The Moneylenders of Shahpur (13 page)

In comfortable solitude, Diana swung along the meandering field path which led from the end of the bus route to Pandipura village. After the smell of the city, the air seemed sweet and heavy with the odour of drying foliage. Even the occasional
goat she met stood comatose, the tiny goatherd usually fast asleep in the nearest patch of shade. She became aware, however, of an irritating hubbub further along the path. Loud cackles of laughter and birdlike shrieks smote her ears, increasing rapidly as she approached. When she rounded a bend an unlovely, though familiar, sight met her gaze.

The remains of a dead donkey, by now almost reduced to a skeleton, lay across the path, and though not much was left, four or five vultures still argued and jostled each other over the spoils. One bird had found a particularly succulent morsel and had it clasped in its beak, its bald head and neck bobbing as, with ungainly hops, it tried to find an opportunity to swallow its prize, while the others pushed and shoved around it in an endeavour to rob their companion.

‘Blast,’ muttered Diana, and drew back hastily.

The vultures ignored her, if they had noticed her at all; they are no animal’s prey. They were big birds and Diana teetered uncertainly at the edge of the path, wondering how long it would take them to finish their revolting work and fly away. Finally, she decided to strike into the bush and make a circle round them. She had on heavy shoes and there was little danger from snakes in such heat – most of them would be hibernating. She followed a goat track in and out of the thorny bushes, taking her direction from a distant mango tree which she could see growing further along the path.

Except for an occasional glance at the mango tree, she watched the ground she covered, in case of scorpions. Because of this, she observed a scrap of clean paper clinging to the base of a cactus. Newspaper was not uncommon in the countryside, but any other type of paper was. This was not newspaper. It was linen-backed, with
threads still attached to where it had been torn. At one point a light blue line ran across it. Small, unimportant, a piece of rubbish – but out of place.

Her curiosity aroused, Diana stooped to pick it up, and, as she proceeded on her way, she turned it over and over in her hand. Guessing at its origin provided an amusing little puzzle to ease the monotony of her walk.

She reached the mango tree and rejoined the path to the village. The tree gave welcome shade, so she paused to wipe her face free of dust and sweat.

‘Namuste, Memsahib,’ said a thin, cracked voice behind her.

Diana jumped, and turned towards the voice.

A very old man, who had been sitting in the shade further round the trunk of the tree, was struggling to his feet.

Diana knew him, and sighed with relief. She shoved her handkerchief and the piece of paper into her shirt pocket and picked up her bag and umbrella.

‘Namuste,’ she greeted the village bone-setter.

He grinned at her, his white-stubbled face dissolving into a mass of wrinkles, and, as she made to continue on her way, he accompanied her. His staff dragged in the sand as he described to her a boy’s arm which he had just set. She had once admired an ankle he had set and she had, in consequence, added to his local prestige. He now regarded her as a medical colleague, much to her amusement, though she had to admit that he was surprisingly competent for one who had learned his art only from his father in the traditional way.

‘Are you going to Virchand’s house?’ he inquired, naming the brother-in-law of Diana’s patient.

‘Yes.’

The bone-setter stumped along for a few yards, and then
gave his opinion. ‘She’ll live, Memsahib. She has been worrying about things which are no concern of hers. Sick people shouldn’t worry – it makes them sicker.’

‘It does,’ agreed Diana.

‘The Panchyat will worry about the village – it’s
their
job.’ His tone was vicious. He would dearly have liked to be a member of the village council himself, but saw no hope of it.

‘What’s the trouble in the village? I thought there was something wrong when I was there yesterday. Have they been fined for something?’

‘Not yet,’ replied the bone-setter. He looked up at her from under his grubby white turban, clamped his pinched mouth tightly shut, and refused to say anything more until they reached the village. Still wordless, he saluted her and left her outside Virchand’s house.

Her patient was awake and tried to sit up as Diana entered. She made her lie down again, while she took her temperature, which proved to be normal. The deathly look of the previous day had also gone, though she was not very cheerful. The scar of the operation was knitting well.

She sat down on a mat by the bed and advised Virchand’s wife how to get the old lady on to her feet again, while the patient herself occasionally put in a word. The young niece brought into the hut a shy mother with a little boy who had a boil, and asked advice. Tea was offered her. Everything was as usual.

Whatever was bothering them must have passed over, Diana decided. She had seen before how a caste group or a family would shut up like clams while they dealt with a domestic scandal or even a murder. Distrusting both police and lower courts, they tried their best not to seek help from anybody in authority.

Diana sighed. They were brave and resourceful, but,
because of their poverty, they were open to all kinds of bullying. She hoped, however, that her elderly patient was now safely on her way to recovery and that her brother-in-law would not aggravate her in any way for the next week or two.

The wind was rising, making the sand fly unpleasantly, so she said her farewells. ‘If the patient does not seem to be improving, please send a message immediately to Dr Ferozeshah,’ she instructed Virchand, sitting in his usual spot on the string bed outside the door.

‘Ji, hun,’ he agreed, and rose and saluted her.

As soon as she was clear of the village, she stopped to drink the bottle of water she had brought with her. Without water, she would assuredly get sunstroke, and she dared not eat or drink anything in the village for fear of dysentery.

The vultures had departed, leaving the small skeleton to the jackals; a rustle in the undergrowth hinted at their presence. The shadows were lengthening, so she stepped round the skeleton and increased her pace. In the distance she could hear the herdsmen shouting as they rounded up their charges, preparatory to driving them home.

Two red-clad milkmaids, with their big brass vessels of milk, were squatting at the bus terminus. There she hesitated. John Bennett lived not far from the following stop. If she picked up the bus there, she could call in to tell him of the meeting at Lallubhai’s house, in case Lallubhai had forgotten to inform him.

She persuaded herself that Lallubhai could indeed be so inefficient, despite his pleasure at John’s offer, and walked on. She was followed by the stares and giggles of the milkmaids; her flushed face and short skirts always caused amusement to village women who did not know her.

The compound gate was unbolted, and she pushed it
open and went in. John’s light was already switched on and she could clearly see, through the open windows, that he already had a visitor.

As she stood uncertainly on the path, shyness overwhelming her, the gate swung slowly shut behind her.

John heard the gate click and turned in his chair to look out of the window. When he saw her, he waved, and a few moments later, he opened the door to her.

He was leaning on his stick, as she entered and stopped just over the threshold. Rather primly, she delivered her message.

‘Of course, I’ll come,’ he assured her. He turned to Tilak, who had risen at Diana’s entrance, and introduced him to her.

Tilak put his hands together in salute. What a weird-looking woman – her face was as red as burning charcoal.

She sat down in the basket chair indicated to her, and John sank on to the divan. The divan was low, and he winced; for the thousandth time, he cursed his inability to move properly.

The wince had gone unnoticed by his guests. He turned his attention determinedly to them and they were soon talking quite easily to each other. The story of the dead frog was told once more, and Diana was quick to sympathize. In return, she told them about some of the bigotry she had observed in the Mission of Holiness.

As her shyness receded, her face became more animated and her green eyes twinkled. She accepted a cigarette and smoked it slowly, enjoying the rare luxury of it. John apologized for Ranjit’s absence and his own inability to manage the Primus stove to make tea for her. Ranjit had gone, he explained, to find a boy servant he thought would suit Dr Tilak.

The mention of tea brought back her former diffidence.
She said hastily that she had not intended to stay, and looked at her watch. ‘I think I should catch the next bus,’ she said.

Tilak surveyed her gloomily from under lowered brows. He had discussed with John the fine opportunity of the English Fellowship, and had been about to consult him regarding taking Anasuyabehn with him, when they had been interrupted by Diana’s knock. Now the moment was gone, taken by this fool of a woman with her maps and her nursing. As he chewed his nails and tried to enter politely into the conversation, the insoluble problem of the passport whirled in his mind.

Diana was picking up her bag and umbrella and John was saying that he should see her on to the bus. But his legs were hurting savagely and his voice did not carry conviction.

Diana sensed his reluctance, though she did not realize the cause. She said stiffly, ‘I shall be quite all right alone.’

Tilak had come to the door, too. He felt that John’s interest had transferred itself to the woman, and that he would not give his full attention to Tilak’s own problems. ‘I must go, too,’ he said sulkily. ‘I have lectures to prepare. Ask Ranjit to let me know about the boy.’

‘Certainly,’ replied John absently. He looked at Diana a little coldly, feeling that she was, in some way, distancing herself from him. He hesitated, holding the door half open. ‘I don’t think you should go alone in the dark,’ he said to Diana.

Tilak felt he would never escape and he suddenly wanted to get out of the hot little room. ‘I’ll take Miss Armstrong to the bus,’ he offered.

Diana accepted the offer gracefully.

So Tilak found himself escorting an English lady down the sandy lane, past the Dean’s bungalow. From the roof, Aunt observed him with astonishment.

At the bus stop, a group of children was playing Horses and Riders. The smaller boys were riding piggyback on the bigger boys, and they pushed and shoved in an effort to unhorse the riders. The fun they were having was infectious, and Diana laughed when one of the riders, with a deft push, caught another one off balance, and, to shouts of acclamation, horse and rider went down into the dust.

The bus arrived in a flurry of sand. Diana hastily thanked Tilak and eased her way into the crowded vehicle.

The little unhorsed rider rolled, puffing and laughing, to Tilak’s feet, while, from a nearby house, a shrill voice shouted to the children to come in at once. Three children fled, leaving the fallen one sitting rubbing his back. He looked up at Tilak and grinned beguilingly. Tilak knew him, and his pulses jumped at his good luck.

‘You’re Mehta Sahib’s servant?’ he asked.

The boy scrambled to his feet, picked up his black pillbox hat and crammed it back on his head. ‘Ji,’ he replied respectfully.

‘I want you to take a note to Miss Anasuyabehn,’ he told the child. ‘It is about a special secret with which she will surprise Mehta Sahib, so you mustn’t show the note to anybody. Do you understand?’

‘Ji.’

Tilak took out his notebook, tore out a page and scribbled a few words on it with his fountain pen. He fished a four-anna piece out of his trouser pocket and handed it, with the note, to the servant.

The boy put the note into his shirt pocket and the coin into the pocket of his ragged pants. He grinned at Tilak and ran happily across the road towards the Dean’s house.

Meanwhile, Aunt stumped thoughtfully down the stairs from the roof, where she had enjoyed a short nap. She had just risen from the mat on which she had been lying, when
she had observed, over the parapet, Diana and Tilak going to the bus stop.

Still feeling physically and mentally drained after her confrontation with the guru in the temple, Anasuyabehn was seated on the kitchen floor preparing dinner for the visitors. Two chattering female cousins were helping her. The parents were seated on the veranda, sipping lemon water.

The servant had been sent to the house of a neighbour with a full water-pot, the neighbour’s tap having ceased to function, and Anasuyabehn said, as her aunt entered, ‘I wonder where the boy is? He’s been gone quite a long time.’

‘Playing with the children down the road,’ replied Aunt sourly. ‘Saw him just now.’ She sat down by a small charcoal fire, which one of the cousins had been tending. She took up a rolling pin and uncovered a pan of dough, which had been put ready for her by Anasuyabehn. The cousin put a pan of oil on to the fire to heat. As the older woman began skilfully to roll out puris on a small pastry board, she said, ‘I saw something else, while I was on the roof.’ She dropped a puri into the fat and pressed it under with a spatula, while the three girls looked up expectantly. ‘That troublesome Dr Tilak was walking down the lane with an English lady – the one who visited Dr Bennett the other day!’