Of Marriageable Age (44 page)

'So, Saroj, now tell me this exciting news. You've really left home?' Lucy Quentin looked at Saroj expectantly. In a sudden attack of shyness Saroj glanced at Trixie for help, who launched into a garbled account of the story. Halfway through Saroj found her voice, interrupted Trixie, and finished in her own words.

'So you see, my father isn't really my father and he doesn't have the right to treat me as he does,' she finally said, and, eager to reap praise, looked expectantly at Lucy Quentin who had kept her silence all this time.

'My dear, whether he's your real father or not, he doesn't have any
right
whatsoever to treat you the way he does.' Lucy Quentin carefully laid knife and fork together on her plate and pushed it all away. Placing her elbows on the table, interlocking her long ebony fingers, she looked at Saroj intensely.

'No right whatsoever. Do you understand? That's the point you have to get straight right at the very beginning. Your father has no right to control your life, even if you are a minor. He has no right to lock you up, and no right to choose a husband for you, and no right to marry you off against your will. The trouble with you Indian girls is your absolute lack of willpower and your absolute submission to the will of your fathers. Once you've grasped how very wrong this is, then you can begin to fight for freedom. Not before. Your father is, to put it into plain English, a brute.'

Saroj was so stunned by the steel in her words her lower jaw dropped and she gaped. Here, put into clear and succinct words, was her entire rebellion, all fuzzy emotion straightened out, ironed, and laid bare for her to see in black and white, all the hate drawn out; all the speechless defiance given tongue.

'And as for your mother,' Lucy Quentin continued, 'she's as much to blame. Her fault is not brutishness, just plain . . . weakness.'

This, now, was a shock. 'Ma... weakness?' Saroj stammered, feeling a protest without the power to express it.

Lucy Quentin smiled a smile that didn't reach her eyes, shook her head and poured herself a glass of water.

'Of course, darling. Weakness. Weakness is passed from mother to daughter. You've inherited the weakness of your mother, the weakness of the Indian woman, the weakness that accepts the tyranny of the male without objection. Your mother, in bowing her head to your father's decisions, is as much guilty of wrongdoing as he is.'

'Guilty of...?'

'It's hard to accept, isn't it? That a sweet, mild-mannered, soft-spoken little woman could be guilty of anything? Nonsense!' This last word was almost a shout, she banged her glass on the table spilling half the water, and then she raised her right hand and waggled her forefinger at Saroj.

'Saroj, you're an intelligent girl. You've got to get the picture straight — especially about your mother. Your father — well that's clear enough. Your mother is the devious one. All sugar and spice on the outside — that's the way she fools the world. Even Trixie, my own daughter, adores her. Ha! Sweetness of character is certainly very appealing, especially to men, but sweetness of character will get you — yes, Saroj,
you
personally — nowhere at all. All docility and obedience, and when you do rebel, you take it all out on yourself. Suicide. Suicide! Ha! Suicide, that's weakness. Fight! Yep, that's right, fight. It's what I've been telling Trixie all this time. So you've finally done it. Congratulations, and welcome to the Quentin home!'

There followed a long stricken silence in which Lucy Quentin drank her glass of water with an expression of deepest satisfaction. Saroj played with her food, moving her fork here and there among the noodles, picking out the peas tasting of vomit, separating the corn, which she ate grain by grain. Trixie was gobbling at her own food with a gusto Saroj felt was less induced by appetite than by nervousness. Something, she felt, was wrong. She knew she had to say something, defend her mother, change the subject, anything to break this awful condemning silence. Anything to make Lucy Quentin understand.

'The... prob… my problem isn't so much... I mean, I got angry because of what… because of finding out that my mother was having... I mean, is having, well, an affair,' she stammered.

Lucy Quentin threw back her head and laughed, but her laughter sounded so mocking, so derisive, Saroj cringed for Ma's lost privacy.

'Do you know, I'd forgotten all about that bit!' she said finally. 'Your mother's actually having an affair! Well done, no, jolly well done, as the British would say! I bet that shocked you out of your little mind, didn't it? That good, sweet, holy Mama — what do you call her? — could do something so utterly, terribly sinful! I bet that disrupted your image of chastity! How could she, eh? Give the old rascal Deodat Roy horns! My word, it's just a pity we can't make that public, wouldn't that be a laugh!'

Saroj's face was red-hot as she whispered, 'Ma couldn't... Ma wouldn’t...’

'And how she could! My word, she would! She did, didn't she? You have the evidence, and your evidence is you yourself! My goodness, that's the most wonderful joke!'

'You don't understand!' the protest escaped Saroj's lips before she could stop it, and louder than she'd have dared if she'd had time to consider, and sounded like a whine.

'It's you who doesn't understand! But how can you, at your age, with your upbringing? My goodness, you Hindus are more prudish and more repressed than the Catholics. But understand one thing, Saroj: you can't stop human nature from being human nature. Your mother is a woman, just like any other, and she's entitled to get a little pleasure out of this life, and I certainly wouldn't condemn her for doing so, in fact, hats off! I wouldn't have credited her with the courage, a little mouse of a woman like that!'

'But you don't even know her!'

Lucy Quentin waved her hand dismissively. 'Oh, if you've seen one you've seen them all, these sweet little Indian women. I pity them, I really do, or I would, if I didn't know what destruction this sweetness causes to their daughters, forcing them to grow up just as sweet, and just as ineffectual.'

Lucy Quentin was an adult, the Minister of Health besides, and Saroj was raised to respect adults and not answer back. But with every critical word the woman spoke about Ma Saroj could feel her hackles rising. This wasn't the kind of support she needed. She didn't want anyone else tearing Ma to pieces, and for the wrong reasons! She wanted Lucy Quentin to commiserate with her, to tell her how awful it was for Ma to deceive them all and to give her, Saroj, the wrong father and to allow Baba to tyrannise her all these years; and here she was, saying Ma had every
right
to an affair! Saroj wanted Lucy Quentin to understand the shock of having your entire world fall to pieces around your feet, and here she was, saying it's only right and natural that this should be so! Or was she, again, blinded by some fuzzy, unacknowledged Indian moral concept?

'I… I thought…'

Again that derisive laugh. 'Oh yes, I know you're considered highly intelligent, I know you'll be a candidate for the Guyana Scholarship when the time comes, but, you know, you should use your intelligence for a little bit of reflection, self-criticism, to recognise the facts. And the fact is: your Ma is not what you thought her to be! Clear and simple!'

'Miss Quentin, you don't understand! Ma's different, she wouldn't…”

'Christ, child, I'd like to give you a good shake!
She did!
She did! She did, because human nature is stronger, far stronger, than all these cultural ideals of purity. Your mother had a romp in the hay, or several, over the years, it seems, and it's her perfect right to do so! Isn't that what men have been doing for years? Now, just get that indisputable fact into your pretty little head, which, by the way, is no longer as pretty as it used to be without all that hair, and thank goodness for that! Best thing you ever did!'

Saroj's hand closed tightly around her glass and she might have thrown it at Lucy Quentin if she'd spoken one more word, dumping all her dirty innuendos over Ma, if just then the doorbell hadn't rung. Trixie, grateful for an excuse to escape the bristling atmosphere at the table, sprang to her feet and ran to the window.

'Saroj!' she hissed. 'It's your parents!'

All resentment of Lucy Quentin vanished. Saroj looked at her, pleading with her eyes, and said, 'I don't want to see them; I can't go back, I can't! Please, don't make me go back home, Miss Quentin!'

At once the biting steel left Lucy Quentin's eyes and kindness flooded them. She reached out and patted Saroj on the shoulder, and as she rose to her feet said, 'Don't worry, child, I'm entirely on your side. Trixie, go on down and open the door, please! Saroj, I'd like you to listen to what I have to say to your parents. It's about time someone did something to help all these poor Indian girls. Now, just you go to Trixie's room and stay there, I'll take care of this. And remember, justice is on your side!'

Trixie bounded down the stairs to open the door, and Saroj scuttled off to hide.

Lucy Quentin's house had the natural air-conditioning of most Georgetown houses: rooms without ceilings, so you could see up into the eaves. And since it was a one-storey house, the bedrooms were just next door to the living room, which meant that the whole house was ventilated. If all the windows were open the breeze blew through open doors, up into the eaves and down, whirled around the house and through the rooms and out the windows again, carrying sounds, and voices.

Trixie slipped into the room, her eyes wide open in excitement.

'Your Ma's coming up — alone! Your Baba's stayed in the car! Let's listen!' Which, of course, is exactly what Saroj intended to do. Trixie grabbed her hand and pulled her down to sit on the edge of the bed.

Through the eaves Saroj heard Lucy Quentin's authoritative voice, ushering Ma into the living room. Her voice was even louder than usual; for
her
benefit, Saroj assumed. Ma's soft-spoken responses were hushed by the brassy echo that seemed to reverberate whenever Lucy Quentin spoke. It was Ma that Saroj most wanted to hear, but Lucy Quentin was what she got. Like listening to someone on the telephone, she could only guess at Ma's almost whispered explanations, conjecture at what she said through Lucy Quentin's one-sided conversation.

'Saroj is extremely upset and she would like to live with me for a while, at least until she can make an agreement with you and your husband… Yes, but you understand, this marriage business has been the last straw and I must remind you, and your husband being a lawyer should actually know this: arranged marriages against the will of the parties involved are de facto illegal. You have absolutely no right, even if she is a minor. She consented to meet the boy only as a favour towards you. What she really feels about the matter you already know — she'd rather die! You're lucky she's alive! That should have been the warning, and as a woman, Mrs Roy, you should be on her side and not on your husband's side. You yourself are living in an arranged marriage — and you yourself know the misery of such a union. But I know — Saroj now knows, and she has told me — that you have also known love; and passion, and with a man who is not your husband. Am I right?'

This time, Ma spoke. It must have been about three sentences, of which Saroj couldn't hear a word, but Lucy Quentin broke in:

'Yes, I know this is all very private, Mrs Roy, you needn't remind me of that, but Saroj has come to me for refuge; I am, you could say, her chosen guardian… No, don’t interrupt, let me finish. Saroj doesn't want to speak to you. She won't return home. Of course, you do have parental rights, you could come with the police and force her to return. But just ask yourself what such an action would result in. Your only course now is for her to calm down enough to risk going home again. And since she refuses to speak to you you'll just have to use me as a go-between… but… yes, I understand, these are personal things. I understand… I'm your
friend,
Mrs Roy; I'm the friend of every woman, every woman of every race, we're all sisters and we understand each other's problems so you needn't be ashamed of anything you've done. I fully understand and I'd never, ever, condemn you, and I certainly don't believe that having an extramarital affair is the end of the world; neither is having a child out of wedlock, neither is passing such a child off as a legitimate child; morals have changed, Mrs Roy, and this isn't India, neither are we living in Victorian times! This is 1966! So really, there's no reason whatsoever for you to feel shame at all these things. It might really do you good to have a good long talk with me, I might be able to counsel you and to mediate between you and Saroj… for you both urgently need counselling. I might be able to persuade her to talk to you but, well, she's extremely upset, as I said. I've been trying to make her see the whole thing from your point of view, from the point of view of a woman trapped in a bad marriage, to help her to understand you. But you've done your work well. Saroj is very fixed in her ideas and, well, to put it into plain English: she's a prude, if you don't mind me saying so, and it's hard for her to understand that human nature will always . . .'

Ma's sandals were louder than her voice. Saroj could distinctly hear them clattering down the wooden stairs to the front door. She heard the chink of the chain at the gate, the slamming of a car door, the coughing of the car as Baba turned on the engine, the car driving off. She was bathed in sweat. Ma had walked out on Lucy Quentin!

Trixie took her hand and led her out into the living room. So numb she could hardly walk, Saroj followed her and when Trixie stood her in front of the sofa and pushed her shoulders gently she obediently plonked herself down. The imitation leather was still warm; from Ma, or from Lucy Quentin?

Lucy Quentin was still standing at the top of the stairwell, looking down it as if transfixed, a puzzled expression on her face, rubbing her chin.

When she saw Saroj she started. Her lips turned upwards in a breezy smile, and she walked over with arms stretched out towards the girl.

'Saroj dear, I did my best, you heard, I suppose? I wanted you to hear. Your mother is very soft-spoken, but that's to be expected. She's such a fearful little thing, isn't she, and so shy, she wouldn't talk about the problem with me so I'm afraid we've not come much farther. I think, dear, it would almost be better if I spoke with your father, after all, he's the villain in this piece and it might be good for him if, once in his lifetime, a woman gave him a piece of her mind, and…'