Thursday's Child (28 page)

‘Be patient, my old fox – here, take the sari for Ma ji – this is going to be the best Diwali for years.'

‘I don't know what you mean – and I am not an old fox – and I will not be spoken to like that.' Her voice rose
shrilly. ‘And why Ma ji always gets you to iron her saris instead of me, I can't understand,' she added, full of suppressed resentment at Thakkur's privileged place in Ma ji's affections.

‘Now, now, Ayah,' said Cook Maharaj. ‘He meant no harm. We could all do with a bit of a celebration – although I don't know what it has to do with watches. There hasn't been a really good do since Ajit Sahib's sacred thread ceremony – and how many years ago is that?'

‘Hmm,' sniffed Ayah. ‘Some people seem to enjoy extra work – and right busy you'll be if there's a big Diwali party.'

‘It'll be big all right,' said Thakkur, his face relapsing into its usual mournful lines.

‘Good,' said Cook Maharaj. ‘I shall make carrot hulwa for Ajit Sahib and suji hulwa for Bhim Sahib – it's his favourite – and something special for our Shushila.' His kind, round face beamed, as he kneaded the dough in the pannikin before him. ‘And I must ask Ma ji about savouries for Burra Sahib.'

Our flat seemed very empty after Mrs Singh had returned home. I had enjoyed her visit more than I could have believed possible; her calmness had soothed my harassed nerves and her advice had smoothed away many of my physical woes. Ajit also took heart from his mother's visit and he often talked about her and about his childhood spent in his grandfather's house – the same house in which his uncles now lived. His grandfather had been a terrifying domestic despot, who, for business reasons, had cultivated the goodwill of the English civil servants in the district, with the result that his patient, orthodox wife and her daughter-in-law had found the comfortable untidiness of their purdah apartments invaded at times by casteless, staring white women. His grandmother, Ajit told me with a chuckle, plied the strange ladies with sweetmeats and tea,
but refused to eat a crumb in their presence or touch the special tea set kept for such visitors. I was, therefore, not the first English woman that Mrs Singh had observed at close quarters, although I was the first wife with whom she had carried on much conversation – she had been far too shy to speak in the presence of her mother-in-law's visitors. She was, however, relieved to find that I was not very much like these visitors – I was much less formal.

In between my household tasks, I often stopped to talk to Kamala as she squatted in the shade at the back of the flat and made cow dung cakes for her cooking fires, from the dung which she collected in a basket beforehand. Kamala was full of excitement, as in the following spring she was to be married to a man from another village, with whom she had fallen in love when he came to her own village with a marriage party. The fathers had been prevailed upon by the young people to open marriage negotiations and, as they were of the same sub-caste, the arrangements had been concluded most amicably.

‘Supposing he had been of the wrong caste, Kamala?'

‘Then Father would have found somebody else,' said Kamala with calm acceptance, as she slapped her cow dung cakes between her slender, aristocratic-looking hands.

I was sitting on the back step one day, talking to her and at the same time feeding a kid with cactus leaves from a nearby bush – to the amusement of the goatherd – when the postman cycled up.

‘So many letters, Memsahib,' he said as he handed me three. I smiled. He was reminding me that he worked hard for us, so that his Diwali tip would be generous.

Only one letter was addressed to me personally. It was from Father, who hoped I was well, informed me that he was having some success with his chrysanthemums, had been made Chairman of a Red Cross Committee, and that the country was going to the dogs. I felt a tug of homesickness and for a moment the tangy smell of chrysanthemums obliterated the odour of the desert.

The other letters were for Ajit, one from Delhi addressed in a firm Italian hand of slender up strokes and heavy down ones, and one from Simla in the crabbed, hasty
writing of a note maker. I propped them against a silver candlestick in the living-room and returned to the kitchen to cook the dinner.

‘Letters for you, love,' I called, when I heard Ajit's step on the veranda, and, wiping my hands on my pinafore, I went to kiss him.

He was looking at the letter in the Italian hand. ‘Father,' he said softly, and quickly slit the envelope.

I felt as awed as if he had said God had written, and sat down on the edge of a basket chair to hear what had caused such an event.

Ajit sat down by the table and read in silence, and when he came to the end he put his head down upon the table and burst into tears.

Horrified, I ran to him and put my arm round his shoulders, begging him at the same time to tell me what had happened.

He buried his damp face in my pinafore, sobbed a moment or two and then with a beaming smile looked up at me and said: ‘It is joy. I cry for joy.'

‘Your father has written kindly?'

Ajit hugged me round the waist. ‘He has written that we are both to come home for Diwali. He has announced our marriage, and desires to make the acquaintance of his new daughter.'

‘My darling,' I exclaimed, ‘I am so happy – so very happy, for your sake.'

‘Life is kind,' said Ajit, hugging me tighter. ‘You are well – the house blossoms under your feet – and now we have again a family.'

‘What about the other letter?' I asked, laughing at his poetic flights.

‘Oh, yes. It's from Bhim. What's he doing in Simla at this time of year?' he queried as he examined the postmark.

‘Open it and see.'

He opened the letter. There was only one sheet of paper, closely covered with Hindi characters. Ajit translated it as he read: ‘Dear Brother, Nulini and I have come here for a rest, as she has had fever – Bannerji is looking after my practice during my absence. Mother writes that you are
coming home for Diwali, and Nulini and I expect to return in time to welcome Peggie and you. Father announced your marriage. Mother says Uncles were amazed and she has been inundated with visitors who have come to ask about Peggie. There is great interest, although I believe no animosity.

‘Nulini is becoming strong again, and she is teaching me to dance. I did not know that she liked to dance. On our return to Delhi we shall join a small club, so that we can dance and play a game of bridge occasionally.

‘When you come to Delhi, I shall consult you about buying a radio and a pickup. I have never really listened to Western music – Nulini says I am missing much enjoyment.

‘We both send namastes to Peggie and you.'

Ajit looked at me out of the corner of his eye and grinned. ‘There is more to this letter than meets the eyes,' he said. ‘What on earth has driven Bhim to learn to dance?'

‘Ha,' I said wickedly, ‘what about your learning to dance – I didn't know that one could dance in India.'

He looked at me appalled. ‘No!'

‘Yes,' I said ruthlessly. ‘You could dance a little when you were in England. We'll start again tonight – and you can take me to a dance when we go to Delhi.'

‘Oh, no,' he wailed in mock misery.

We had a most entertaining evening while he renewed his knowledge of the waltz.

Ajit was dizzy with excitement during the days that followed. He nearly burst with happiness. So obvious was it, that the eldest Miss Shah inquired if I was going to have a baby.

‘Not just yet,' I said.

When I lay ill, she had asked me if my parents-in-law had accepted me, because it was strange that no one had come to my aid from the family. I had asked her not to talk about the matter to anybody else and had then told her what had happened. Knowing the situation, she had rejoiced with me at Mrs Singh's visit, and now I expected that she would share my pleasure again; but instead she looked very
troubled. At last she said: ‘Are you not afraid of being poisoned?'

‘Poisoned? Good heavens, why should I be?'

Miss Shah said uneasily: ‘It is not an unknown way of getting rid of an unwanted daughter-in-law.'

‘Ridiculous,' I said.

But as the train to Delhi carried us through the bleak country of Rajasthan, the clattering wheels chanted: ‘Poison, poison, poison,' until I wanted to scream. As it slowed down to enter Delhi junction, it said: ‘Could be poisoned and burned in a night, burned in a night, burned in a night.'

At the station before Delhi junction there was a general exodus from our carriage and nobody else got in; Ajit and I were left in possession. I sat quietly as the train jerked forward again. We had long since rolled up our bedding and packed away the books we had bought to while away the thirty-hour journey, and nothing remained to be done, except listen to the chant of the wheels.

My face must have shown something of my sickening doubts, for Ajit looked at me and asked: ‘Are you all right, Rani?'

I could not answer. Unreasonable fear clamped my throat shut.

Ajit looked alarmed: ‘Dearest, what is it?'

I found my voice. ‘Ajit, I'm so frightened.'

‘Why should you be frightened?' He put his arm round me comfortingly.

‘It's something Miss Shah said,' I said hesitatingly. I felt I must lay this terrifying ghost. Common sense told me I was being ridiculous – and yet I did not really know how bitter were the feelings of my father-in-law. Dreadful crimes had been committed at the time of the partitioning of the country, and how could I be sure that an equal anger might not descend on me?

‘Well, and what did Miss Gossip say?'

I told him.

‘Women!' he exclaimed, ‘and some in particular.'

The typically Lancashire exclamation which he had picked up made me giggle, in spite of my fears.

‘Do you honestly believe that my father would murder my wife?'

‘I don't know,' I said defensively. ‘How can I know what people will do – anything could happen in such a strange country.'

‘You deserve to be spanked,' said Ajit grimly. ‘To begin with, if Father really wished to get rid of you, there are a thousand more easy and less incriminating ways than poisoning you in his own house.' He shook me playfully, and went on: ‘Secondly, although I know this is to you a queer, rickety old country, we do not as a rule spend our time poisoning people, even if we dislike them. There are probably not many more murders per head of population here than there are in England – and not even Father could escape official inquiry into the sudden death in his home of a perfectly healthy young woman.'

I felt ashamed.

He continued: ‘Miss Shah is romancing. Perhaps such things did happen long ago – I cannot say – but she has no right to fill your head with such rubbish. Why did you not ask me about it before?'

‘I did not know how you would take it.'

He was hurt. ‘Rani,' he said very gently. ‘I have told you before that you must never be afraid to confide in me. I love you and you could not do anything which would break that love.' He bent his head and kissed me; the kiss became a deep and long one. ‘Love you, love you, love you,' recited the wheels.

‘Porter, Sahib?' asked a very intrigued man, as he put his head through the carriage window.

We laughed and jumped apart. Ajit looked out of the window nearest to him. ‘I can see them,' he shouted. I straightened my travel-stained sari, took up my handbag and shawl and picked my way after Ajit through the luggage strewn on the floor. The porter wrenched open the door, we gave him hasty instructions, took his number and stepped down on to the platform. Then we were running hand in hand towards the little couple, who looked so fragile and lonely in the milling crowd.

I let go of Ajit's hand and allowed him to approach first.
He took dust from their feet, while Shushila, whom I had not noticed previously, danced up to me. ‘Are you my new sister?' she asked.

I smiled. ‘If you are Shushila, I am.'

‘Mummy, Mummy,' she shouted, ‘I have found sister – see.'

Ajit had drilled me well for this meeting. My sari veiled my head and most of my face. I kept my eyes a little down and made my best namaste to my parents. I was a foot taller than Ram Singh, but he had an awe-inspiring dignity as he looked at me coldly for a moment. Then the big moustache twitched and he smiled, as he said in perfect English: ‘You are welcome, daughter.'

‘Thank you,' I said.

‘Allow me to take your shawl,' he said, just as Father would have done. The quiet, Western courtesy, remembered presumably specially for my benefit, to make me feel more at ease, touched my heart, and I handed the shawl to him with a frank smile, looking shyly into his eyes as I might well have done if he had been an elderly Englishman. He seemed to like it and straightened himself, smoothed his whiskers and called Shushila. Meanwhile, Mrs Singh turned from Ajit to ask me if I was now quite well and not too tired. I assured her that I was now comparatively strong and whispered that it was due to her great kindness. She giggled like a girl, but did not reply; possibly she had not yet told her husband of her visit to Shahpur, and I resolved not to betray her by an idle word.

We went through the vast halls of the station to the world outside, where I pulled up short. I had forgotten that it was Diwali.

The city was bathed in light. It burst upon my senses as if the sparkle of a huge catherine wheel had enveloped me. Lights were everywhere, outlining every building; arc lamps added grace to new buildings, tiny separate lights outlined the older establishments and left their ugliness in darkness, lights in the gutters and on the pavements kindled from carefully collected scraps of paper, by beggars and refugees; but best of all, thousands of tiny oil lamps outlining Ajit's home, as we drove up to it.

Every balustrade, every window sill, had its row of lamps; intricate patterns in the brightest colours had been painted on the wide entrance steps; several small children were chasing each other backwards and forwards across the veranda, and through the windows came a buzz of conversation from their elders. Somewhere someone was plucking at a stringed instrument and the plaintive notes reverberated through my head, as I descended from the car after Mrs Singh, and stood hesitating at the foot of the steps looking up at the family before me. I hesitated only a moment, but it was sufficient to photograph upon my memory a picture which would stay with me always; long after the family had scattered I would remember them as I saw them then.