Thursday's Child (15 page)

Shahpur station is big, but when our train drew into the platform at the end of a hot May day it was crammed to capacity with a shouting, milling crowd and with immense piles of luggage, amongst which strode the railway police with their rifles slung over their shoulders.

A thin, red-shirted, red-turbaned porter piled on to his head our tin trunk, two pigskin trunks and a bedding roll, took a suitcase in each hand, and then motioned us to lead the way to the ticket barrier. Ajit, tickets in hand, pushed a way for me through the crowd, and I followed, clutching my unaccustomed sari closely round me.

Ajit had been waiting for me on the wharf when my ship docked at Bombay. I had dressed myself in the sari he had given to me at our engagement and when I took a last peep at myself in the cabin mirror, I had been surprised. The restful voyage, together with better food than I had tasted since before the war, had helped my figure and cleared my complexion, and the scarlet sari became me. Ajit had bounded up the gangway as soon as he was permitted to do so, caught my hands and looked into my face, while porters and passengers fought around us. Words did not come easily to either of us, but we both knew a wave of feeling. I knew I had come home.

‘You – you look wonderful,' gasped Ajit at last.

‘It's wonderful to be with you,' I said, slipping my arm into his and clinging close to him, as we became engulfed in deckhands and customs officers.

We managed to get the luggage through the customs quickly enough to enable us to catch the day train up to Shahpur; and I sat through the day in a semi-daze compounded of intense heat, great happiness and a terrifying flow of new experiences. So I walked out of Shahpur station following Ajit closely, while my new fellow countrymen looked at me with great curiosity.

Immediately outside the station we were buttonholed by a rogue in a red fez. He was carrying a long whip and he thrust his bearded face into Ajit's and shouted: ‘Tonga, Sahib? Where to?'

‘Pandipura. How much?'

A dismal expression was promptly assumed by the tongawallah. ‘Arree, Sahib,' he whined, ‘Pandipura is a long way, fully seven miles over poor roads. It will cost four rupees.'

‘Three rupees,' countered Ajit, although he was swaying with weariness, having spent the previous night travelling to Bombay; his khaki shirt was black with sweat. I kept very close to him and clutched my handbag firmly.

Other tongawallahs were closing in upon us, attracted possibly by foreign suitcases on the head of the porter, who stood patiently near us, his eyes averted from me.

I pulled my sari well over my head and face, to avoid the stares of the passers by, and concentrated on the conversation. My weeks of study had not been in vain. Provided the sentences were short, I understood the gist of the tongawallah's speech. Ajit was answering him in Hindi, which the man apparently understood.

The tongawallah saw his rivals bearing down upon us and struck a hasty bargain at three rupees and four annas. The porter heaved some of the luggage into the high-wheeled horse carriage, and reverently laid my pigskin cases on one side of the driver's seat. Then he straightened his back, spat into the dusty, cowdung-strewn courtyard, rubbed his hands on his loincloth and held one out for his tip. Ajit paid him and he salaamed low.

The tongawallah saw the salaam and immediately became more obsequious. He must have realised that Ajit's tip was generous and thought that we were people of importance. He let down the steps at the back of the carriage, wiped the seats with the sweat rag from round his neck, and held the door open.

I put my hand into Ajit's and was helped inside. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the tongawallah gape as he saw my white hand, and his eyes shifted to my sandalled feet. It had dawned on him that one of his passengers was a Memsahib, and to him that meant that Ajit must be at least the son of a Raja – only a man as rich as a feudal lord could afford to keep a white wife.

Ajit climbed in and the tongawallah absentmindedly folded up the steps, shut the door, walked round to the front of the carriage and laboriously climbed on to the driver's seat. He gave his horse a flick with a whip, and we were off.

The name of the owner-driver of the tonga, with his registration number, was painted on the back of the carriage, and as Ajit helped me to settle myself on the narrow seat, I asked him: ‘Is Mohamed Ali a Muslim name?'

‘Yes,' he said, looking surprised at the question.

‘I thought all Muslims had gone to Pakistan.'

‘No, no, there are more Muslims still left in India than are in Pakistan.'

‘And are they safe? Do you still have riots?'

‘Hindu-Muslim riots are becoming rare now. The police do their best to stop any disturbances before it becomes a riot.' He mopped his brow with an already sodden handkerchief. ‘Ten thousand Muslims live in the middle of Shahpur, surrounded by Hindus, and I think Mohamed Ali would tell you that he does not take any more precautions for the safety of his family than a good father in India has always done.'

I was impressed. I knew of the religious and economic contentions between Hindus and Muslims – and I knew also that in West Pakistan very few Hindus were left.

The carriage was clattering over the cobblestones of the station yard, the driver shouting to people to get out of the
way; beggars, fruit vendors and children scattered in all directions. The driver leaned down and said something rude to a turbaned taxi driver, who was trying to manoeuvre his vehicle through the yard gates. The taxi driver retorted angrily.

Ajit saw the incident, and said: ‘Most of the taxi drivers here are Sikh refugees from West Pakistan, and they naturally hate the tongawallahs who are their competitors as well as being Muslims.' He grinned, as with a fine flow of language the taxi driver got through the gate and passed under the nose of Mohamed Ali's horse. ‘Most of their fights are verbal,' he added.

As the tonga plunged into a narrow side street, I glimpsed a forest of mill chimneys sticking into the sky. Then we were ploughing through the cloth bazaar.

I leaned my head against the awning support and gazed in bewilderment at the packed street. A human flood eddied and flowed against the carriage wheels. The pavements were packed with people and crowds walked in the middle of the street. Each shop entrance was the centre of a small whirlpool of purchasers; and even the verandas overhanging the streets bore a burden of lounging women and children.

Our tongawallah frequently exploded into speech, as children ran nearly under the horse's hooves or a cyclist cut across the animal's nose, causing it to snort with fright. Once we had to stop while a string of camels, walking with the aloof air of mannequins at a fashion show, swayed across the road and vanished down a side street.

I laughed at their enormous dignity and said: ‘It's a little different from Regent Street.'

Ajit rubbed the sweat from his forehead. ‘It is,' he said. ‘I hope you will be able to manage here, darling. I wish we could have settled in the north instead of in this stinking hole – but Pandipura is a little cleaner and quieter than Shahpur itself. The noise here is dreadful.'

The noise was indeed worse than the heat or the overcrowding; car horns vied with the shouting of vendors; the harassed clang-clang of temple bells competed with blaring radios; and bicycle bells and camel bells seemed to ring in my head.

‘I'll get used to it,' I said, with more determination than conviction.

‘I won't,' said Ajit gloomily. ‘The whole town ought to have been razed to the ground two hundred years ago and then rebuilt. It's so squalid.'

‘We've plenty of squalor in England,' I said, ‘and at least people here look aboundingly alive and their diversity is amazing. Just look at that old man over there,' and I pointed to a countryman, dressed in the traditional white jacket and loincloth and red turban. He had one arm round the shoulders of a boy about twelve, who was supporting him as he walked. The old man also carried a staff to aid him in his slow progress through the crowd. The expression on his face, as he looked down at the boy and addressed him, was one of great tenderness; every wrinkle was softened and even the bushy, white eyebrows had a gentle curve. The boy's face had a clear, innocent look long since missing from Western faces.

Seeing that I was not horrified by the dirt and the turmoil, but only sympathetically interested in the people swarming about the tonga, Ajit lost some of his gloom and after a quick glance to see that the tongawallah was minding his own business, he took my hand and squeezed it, and as we jogged along he pointed out whatever he thought might interest me.

We passed a marble building smothered in intricate carvings. Its metal door gleamed dully in the fading light, and, though crammed between narrow, dirty shops, its beauty was obvious.

‘What is that building?'

‘It's a Jain temple built hundreds of years ago – the door is solid silver.'

‘If the property round it was cleared away, it would look exquisite,' I said.

Ajit laughed. ‘You will find that throughout this town beauty is buried beneath rubbish and dirt. Cotton and chemicals and the money they make are all that matters here.'

‘That is not true. Somebody keeps the temple – its steps had been swept.'

‘You are too observant,' Ajit said. Then he changed the subject and told me about our flat. He said it was a good flat by Indian standards, one of a block of eight built by the Government to house some of the staff of a new University. Except for the University itself, there was no other building for nearly a mile in any direction.

‘I do not know why they built these accommodations in such an isolated place – unless they want to encourage building in that area.'

We passed out of the town and bumped along a dirt road. The tonga moved more and more slowly and, finally, after a particularly hard bump, it came to a stop.

‘Sahib,' came a plaintive voice from the direction of the driver's seat, ‘this is the Pandipura road. How far along is your bungalow?'

‘At least three more miles. Drive on.'

‘I must light my lamps, Sahib,' said Mohamed Ali, and sighing copiously he got down and lit the oil lamps on either side of the carriage. ‘By the Beard of the Prophet, this is a very bad road.'

The tonga started off again and creaked its way through the near darkness. There was a breeze and its coolness was welcome. Far off, I could hear drums being beaten in an exciting rhythm.

At the end of twenty minutes the tonga stopped again.

‘Sahib,' said the mournful voice, ‘the horse can go no further. The road is too bad.'

Ajit leaned out. ‘This road is no worse than any other road outside the city,' he said sharply. ‘Get a move on.' And he sat back in his seat; but the tonga did not move.

‘Arree, Sahib, this is the worst of roads and the horse is getting lame; if the horse is lamed how can I work? – my children will starve.'

‘Don't be foolish,' snapped Ajit. ‘The horse has travelled over worse roads than this.'

Resignedly, Mohamed Ali gave the horse a light flick with the whip. The horse stirred uneasily but did not move forward. It was now quite dark and the jackals were beginning to howl among the bushes, which reared manhigh at the side of the narrow path.

‘See,' said the driver, triumph in his voice. ‘The poor animal is exhausted. I must go down and walk with him.' And he got down and went to the horse's head, but still the carriage did not move.

‘And Sahib,' the voice floated ghostlike out of the darkness, ‘the harness is strained. Supposing it snaps with the jolting – how can a poor man like me expect to buy new? Truly this is an unlucky day for me.' The voice trailed off.

The drums sounded menacing and there was a horrid smell about the carriage; later I was to know that smell well. It was the stink of a jackal. One must have been quite near us. Why, in heaven's name, could we not move?

I had followed the main theme of the conversation, and said to Ajit: ‘Why not offer to pay a little towards the cost of the harness if it breaks?' I drew my sari closer round me, as a protection against the insects which bumped into me as they flew towards the oil lamps.

‘All right,' said Ajit to Mohamed. ‘If the harness breaks we will pay eight annas towards its repair.'

‘If the Sahib would give a few more annas, I could feed the horse well tonight and could risk working him hard now, since with a good feed he would recover by morning.'

Such solicitude for the ill-used bundle of bones he called a horse struck Ajit as funny and he laughed.

‘How much?' he asked.

‘Another four annas, Sahib, would mean a good feed for him tonight.'

‘That makes four rupees altogether,' said Ajit ruefully. ‘I agree.'

Mohamed Ali climbed back on to the driver's seat with remarkable alacrity, gave the horse a merciless thwack with the whip, and the carriage lurched forward. I clung to Ajit, to save myself being thrown out, and began to laugh. Ajit clutched me, and gasped: ‘Play-actor – all that trouble to get twelve annas.'