Heat and Dust (18 page)

31 July.
    Maji has informed me that I am pregnant. At first I didn't believe her – how could anyone possibly tell so early, even if it were true – but she was absolutely certain. Moreover, she has warned me that I had better be careful because soon all the midwives in town would come to me to offer their services. They always know, she said, long before anyone else does. They can tell by the way a woman walks and holds herself. That is their business and they are always on the look-out for custom. There is no doubt, she said, that soon they would get on to me.

She was so positive that I have begun to believe her. I assumed that she knew by some kind of second sight – it always seems to me that she has powers that others don't. Once I had a headache and she put her hand on my forehead and I can't describe the strange sensations transmitted to me. They lasted for days. So I thought that nothing about Maji would ever surprise me – until she told
me, quite casually, that she knew about me because she herself had been a midwife. That surprised me more than if she actually had revealed supernatural powers.

She laughed at my reaction. She said what did I think, that she had always led this idle life of hers? Not at all. She had been a married woman and had had several children. Unfortunately her husband had not been much of a breadwinner – he had preferred his toddy and the company of friends gathered around the toddy shop – so the burden of looking after the family had fallen on her. Her mother had been a midwife and so had her grandmother and both had taught her all they knew. (I wondered about her mother and grandmother – they might have been the women who had attended Olivia! It was possible.) But after her husband died and her children were settled, she gave up her profession and spent several years going to holy places to pick up whatever instruction she could. Finally she had come back here to Satipur and built herself this little hut to live in. Her friends have been looking after her ever since, bringing her what food she needs so she doesn't have a care in the world. Her children all live rather far away, but sometimes one or other of them comes to visit her or writes her a letter.

I was so surprised to hear all this – having never thought of her as having had a worldly life – that I quite forgot what she had told me about myself. It was she who reminded me; she laid her hand on my abdomen and asked me what I intended to do. She said she would help me if I wanted help – I didn't understand her at first, and it was only when she repeated it that I realised she was offering me an abortion. She said I could trust her completely, for although it is many years since she has practised professionally, she still knows all there is to know about these matters. There are several ways
to procure an abortion and she has at one time or other performed all of them. It is a necessary part of an Indian midwife's qualifications because in many cases it is the only way to save people from dishonour and suffering. She told me of various abortions she has performed in this good cause, and I was so fascinated that again I forgot all about my own case. But later, on the way home in the rain – the monsoon has started – I did think about it. Then my sensations were mainly of amusement and interest, so that I went skipping in and out of puddles, laughing to myself when I trod in them and got splashed.

15 August.
    Chid has come back. He is so changed that at first I could not recognise him. He no longer wears his orange robe but has acquired a pair of khaki pants and a shirt and a pair of shoes. Beads and begging bowl have also gone and his shaved hair is beginning to grow back in tiny bristles. From a Hindu ascetic he has become what I can only describe as a Christian boy. The transformation is more than outward. He has become very quiet – not only does he not talk in his former strain but he hardly talks at all. And he is ill again.

Apart from trips to the bathroom, he is mostly asleep in a corner of my room. He hasn't told me anything about how or why he parted company with Inder Lal's mother and Ritu. Nor do I have any idea what happened to him to change him this way. He doesn't want to talk about it. The most he will say is “I can't stand the smell” (Well of course I know what he means – the smell of people who live and eat differently from oneself; I used to notice it even in London when I was near Indians in crowded buses or tubes). Chid can't bear Indian food any more. He will only accept plain boiled food, and what he likes best is when I make him an English soup.
The smell of Indian cooking makes him literally cry out with nausea and disgust.

Inder Lal is very disappointed in him. He keeps waiting for the fireworks of high-flown Hindu doctrine to start again, but there is nothing like that left in Chid. In any case Inder Lal is not pleased with Chid's return. I ought to explain that, after our picnic at Baba Firdaus' shrine, there has been a change in my relationship with Inder Lal. He now comes up to my room at night. For the sake of the neighbours, he makes a pretence of going to sleep downstairs but when it is dark he comes creeping up. I'm sure everyone knows, but it doesn't matter. They don't mind. They realise that he is lonely and misses his family very much; no human being is meant to live without a family.

After Chid moved back in again, Inder Lal at first felt shy about his nightly visits. But I have assured him that it is all right because Chid is mostly sleeping. He just lies there and groans and it is difficult to believe that it is the same person who performed all those tremendous feats on me. Inder Lal and I lie on my bedding on the opposite side, and it is more and more delightful to be with him. He trusts me now completely and has become very affectionate. I think he prefers to be with me when it is dark. Then everything is hidden and private between us two alone. Also I feel it makes a difference that he cannot
see
me, for I'm aware that my appearance has always been a stumbling block to him. In the dark he can forget this and he also needn't feel ashamed of me before others. He can let himself go completely, and he does. I don't mean only physically (though that too) but everything there is in him-all his affection and playfulness. At such times I'm reminded of all those stories that are told of the child Krishna and the many pranks and high-spirited tricks he got up to. I
also think of my pregnancy and I think of it as part of him. But I have not told him about it.

I have
tried
to tell him. I specially went to call for him at his office and took him across the road to the British graveyard, that being the most secluded spot I could think of. It is not a place he is at all interested in; in fact, he had never even bothered to go into it before. The only thing to make any impression on him was the Saunders' Italian angel which can still be seen rearing above the other graves: no longer in benign benediction but as a headless, wingless torso. Inder Lal did not seem put out by this mutilation. Probably it seemed natural to him – after all, he has grown up among armless Apsarases and headless Sivas riding on what is left of their bulls. In its present condition indeed the angel no longer looks Italian but quite Indian.

I showed him Lt. Edwards' grave and read out the inscription: ‘“
Kind and indulgent Father but most conspicuous
. . .' It means,” I told Inder Lal, looking round at him, “he was a very good husband and father. Like you.”

“What can I do?” was his odd reply.

I think what he was saying was that he has no alternative but to be a good husband and father: having been thrown into that stage of life, whether he likes it or not. And on the whole I think he doesn't. Anyway, I have decided not to tell him about my pregnancy. I don't want to spoil anything.

1923

When Olivia found that she was pregnant, she didn't tell Douglas. She put it off from day to day, and in the end it happened that she told the Nawab first.

One morning, on arrival in the Palace, she found everyone
running around carrying and packing and giving each other conflicting instructions. Even Harry was packing up in his room and seemed in rather a good mood. He said they were going to Mussourie at last, the Begum had decided the night before. One of her ladies had been indisposed and had been advised a change of air, so the Begum said they would all go. It would do Harry good too, she thought; she had been very worried about him.

“Oh?” said Olivia. “Do you see her often?”

Ever since the day Harry had pointed out that not being received in the purdah quarters was a discourtesy to Olivia, they had not mentioned the Begum. But Olivia was aware that Harry was received there on a footing of intimacy.

“Every day,” he said. “We play cards, she likes it.” He changed the subject: “And the Nawab also says he is bored being here, so today everyone is packing.”

“He's bored?”

“So he says. But there's something else too.” He frowned and went on packing very meticulously.

“What?”

“Oh, I don't know, Olivia.” Although reluctant to talk, he did seem to want to share his feelings. “He won't tell me exactly but I know there's some trouble. As a matter of fact, Major Minnies is with him right now. Didn't you see his car outside? I was wondering about that, hoping you wouldn't collide on the stairs or something.”

“Why not? What's it matter? I've come to see you.”

“Quite.” He went on packing.

She interrupted him impatiently: “Do stop that now, Harry, and tell me what's going on. I ought to know.” He turned around then from where he was kneeling on the floor and gave her a look that made her emend to “I'd like to
know.”

“So would I,” Harry said. He left his suitcase and came to sit near her. “Or would I? Sometimes I feel I'd just as soon not.”

They were silent. Both looked out of the latticed window framing the garden below. The water channels intersecting the lawns reflected a sky that shifted and sailed with monsoon clouds.

Harry said “I know he's in all sorts of trouble. It's been going on for years. Financial troubles – Khatm is bankrupt – and then all that business with Sandy and the Cabobpurs who've been complaining right and left and trying to bring a case about her dowry. And of course that makes him more stubborn to fight back though he can't really afford to. Simla has been getting very acrimonious lately, and I know he's had some rather difficult interviews with Major Minnies. I
hate
it when Major Minnies comes here.” He flushed and seemed reluctant to continue; but he did: “Because afterwards he's always so upset. You'll see now when he comes up. He usually takes it out on me – don't think I'm complaining, I'm not, I'm glad if that makes him feel better. Because I can see how hurt he is. He's terribly terribly sensitive, Olivia, and of course being talked to like that by Major Minnies – being threatened –”

“How dare they!” cried Olivia.

“You see, the truth is he's only a very little prince and they don't have to be all that careful with him the way they'd have to be for instance with the Cabobpur family. And he feels it terribly. He knows what he is compared with the others. You should see old Cabobpur: he's just a gross swine, there's nothing royal about him. Whereas of course
he
is –”

“Yes.”

They heard his voice, his unmistakable step on the stairs. Both waited. He burst in without knocking – which was unusual: at other times he showed the most courteous diffidence in entering his guest's suite. But now of course he was greatly upset. He strode in and went straight to the window and sat there, smouldering.

He said “I shall see the Viceroy himself. There is no point in talking with Major Minnies or anyone like that. It is like talking with – servants. I do not talk with servants.” His nostrils flared. “Next time he comes here I shall refuse to see him. And I shall tear up any letters he dares to write to me and send the pieces back to him.” He turned on Harry: “
You
can take them back to him. You can fling them in his face and say here is your answer. But I suppose you would not like to do it.” He turned his fierce gaze on Harry who looked down. Olivia also did not like to look at the Nawab just then.

“I suppose you are afraid to do it. You are afraid of Major Minnies and other creatures of that nature. Answer! Don't sit there like a dumb stone, answer! Oh both of you are the same, you and Major Minnies. I don't know why you stay here with me. You want to be with him and other English people. You feel only for them, nothing for me at all.”

“You know that's not true.” Harry did his best to sound calm, reasonable.

It only infuriated the Nawab the more. He turned to Olivia: “Now he is playing the Englishman with me. So cool and quiet and never losing his temper. He is playing Major Minnies with me. How different from these terrible orientals. Olivia, do you also hate and despise orientals? Of course you do. And you are right, I think. Because we are very stupid people with feelings that we let others trample on and hurt to their hearts' content. English people are so lucky – they have
no feelings at all. Look at him,” he said, pointing at Harry. “He has been with me so many years but what does he care for me? You see, he does not even try to answer me.” He sat by the window; his profile was outlined against gardens and sky, like the portrait of a ruler painted against the background of his own dominions. “And you,” he said to Olivia. “You also care nothing for me.”

“No? Then why am I here?”

“You have come to visit Harry. You want to be with him. And I'm very grateful to you that you are so nice to him because without you he would be most bored and lonely here. His health also is not good.” He got up and came over to Harry and touched his shoulder with affection.

Harry said “I can't bear this.”

“I know you can't. I'm an unbearable person. Major Minnies is right.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“But it is true.”

He went out and Olivia followed him. As he walked down the stairs she called his name, which she had never used before. He stood still and looked up at her in surprise.