Travelers (19 page)

Raymond blushed bright pink. He could not speak for a while, afraid that if he did he might speak more rudely than he would wish. Swamiji asked, “Is this the butter knife?”

“That one,” Raymond said, pointing to it.

“Ah,” said Swamiji gratefully and proceeded to use it. He was always asking about these little points of etiquette. He was preparing himself for his foreign tours and did not wish to do small things incorrectly. He learned very fast—perhaps because he was so unembarrassed about it—and ever since his first visit to the hotel dining room had made giant strides forward in his table manners.

“But who decides that?” Raymond managed at last to ask in a steady voice.

“Decides what?”

“When someone has to be”—Raymond swallowed, trying to speak without distaste—“broken and remade.”

“The guru decides it.” Suddenly Swamiji laughed at the expression on Raymond's face. “But that is another very long story and why should I spoil your lunch?”

“No, I want you to tell me.” When Swamiji continued to laugh and shake his head, he said, “Why not? You think I wouldn't understand?”

“With your mind perhaps yes, but there where it really matters—this fish is quite delicious, I think I shall have one more little piece, what about you?”

“And Lee—does she understand where it really matters?” He squirmed on the last phrase.

“She wants to. She desires to. She longs to with all her being.” He put down his fork and looked sideways at Raymond with his shrewd, narrow, laughing eyes: “But you don't want to, you don't even begin to want to.”

“That's true.”

“So we can be excellent friends, and I think we are excellent friends, you and I, isn't it, but I can never be your guru.”

Raymond laughed. “Perhaps that's just as well.”

“But of course! Of course! It is a great relief to me. Do you think it is easy,” he said, smiling but serious, “to be someone's guru? To take over this responsibility so that the other person need do nothing but have trust and faith? Only to say: now I am yours, take me, do what you like with me; and so this person is in the guru's hands and the guru carries this person over stick and stone.”

As he spoke, his eyes darted here and there and he was aware as always of everything that went on around him. He was aware, for instance, that one of the American ladies at the next table had been trying to catch his eye; so he allowed it to be caught and even answered with a smile which made the lady blush like
a girl, and drop her eyes, and pat the pearls around her elderly neck.

“Yes, Raymond, I think you are a little bit angry with me about Lee, isn't it? Perhaps you are thinking—look at him, the old rascal, he comes here, he eats and drinks and enjoys to his heart's content, while my poor friend is asked to give up everything. But please understand—it is only when you have given up all enjoyment so that it is no longer enjoyment, it is only then that you can have these things back again. How far Lee is still away from this goal! I have to help her and guide her every step so that she will know that everything is nothing and also that she herself is nothing. Only then can she belong to me as the disciple must belong to the guru.”

The bearer came with the next course but Swamiji ignored him, for he was taken up with what he was saying: he leaned toward Raymond and his eyes did not look shrewd or laughing now but they glittered in a strange, passionate way. “I want her to be mine. She must be mine completely in heart and soul and—yes, Raymond,” he said, easily able to read his companion's thoughts, “in body also, if I think it necessary. That is quite by the way only. Ah,” he said, turning at last to the bearer who had been patiently, even reverently, waiting, and helping himself from the tray, “I think this is called roly-poly pudding, isn't it? A great favorite with me.”

And he smiled—first at the pudding, and then, his eyes beginning to rove and dart again, at the American lady at the next table who had been greedily awaiting this smile; and then his eyes roved farther, all round the dining room, at all the foreign guests eating their lunch, and he regarded them in a sort of easy, speculative manner as if one day perhaps, if he wanted to, if he cared to, they would all be his.

Gopi's Life Takes on Complexity

In the mornings Asha was quite domestic. She had all the rooms swept out and afterward she went shopping for her own and
Banubai's meals. She looked like any middle-class, middle-aged housewife in her plain cotton sari and a plastic shopping bag on her arm. That was perhaps why Gopi did not recognize her at first, not even when he came up quite close to her. But she had recognized him from a long way off—perhaps because he was already there in her thoughts, he was there all the time really even when she was thinking and doing something quite different.

When at last he saw her, he was so overcome by her changed appearance that he quickly averted his eyes, not wanting her to see the expression in them.

But she had seen. She said, “Yes, everything is changed now.” She passed her hand ruefully down her face, which was innocent of all makeup. “And I'm glad it's changed,” she went on. She didn't sound glad but she wanted to be. She also wanted to be glad that he had come upon her so suddenly before she could be tempted to improve her appearance. Now he could see her as she was, as she
wanted
to be. It was good—she was glad—and yet also how that look of his stabbed her!

Still looking away from her, he muttered, “I got your letter.”

“I'm very happy with Banubai. She and I talk of so many things. All spiritual things,” she said with a sigh. Then in a different tone—“When did you get my letter?”

“Two-three days ago.” He was still muttering.

“I sent it four weeks ago.”

“The post nowadays is terrible.” But he saw himself that this wouldn't do and continued quickly, “I'm staying with my uncle. There is some family business, I have been very busy, every day I said today I will go but every day my uncle—and there is my aunt also—”

“You have been here all the time?”

“—and many cousins—”

“And only today you come to me? And here I sit waiting and waiting!”

He looked up at her. Her eyes were flashing, and now truly she looked like Asha again, and her voice too was like Asha's. He
kept quiet, letting her scold him and not really listening—and indeed, she herself no longer quite knew or cared what she was saying, so that after a time the words died away and they both were silent. They were almost alone on the steps. It was late in the morning and there were just two shaven-headed old widows, one of whom stood in the river washing her length of cloth while the other was spreading hers out to dry. Smoke rose from a little stone hut in which a hermit lived and was cooking his midday meal. There was such peace and calm, it was like a presence and one that recalled Asha to herself.

She said, “I only wanted to see you to tell you that I'm a different person now.” Except that having him there beside her again, she realized how far she still was from her goal. She shut her eyes. She said, “You had better go away.”

“All right.” He got up at once. He wanted to obey her and cause her no further pain. But he too was sad. He walked away from her sadly with his head down. He walked down the steps, toward the river, not thinking much but vaguely hoping that a boat would come quickly and take him away. He stood waiting on the same step as the old widow drying her cloth.

Asha called him back. She told him “Come tomorrow.” She saw the surprise flitting over his face and it irritated her. She said, “Banubai wants to see you. . . . I want her to see you. It will be very good for you to meet with such a person.” She spoke rather severely.

When Banubai first saw Gopi, she clasped her hands together in delight and gazed her fill at him; then she beckoned him close to her and pinched his cheek and finally—a very special treat reserved only for very special favorites—she opened the tin in which she kept her best sweetmeats and popped one into his mouth. “What about me?” asked Asha jokingly. “Don't I get a nice sweetie?” “Certainly not,” Banubai joked back. “You're not a pretty little son like he is.” And she ruffled his hair with a loving hand, and both she and Asha smiled and smiled at him
while he, embarrassed but pleased, lowered his eyes so that his long lashes tickled his blushing cheeks.

Banubai encouraged him to come again and again. If he missed a day, she reproached him and told him how her heart had been restless for him. She said, “Now that I have found you again, I can't bear to be without you.”

It appeared that Gopi had been her son not only in one but in many previous incarnations. They had been born under all sorts of different circumstances—once as queen and prince, another time merely as potter's wife and son—but always, throughout the ages, as mother and son: so was it any wonder that the moment she saw him she knew him again and that she felt for him the way she did. Gopi was greatly impressed by this information and gladly agreed to call her Ma and to treat her in every way like a mother—of course not like his own mother with whom he tended to be brusque and irritable but with all the reverence that a son traditionally owes to his mother whose blessing he craves more than food.

He went to visit her whenever he could and she rejoiced at the sight of him and often refused to see her other visitors when he was there, even those that had come with very grave problems. Asha of course was always there with them. It seemed to her that, under Banubai's influence, her own relationship with Gopi was also changing and that her feelings for him were beginning to be transformed into purely maternal ones. She enjoyed cooking tasty dishes for him and she loved touching him the way Banubai did—ruffling his hair or patting his cheek or holding his hand in hers; and it seemed to her that she was quite satisfied with that and wanted nothing more.

Gopi enjoyed their company and would have liked to spend a great deal of time with them. But it was not always easy for him to get away from his uncle's house, and especially not from his cousin Babloo. Babloo wanted to be with him all the time and accompany him everywhere. Whenever Gopi wanted to go off to see Banubai, he had to invent lies and excuses for Babloo
or sneak away as best he could. Babloo soon guessed that Gopi was hiding something from him, and at once assumed that it was something to do with girls. This idea excited him unbearably so that day and night he nagged and teased in order to discover the delightful secret. He did not succeed, but he remained convinced that there was one. He especially enjoyed hinting at it when there were others present and indulged in nudges and winks which Gopi found both embarrassing and dangerous.

The situation was further complicated by the fact that there was now a lot of talk in the uncle's family about the proposal that had come for Gopi and his sister. All agreed in thinking it a very fine one and did their best to overcome Gopi's resistance. They were more subtle than Gopi's mother and Delhi uncle had been and, refraining from getting angry or cajoling, confined themselves to throwing out remarks of a more general nature. For instance, when Gopi sat relaxed with the other men in the sitting room, enjoying a game of cards and the delicious refreshments brought in by the women, then someone would begin to talk about the advantages of a happy, settled domestic life. All agreed that it was the only state of true contentment known to man. Examples were cited of the miseries of those who, perhaps through their own fault or, more often, due to an unpropitious fate, had to drag themselves through life unmarried and uncared for. Gopi did not take part in the conversation, neither was he expected to. But everyone was very nice to him. When he played a card, it was greeted with exclamations at his cunning and skill. Only Babloo kept winking at him and throwing out cryptic remarks. No one knew what he was talking about, and Gopi tried not to hear him—in fact, he tried not to hear any of them but concentrated with all his might on the cards he was holding, which he arranged and rearranged to their best advantage.

At first Gopi didn't know whether he was glad to see Raymond or not, but quite soon he decided that he was. It was good
to have someone to whom he could talk almost quite freely. He went to visit him in his hotel, and the two of them were together as before with Gopi half lying across a sofa and Raymond intent on making him comfortable and stirring the ice around in Gopi's Coke to make it really cold.

Gopi told him all about the marriage proposal. He very seriously propounded the many advantages that were attached to it. In the end he said, “They are quite rich.”

Raymond was appreciative.

“They want me to go into their business. Sugar mills,” he added in a tone of respect.

“What about your college?”

Gopi did not look happy. He never did look happy when his college was mentioned. He said, “Yes.”

“Aren't you going back there?”

He made a helpless gesture with his hand.

“Your finals are coming up, aren't they?” When Gopi made the same gesture, Raymond asked, “You don't think you'll pass?”

Gopi shrugged indifferently. He said, “And what if I pass? Yes, all right perhaps I can get a government job like my uncle in Delhi, four hundred and fifty rupees a month with increment every five years.” Suddenly he became passionate: “You don't know what it's like—not to have enough money—you have never had to live like that. At the end of every month before her allowance comes my mother has to send to the neighbors. Usually she asks only for rice and flour, but sometimes she has to ask for money also. When I was small, she sent me to ask. I didn't like the face people made when they gave. Naturally, they don't like to give, no one likes to give when you're in need.”

Raymond said gently, “Yes, I think it'll be nice for you to get married.” He added, “And I'm looking forward to the wedding of course.”