Thursday's Child (21 page)

Reluctantly I agreed with her. Only the previous evening I had put some lentil soup into a covered bowl in the hope that it would stay good until morning, and had found upon getting up that it was rotten throughout. Refrigeration would be the only safe way in which to keep food fresh – and a refrigerator was beyond the dreams of avarice.

Letters from my parents had been awaiting my arrival, but it was on the day of Miss Shah's visit that the postman brought me the first letter from Angela. I tore open the envelope before the postman's slippers had given a final flip-flap on the bottom step of the veranda.

After saying that she was glad I had arrived safely and how much she missed me, she wrote: ‘Wu has been very kind. He has called several times bringing flowers, which
amuses me very much. Father does not like him at all – keeps saying he wishes the fellow would go away – and yet he is so courteous that Father cannot snub him. Personally I find him refreshingly charming – he is a realist and a poet.'

I remembered the careful arrangement of the room Ajit and I had shared at the inn on the first night of our marriage. A poet and a realist had combined to arrange it. I scanned the letter again. I was pleased that Wu's friendship with Angela was progressing, but as for Father – poor Father must be afraid of losing another daughter to an oriental.

Having a woman to help me, dirty and inefficient as she was, proved a great comfort, but lead weights dragged at my legs and the dysentery did not lessen. Even to cook and to go to the city to shop became nightmares of effort, and I did not protest when a few days later Ajit brought a doctor home with him.

‘This is Dr Venketraman,' he said as he ushered into the living-room a tall, black man.

I bade the doctor seat himself, which he did after placing his bag carefully on the table. ‘And now, Madam,' he said as he removed an outsized pair of horn-rimmed spectacles from his nose,'how can I help you?'

His dark face creased with polite solicitude and his extraordinarily black eyes ranged over me as I explained my symptoms.

He diagnosed dysentery, asked us to send our nonexistent servant to his dispensary for medicines, and decreed a diet of curd and rice.

‘What a queer man,' I said, as Ajit shut the door behind him. ‘Is he a Negro?'

‘No. He is from the south. Many of them are dark and curly-haired.' He put his arm round my waist and kissed me. ‘I will fetch the medicine after dinner.'

For weeks the doctor and I waged war against dysentery. Sometimes it left me for a few days only to come again with greater vigour. I grew thinner and weaker, while Ajit became more and more worried.

The other tenants of the flats returned from their holidays and, without exception, curiosity drove the ladies
to call upon me, regardless of whether they were elderly, orthodox and disapproving or young and highly experimental. They all knew different cures for dysentery but none of them cured. Many of the ladies, as the dampness of the rainy season approached and the mosquitoes came out of hiding, went down with malaria, but I was spared this as I did not fear to take modern drugs.

The unremitted kindness of people round me, from Kamala, who often shopped for me in the city and charged me only a small percentage on the goods she bought, to the Misses Shah, who brought me books and company, was overwhelming. Ajit, harassed at the power house by the slowness and inefficiency of the men under him and by his own limited experience, never murmured about the lateness of his meals or the general discomfort of his home. Night after night he massaged my aching legs when he must have been exhausted himself from much standing in the summer heat, and as he rubbed he told me funny stories of the day's doings. I laughed to please him and to see the smile of relief in his eyes when he heard me chuckle.

So, through the cruel Indian summer, we clung to each other and wondered how long we could endure without breaking.

Just before the monsoon broke, when the weather had become intolerably humid, a peon in a white uniform and a scarlet sash presented himself at Ajit's office. He brought a letter from Chundabhai Patel, announcing his return to Shahpur from England and asking us to take dinner with him.

Ajit scribbled an acceptance, as I was a little better and he thought I would enjoy meeting an old friend. He suspected that Chundabhai would be more than glad to see us, as it was likely that he would be finding it difficult to
readjust himself to Indian life, despite the ease which his father's wealth purchased for him.

Chundabhai was a Vaisya by caste and a Jain by religion; that is, he was of a lower caste than Ajit and his religious beliefs demanded that he should take no life and in consequence be a strict vegetarian. The last time we saw him in England was when he was sitting in a Manchester eating-house, famous for its steak and kidney pies, ordering a second helping of this delectable dish. On the table before him was a tankard of beer, and by his side sat his red-headed sweetheart, Sheila. In Shahpur there would be no beer, since prohibition reigned, and no Sheila, because he had been married since he was fifteen.

We were both excited at the prospect of visiting someone other than the families who lived in our isolated block of flats, and both of us longed to talk to an old friend.

‘I will hire a tonga to take us,' Ajit said. ‘Even if you were well, the heat at present is too great for walking.'

On the morning of the day of the dinner party Chundabhai's peon again presented himself and announced that Chundabhai would be sending a car for us, as he felt that the long journey to the other side of the city would be arduous, if we travelled by bus.

With trembling hands, I dressed myself carefully for the occasion, and Ajit declared that I looked like Sita herself. Make-up could not hide the drawn look of my face, but I did not oil my hair that day and instead let it curl softly round my face. I loathed the daily oil bath that the hot, dry climate made necessary, and was glad to abandon the practice for one day.

When Chundabhai's car arrived, the Misses Shah came out on to their veranda to wave us farewell; they were nearly as excited as we were and looked forward to enjoying our visit at second-hand, as soon as we could return and tell them about it.

We drove across the city through the narrow, busy streets and then out into a district where houses bigger than most dwellings in England were set apart from each other amid groves of trees. We were swept through high gates where a khaki-clad watchman sat staff in hand like a petty
king, up a long drive lined with trees and eventually came to a stop before a wide flight of steps.

A peon opened the car door, and I looked out at a fairytale palace with pure white walls, marble verandas and teak doors. It was surrounded by shade trees through which the setting sun hardly penetrated. It was cool as I stepped out of the car, heavenly cool.

We followed a bearer through the porticoed frontage, through double doors flung wide open and into an immense circular hall, round the sides of which curved a staircase leading to a series of galleries above. In the centre of the hall a fountain played in a pool covered with water-lilies.

Ajit grinned at me slyly when he saw the wonderment on my face as we mounted the stairs, passing as we ascended a series of niches in the wall in which sat stone gods carved in meticulous detail. From above came the sound of a very loud voice shouting in Gujerati. It was not an angry voice – but certainly Chundabhai had not lost his vocal cords since we last saw him.

We entered a large, square room, where about a dozen ladies and gentlemen were seated on settees and drinking tomato-juice cocktails. In the middle of a pink Chinese carpet stood Chundabhai talking to four ladies of most sophisticated appearance. Chundabhai looked like a straining village ox amongst delicate ivory figurines; but there was nothing oxlike in the shrewd, hazel eyes glowing in the bullet head which crowned his mountain of a body. He was garbed in the handwoven cotton shirt and loincloth beloved of Congressmen, and his broad feet were slipped loosely into leather sandals.

At our entrance he stopped in the middle of a sentence, excused himself and strode across the floor to us.

‘Welcome, welcome,' he boomed as he folded his hands together in salute. ‘Singh, it is good to see you again – and Mrs Singh – how beautiful you look in a sari,' and he whispered impishly, ‘Some men have all the luck. You must meet my wife.'

At the top of his voice he called his wife, and a voice at his elbow said: ‘I am here.' A tiny, hard-faced woman came forward. She looked rather grim, but she was an
accomplished hostess and carried me off to meet the other ladies present.

Ajit had told me that it was well known that Mrs Patel did not approve of her husband and, in fact, it was hard to find anything of which she did approve. There were no children of the marriage, and the story went that examination by specialists had showed that Chundabhai was at fault, which did not make his wife more tolerant of him; and they quarrelled frequently. Chundabhai had lingered abroad longer than he need, I knew, and I could see bitterness between his wife and him.

With frigid courtesy Mrs Patel conducted me round the room, which in its furnishings was a graceful mixture of Indian and English styles, and introduced me in a formal fashion to the other ladies.

Two young women dressed in the briefest of blouses and the most transparent of saris, having eyed me up and down rather insolently during Mrs Patel's introduction, made room for me on the red upholstered settee on which they were reclining. I sank down thankfully, still panting a little from the climb up the staircase.

The girls by whom I sat proved to be less sophisticated than their dress indicated. Their English was good and they were soon confiding to me that Chundabhai's dinners were always a bore, firstly, because his wife was such a spoilsport and, secondly, because no meat or alcohol were served. I was amused by their complaints and, having accepted a glass of tomato juice brought to me on a silver tray by a bearer, I sat back and prepared to enjoy myself.

The young ladies bent their flowerladen heads close to my ears and asked confidentially if I ate meat.

‘No,' I said, having been previously primed on this point by Ajit, ‘neither my husband nor I eat meat.'

Disappointed they drew back from me, only to lean forward again and whisper: ‘Do you drink?'

To comfort them and gain their confidence, I said: ‘I enjoy a glass of wine.'

Morbid interest sprang into their eyes.

‘Do you drink whisky?' they asked in chorus.

‘No. Not many English ladies do – and here you have
prohibition – so I am reduced to tomato juice.'

They sniggered. ‘Aha, you do not know the secret,' exclaimed one, wagging her forefinger. ‘Plenty of drinks are available – if you know where to look – but first you must go to the Civil Surgeon and be registered as an addict.'

‘An addict?'

‘Yes, then you can get a legal drink ration. After that you can buy on the blackmarket – and if you are found drunk you can always say that you drank all your ration in one day.' The lilting voice was full of laughter, and the speaker leaned closer to me to whisper into my ear a very improper story of the drunkenness of one of the ladies present. ‘She employs two ayahs for the sole purpose of putting her to bed when she is drunk,' she finished up.

I was feeling very embarrassed at the malicious gossip poured into my ears, when a bearer announced to my relief that dinner was ready, and the guests rose and moved through an archway which had hitherto been curtained.

When I passed under the archway, I exclaimed with delight. I found myself on a large veranda round which the treetops swayed in the wind. A gold sovereign of a moon lit up the marble balustrade and floor. In the centre of the veranda, a dinner table had been set, and we ranged ourselves informally round it.

The servants under the direction of a bearer in a turban brought each guest a beaten silver tray on which lay the usual cups of curry and heaps of chutney, rice and puris. It looked most inviting and the guests ate with enjoyment, although one of my new acquaintances pulled a face at me across the table and mouthed the words: ‘No meat.'

I was still clumsy at eating with my hands and I looked round my tray for a spoon but there was none. Cautiously I tore a puri, being careful to use only my right hand, and began to eat, but I dropped a morsel of curry on the cloth. Blushing with embarrassment, I tried to remember the Gujerati word for spoon so that I could ask a servant for one, but it evaded me. I could not remember it either in that language or in Hindi.

After a minute of quiet struggling on my part, a voice
rolled down the table: ‘Mrs Singh, can I order anything that you would like to eat? Our curries are peculiar, I know.'

I jumped. I had forgotten the watchful eye of my host, beside whom Ajit was sitting.

Feeling my cheeks burning with blushes, I said: ‘Patel Sahib, the curries are delicious but I am clumsy at eating with my hands. Would you kindly ask the bearer for a spoon.'

At this there was a burst of good-natured merriment from everybody, and the lady and gentleman sitting next to me both turned and said reproachfully: ‘You should have told us. We would have asked for a spoon for you.'

The concern on their faces was almost ludicrous, and they spent the rest of the time at table making me feel at home, while Chundabhai kept sending the bearer to me with dishes that he thought I might like. Occasionally he shouted a cheerful query at me or teased the couple looking after me, who proved to be husband and wife. The husband was an astronomer and his wife, though not so well qualified, worked with him. The husband had educated his wife after marriage, and I was impressed with the earnestness with which she must have studied, just as I was daily impressed by the patient application of the Shah sisters.

I listened with interest to an account of the astronomer's work given by his wife. It was much interrupted, she said, by visits of important people, political leaders and Government officials.

‘These people,' said the little wife with a laugh, ‘they come expecting to see weird instruments making big noise. They are disappointed if my husband is not always looking through telescope – if he do the calculation or sit and think they imagine he not work. They think this man play with paper and pencil and waste good Government money. Jobs we must have and our student they must keep their scholarships, so we no disappoint our visitors. We make excellent assembly of noisy instruments with which visitors can play.' She waved her hands and shrugged her shoulders. ‘Then we work at evening when no visitors come and it is quiet.'

I laughed heartily at this recital, although the husband
looked somewhat disapproving. I could well imagine Members of the Opposition in England bouncing out of their parliamentary seats to ask why Government funds were being wasted on astronomers who spent their time doodling, it seemed, or sitting in an easy chair doing nothing.

After dinner two servants brought a brass ewer filled with water, and a basin and towels. Each guest washed his hands by holding them over a bowl while a servant poured water over them.

It was while waiting to perform this ceremory that I found myself standing next to Chundabhai, a little apart from the other guests. He was staring through me, quite oblivious of his surroundings.

I said: ‘It must seem strange to be catapulted back into India after so long in England.'

He jumped, looked at me gently and said: ‘Indeed, Peggie, it is very strange – although this is my home and these are my people – and my true life is here.'

I thought of Sheila Ferguson and perhaps he did at the same time for he said quickly: ‘I cannot expect to have everything in life – I have so much.'

I remembered Sheila's adorable roundness and her irrepressible laughter in comparison with Mrs Patel's frozen disappointment in life. If he had cared to invoke the old Hindu law, he could have replaced his wife by sending her elsewhere to live, and marrying Sheila as his second wife.

‘Chundy, you are very good,' I said impulsively.

He grinned at me wickedly: ‘My coat of virtue is thin,' he said. ‘Go forward, Mrs Singh, and wash your hands – a brass bowl is at least a change from porcelain.'

Chundabhai moved over to a knot of male guests and began to tell one of his interminable funny stories. From the expressions on the faces of the guests it was obvious to me that they had heard the story before, but as a rich man's jokes are always funny they laughed uproariously, and Chundabhai beamed once more.

Mrs Patel came over to say a few words to me. She gave the impression of long since having lost all warmth of
feeling for other people. When I considered her in conjunction with her husband I pitied her. Her marriage, I thought, would have been arranged by her father when she was about fourteen; it had been, I knew, the union of two great families of chemical manufacturers, and would have appeared a good match to an outsider. But even at fifteen Chundabhai must have been big and awkward; his tremendous desire to try everything, to explore, to take to himself all that life could give a rich man's son, must have frightened still more a terrified, purdah-bred fourteen-year-old. She must have feared his huge hands and the cold clarity of the brain that dictated their movements, and she must have shrunk away mentally and physically. And then to have no child would humiliate her in the eyes of her friends and complete her misery. Chundabhai needed someone tough and passionate like Sheila, not a shy young girl who had become a frigid, disillusioned woman.