The Moneylenders of Shahpur (17 page)

‘But where
is
my nephew?’ demanded the frantic Uncle.

‘Ah, Sahib, has no word come to you from the police?’

‘No!’

Jivraj looked bewildered.

‘But the doctor promised to find out who he was and inform the police, so that word might go out to his family.’

‘Doctor?’

‘Yes, Sahib. The morning after the robbery the stranger had high fever, and we feared he might die.’ He looked helplessly at Partner Uncle, ‘And then how would I explain away to the police a corpse with wounds?’

Another man pushed his way forward. ‘I remembered that I had heard the white doctor was visiting a few villages away, so my son went for him.’

Partner Uncle took a large breath and relaxed a little. ‘Did he come?’ he asked.

‘Oh, yes. He came with his big lorry. He said the Bania was very sick and had a bullet in his shoulder. He also needed medicine which the doctor didn’t have with him. He asked what had happened, and we told him. Then he brought a cot from his lorry and we put the Bania on it and lifted him in. The doctor Sahib said he would take him to his hospital and inform the Shahpur police. We were deeply afraid of being implicated in the train robbery.’ He stopped and looked uneasily round the group of anxious men who had gathered. ‘The doctor said he would explain to the police for us – that he knew us to be honest men. He comes to the village occasionally.’

Partner Uncle stood up. ‘Where’s the hospital?’

The villagers looked at each other. Then one said, ‘It’s to the north – on the other side of Shahpur – ten or fifteen miles from here.’

‘That side of Shahpur is desert. There couldn’t be a hospital there.’

‘That’s where it is.’

A younger man bent down and whispered in Jivraj’s ear, and Jivraj said to Partner Uncle, ‘It’s a God hospital – a Christ one.’

‘Ah, a mission?’

Dusk was falling, and a woman of Jivraj’s family came out of the hut with a lighted charcoal fire held in a pair of tongs. She put it down, put a covered bowl by it and began to slap rolls of dough between her hands to flatten them into rotis, preparatory to cooking them.

Jivraj looked at the exhausted old moneylender and was touched by the sadness in his face. ‘Sir, if you can eat our food, one of my sons will serve you under the tree over there.’

Moneylenders are not popular in villages and Partner Uncle was surprised by the offer. He was glad to accept, however, and then he added, ‘It’s too late to find the hospital tonight. I’ll return to Shahpur and set out again early in the morning.’

To his surprise, Jivraj said, ‘To return to Shahpur from here is very simple. When they made the new road, they built a station for us at the nearby railway. In about an hour’s time, a local train will come down the line. It’s about a mile to the station.’ He bridled with pride in the new facility.

So Partner Uncle found himself eating good millet bread and sag with a little yoghurt, under a tree in a strange village, and ruminating on the unexpected courtesy and kindness of country folk. Deep inside he felt a trifle ashamed of the many times he had, in years past, pounded money out of just such people.

‘Ah, well, they owed it,’ he thought, as he scraped the last bit of sag off the palm leaf on which it had been served.

‘Not at 144 per cent interest,’ said his conscience.

The young man who served him was the shepherd he
had met at the well, and he put the promised four rupees into his hand; the boy took them without protest, as his due. An older man then brought a lantern and led them, as they pushed their bicycles, over an almost invisible track down to the small railway station.

There are no words of thanks in the Gujerati language and Partner Uncle did not offer to pay for his meal, but the villagers knew and Uncle knew that a bond of hospitality had been forged between them. One day, when the opportunity arose, it would in some way be repaid.

Less than two hours later, Partner Uncle was reporting to old Desai, who himself had had a fruitless day.

‘I know of the hospital,’ said old Desai. ‘It is called the Mission of Holiness. Once I met that doctor.’ He picked his toes thoughtfully. ‘I formed the opinion that he was not altogether trustworthy – you know how one senses it?’

Partner Uncle sighed, and nodded.

‘Tomorrow, Baroda Brother and I will go to the hospital and inquire. You must rest.’

Partner Uncle agreed. It did not occur to either of them that the Mission of Holiness might be on the telephone – nor was it.

Tilak never remembered clearly how he got through the night and the following morning, after leaving John so precipitously. A veil seemed to be cast over his conscious mind and he was guided merely by habit.

Realizing that the Sahib was in some way ill, his servant made up his bed and suggested that he sleep. He helped Tilak off with his clothes and held back the mosquito net while his master silently clambered into bed. After a while, he slept.

Soon after daybreak, the servant brought him hot water for shaving and then a brass tray of breakfast. After he had laid out clean clothes, he sat down in a corner and wondered apprehensively what Uncle Ranjit would say if he ran away.

Tilak shaved mechanically, turning over his lecture notes as he did so. A plop of shaving soap fell on them and he wiped it carefully away with the towel. He continued to read while he ate wheaten porridge and drank some milk. Then he put the notes into his briefcase, dressed, gave the servant money for the day’s food, and walked down to the University.

Though the sun was already well up, he shivered occasionally as though he were cold. It was not chill, however, but rather an inner perception that he faced a long, hard road to travel. He felt helpless, unable to accept the bitter facts regarding Anasuyabehn, which John had pointed out the previous evening.

When he arrived at the Arts and Science Building, some
of his students were hanging about outside it. They looked sullen and turned away from him, but he was too absorbed in his own problems to notice them. Inside, other students were hurrying to lecture rooms. They stared at him as he strode unseeingly to his own lecture room. He opened the door and walked in.

The room was empty.

Surprised, he looked at his watch. He was punctual. He put down his briefcase and took a few uncertain steps towards the window. Then he wheeled around and went out to the corridor again.

While the last students scurried through doors, like rabbits down their burrows, the Vice-Chancellor’s secretary hurried up to him.

Tilak asked, ‘Do you happen to know if they changed the room for my lecture? Is the Dean in yet?’

The secretary blinked excitedly from behind thick spectacles. ‘The room? I don’t know. The Dean has just gone over to the English Department. Dr Prasad, however, wishes to see you now.’

‘I can’t possibly see him now. I have a lecture – only all my students seem to be late or are in the wrong room.’

The secretary replied portentously, ‘They are not late, Sahib.’

‘What do you mean?’ A fuming irritation at the fool standing before him began to invade him. ‘Well?’ he snapped.

‘They’re on strike, Sahib.’

‘Strike?’

‘Yes, Sahib. That’s why Dr Prasad wants to see you.’

Seated in front of the Vice-Chancellor, Tilak looked at him amazed. He had not heard Dr Prasad’s opening words, except that he realized that his tone was sympathetic. Now Dr Prasad was saying, ‘This is a situation which I had not
foreseen. It will be the work of three or four hotheads. I have sent for Dean Mehta – he will know who are likely to be the miscreants, and I can assure you that disciplinary action will be taken.’

He waited for Tilak to say something, but Tilak was so taken aback that he was beyond words. All this because of a little dissecting? It was absurd. Yet, in his heart, he knew it was not absurd. He had struck at the roots of Jain belief.

‘Would you like to take some leave while we deal with this?’ asked Dr Prasad.

‘Of course not,’ Tilak assured him. Anger began to take the place of surprise and he felt like throwing something at the dolts who could not see that India, whether its inhabitants liked it or not, was a part of the twentieth century.

‘I suggest leave, my dear Dr Tilak, because Dr Bennett mentioned to me, when I saw him recently, that you had had a brick thrown at you. It disturbed him because it happened on campus – and students are apt to be a little unstable.’

‘Are you afraid of violence of some sort?’

Dr Prasad hesitated, and then said, ‘I shall try to avoid it, of course.’

‘Well, I’m not afraid of it – my mother and sister have gone back to Bombay, so I don’t have to worry about them.’ He laughed sardonically, and commented, ‘It would be ironical if our Jain friends took to violence to defend non-violence!’

‘It would, indeed,’ agreed Dr Prasad sadly. ‘But I hope it won’t come to that. Meantime, I really think it best if you went on leave for two or three weeks.’

An hour later, the University’s Head Peon was dispatched to town to make a reservation on the Bombay Express for that afternoon. Tilak’s servant went scuttling
down to the river, to rescue his master’s shirts from the boiling vats of the washerman, and Tilak himself tried to deal with the chaos in his room.

Sheets, mosquito net, blankets, bedding roll, were spread all over the floor, as a result of his flustered servant’s efforts at packing. Clucking with irritation, Tilak made up his own bedding roll and packed a trunk with his books and papers. As he worked, he considered how to let Anasuyabehn know of his impending absence. Dr Prasad had turned down the idea that he remain in the city, but not teach. ‘It’s better to be right out of it,’ he had insisted. He felt physically weak and the sweat rolled down him, as he struggled with leather straps and recalcitrant buckles.

He began to weep helplessly and sat down suddenly on the bedding roll. Would it be better simply to walk out of Anasuyabehn’s life? Go away to Bombay and never come back?

He gave a shuddering sigh. He couldn’t do it; he must at least let her know what had happened. After a little consideration, he decided to ask John to deliver a note to her.

He scribbled a quick explanatory note to her, saying he hoped to return in two weeks, and enclosed it, unsealed, in another note to John. His servant could take it over to him.

Anasuyabehn, too, had spent a bad morning, wondering how to inform Tilak that Mahadev was missing, that there was a chance he had been killed, but that, if he were found, her wedding would take place sooner than expected.

She did not want to wish a man dead. This unexpected happening, however, made her hope that he would be missing long enough for the marriage to be deferred.

In the late afternoon, while the aunts and her cousins slept and Dean Mehta went back to the University, she sent the boy servant to the students’ hostel, with a cryptic note giving some indication of her predicament.

‘Go first with this,’ she instructed him, as she handed him the chit, ‘and, on the way back, buy some fresh pan leaves from the pan seller up the road. Give the note only to Dr Tilak. Nobody else. Do you understand?’

The little boy grinned slyly and slipped quietly out of the sweeper’s door and up the field path. At the hostel, he found himself facing a padlocked door.

The wife of a student, baby on hip, was standing at the door of the next room, and she asked him what he wanted. He told her that he had brought a letter from Dean Mehta’s daughter to Tilak Sahib.

‘From Dean Mehta,’ she corrected.

‘No. Bahin wrote it herself.’

The woman looked thunderstruck. Then she said cunningly, ‘Leave it with me, little Brother. I’ll give it to him when he comes in.’

He held it behind his back and took a step or two away from her. ‘No. It’s for Tilak Sahib only. When will he be back?’

In a fury of curiosity, the woman answered him, ‘He went away with all his luggage this afternoon. Perhaps he won’t come back.’ She started to advance towards him. The child turned, and ran helter-skelter down the stairs.

The middle-aged mother of another student opened her door further down the passage. ‘What was that?’ she asked the woman with the baby.

The woman told her, and so the story was sent on its way. Two days and several dozen gossips later, it was said on the campus that Dean Mehta’s daughter was pregnant by Dr Tilak, who had fled to escape the consequences.

While Dr Ferozeshah was preparing to receive the morning rush of outpatients, Diana showed him the piece of paper she had found and told him of her deductions.

‘Keep out of it,’ Ferozeshah advised promptly.

‘But the police might be able to trace the dacoits if they knew about this,’ protested Diana. She was dressed in her white, nurse’s uniform and was getting together the doctor’s stethoscope, his thermometer, cotton wool and bottle of disinfectant and putting them ready on his desk.

In response to her protest, Ferozeshah said firmly, ‘Never go near the police unless you have to.’

‘I haven’t done anything wrong!’

‘Neither of us has. But once they are here, they’ll hang around and expect to be fed – and if we really want anything done, they’ll expect suitable baksheesh.’ He finished buttoning up his white coat.

‘Oh,’ said Diana, immediately deflated.

‘Cheer up. I’m sure you’re right. But, at best, that piece of registered envelope you found is a clue; it’s not concrete evidence against the dacoits. And, you know, the villagers will be punished – and the dacoits would still get away with it.’

That evening, after an early dinner, Diana went on the bus to see John and ask his opinion. Ranjit admitted her and managed a polite smile, a smile that faded immediately he returned to his back veranda; it was replaced by a look of great anxiety.

John agreed with Ferozeshah. ‘I’ve heard that they have
sent a good man down from Delhi to investigate, because of the murder of that Englishwoman. Let
him
get on with it.’

Diana sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right – I felt so clever working it all out. But how will those poor people in Pandipura cope?’

‘I bet the donkeys are back in the village by now. The villagers haven’t suffered much and they’ll all be as quiet as mice – they don’t want the dacoits to burn the place flat next time they come this way.’

‘That’s awful! It’s bullying!’

‘We live in an awful world,’ responded John almost flippantly.

His acceptance of human wickedness surprised her. It savoured of a Hindu outlook.

He continued. ‘They probably had a plan to get the proceeds of the robbery out of the province and, because of the storm, it went wrong, so they pounced on the nearest village – they needed transport that fitted into the landscape and could carry, say, builder’s sand, with the loot buried in it. Donkeys would be perfect. Horses stick out like sore toes, here.’

‘Why use horses at all?’

‘Speed – to get away from the scene, in the first instance. They probably had a string of camels waiting, and missed them in the dark and the dust.’

‘My patient was so frightened and worried that she nearly died.’

‘That’s too bad. Is she all right now?’

‘Yes. She’ll be OK.’

‘Good. I say, can you stay to dinner?’ he asked shyly.

Diana looked up at him and smiled. ‘I’d love to,’ she said, and hoped she could eat a second meal.

John took up his stick and went to consult Ranjit. The bearer agreed morosely that he could provide enough food. John turned to go back into his room.

‘Sahib …’

‘Yes?’

Ranjit, seated on the floor in front of his precious Primus stove, looked up. He looked as sour as a piece of dried tamarind. ‘Nothing, Sahib,’ and he leaned forward to pick up his paring knife.

Really, John thought, Ranjit was a queer old stick sometimes.

As he re-entered, John asked Diana, ‘Do you happen to know Anasuyabehn Mehta?’

‘No. Who is she?’

‘Dean Mehta’s daughter. Lives a few doors down. I just wondered.’ He did not like to say that in his cash box lay the love letter for her, left by Tilak’s servant earlier that day, which he wanted delivered to her. He had read it. It said simply that Tilak had to return to Bombay and was consulting his uncle. It would mean the world to Anasuyabehn, and, even if Dean Mehta saw it, there was nothing dishonourable in it.

Diana watched him cross the room, leaning on his stick. ‘I don’t think that you need to use that stick all the time,’ she said abruptly.

Startled out of his thoughts of Anasuyabehn, John glanced down at the offending stick.

‘Do you have any pain now?’

‘Not often, unless I’ve hit myself on something.’

‘I don’t think Ferozeshah has examined you for a long time. He’s been rushed off his feet.’

‘Oh, I only ask him for a sedative. In England, they told me not much more could be done.’

She gazed at John standing uncertainly before her, his face slowly reddening with embarrassment.

‘Forgive me,’ she said gently, ‘for being so personal – but I saw a fair amount of similar injury during the war and
how it was treated. I believe you could learn to walk without a stick – and quite straight. It would mean that the rest of your body wouldn’t ache so much from being out of position. I imagine it does ache?’

He nodded, and she got up and went to stand in front of him. ‘Would you like to try?’ she asked. ‘I’ll help you.’

She was not a tall person and seemed very diminutive to him. Her eyes crinkled up with humour, and she said, as if she had read his thoughts, ‘I’m quite strong.’

‘I wouldn’t mind having a bash at it.’

‘OK. I need first to see exactly how you put your feet down. Put your hands on my shoulders and I’ll walk backwards, while I watch your feet.’

He laid his stick on the divan and shyly put his hands on her shoulders. It was so long since he had touched a woman that, at first, his thoughts were not about learning to walk. He stumbled, only to be steadied by a surprisingly strong arm round his waist.

Diana held him for a moment; then quickly let her arm drop, afraid that her instinctive movement might be misconstrued. John was thinking, ‘She’s too bloody innocent for words.’

‘Let’s try again,’ she said in her bright, professional voice, and he glumly gave his attention to what she was saying.

He held on to her and advanced as she retreated.

Ranjit peeped through the half-open door and was horrified to see such abandoned behaviour. He went back to his cooking pots wagging his head in a hopeless fashion.

It was even worse when he went in to announce dinner. The copper and the dark heads were bent close together over the desk, while the Memsahib drew indecent pictures of men doing peculiar actions with their legs.

Ranjit hardly slept that night.