagan and it fascinated him. He questioned Kay: ‘Is it true? Is this how modern girls behave, so free and knowing so much about sex?’ The word sex – enticing, expectant – sat on his lips, waiting for her to take it up. Her laugh hinted at kingdoms hidden from him. He lowered the book. ‘And you? Do you have someone for your friend? A cavalier?’ He shut one eye. ‘A
boy
friend?’ More laughter from her and he laughed too, enjoying the conversation, enjoying being teased by her, enjoying her. At such moments his true nature – spry, humorous – seemed to shine out from under its eclipse of disgrace and humiliation. When Dinesh heard Sahib question Kay about books, he would say, ‘What makes you think she’s ever read one?’
boy
friend?’ More laughter from her and he laughed too, enjoying the conversation, enjoying being teased by her, enjoying her. At such moments his true nature – spry, humorous – seemed to shine out from under its eclipse of disgrace and humiliation. When Dinesh heard Sahib question Kay about books, he would say, ‘What makes you think she’s ever read one?’
‘That’s all you know!’ she cried, adding, ‘Dinesh hates me,’ but with a smile that showed she suspected this was not quite true.
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