Travelers (24 page)

“She is well, thank you.”

“I expect,” said Miss Charlotte, “she's beginning to look forward now to your return.” She spoke with lively pleasure as if she were putting herself in Raymond's mother's place and sharing her joyful anticipation.

His mother wrote practically every day now. Her letters were full of local gossip, about her friends and activities and new books at the library, and also how she was planning to go up to town to have lunch with his Uncle Paul. She tried to make out that she was busy and contented, but between every line he knew what she was asking him. That was why nowadays her letters did not give him as much pleasure as before, and often he put off reading them.

“As soon as I've settled everything in Delhi, I shall be on my way too,” Miss Charlotte said. “There are still so many little things—what a job it is to wind up! I'm getting quite impatient.”

“Impatient to be off?”

“Yes. I want to go home.”

She no doubt felt Raymond's surprise but did not for some time comment on it. They had got to the place where she was staying. It was a British-built bungalow, almost identical with the mission in Delhi, standing stolidly—in spite of age and disrepair—amid the encroachments of an overgrown garden.

Miss Charlotte said, “When your work here is finished, then it is time to go home.”

“But you've been here thirty years!”

Miss Charlotte smiled. She said, “Still, home is home. . . .”

An ancient servant, indistinguishable from the ancient servants
at the Delhi mission, came out on the veranda to peer at them. Miss Charlotte did not yet get out, for she had more to say.

“I've been enjoying myself this last month, being a tourist. It was a lovely little holiday. . . . Perhaps we'll be going home about the same time? You'll write and tell me, won't you, when you're leaving?”

“Not just yet, Miss Charlotte.”

“But soon?”

The old servant opened the taxi door for her and she got out without waiting for an answer. Raymond waved to her and called that he would probably be seeing her in Delhi before she left. He drove to his hotel, where he found Gopi anxiously awaiting him.

Lee

Last night Margaret came to bed very late. I was still awake, lying on my bed and looking up at the corrugated sheet roof. It wasn't quite dark, moonlight came in through the bit of dusty skylight set into the wall. Evie was asleep; and Evie sleeping is always like a person not there at all. She lies absolutely still on her back the whole night through and doesn't even seem to be breathing. She wasn't in the least disturbed by the noise Margaret was making. Margaret is always clumsy and drops and bumps into things, after which she curses to herself. She doesn't usually worry about disturbing others, so I was surprised when she leaned over me and, seeing my eyes open, asked, “I didn't wake you, did I?” However, she didn't care much about my answer. I think she was glad I was awake so that she could share her thoughts with someone. She had a lot of thoughts, I could see. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked up to the skylight and her face, lit by the filtered moonlight, was radiant. She sighed, but with too much happiness, not pain.

“Why aren't you asleep?” she asked at last.

“It's these bedbugs.”

She made a sound of impatience. Obviously she thought it was petty of me to be bothered by such things. I remember a time when she herself was very much bothered by them. But nowadays she never complains about anything—the bugs, or the heat, or the food—she doesn't seem to notice them at all any more. I know she's still sick—she doesn't tell anyone, she tries to hide it—but I know her stomach is very bad and once when she was bathing I saw it was distended and also she had a funny sort of rash down the back of her thighs. She looks unhealthy too, there's something wrong with the color of her skin, but somehow one doesn't notice because of this look she has, of contentment and even bliss.

She said, “I was with him. We were working on his itinerary.”

I pretended I wasn't interested. I hate her at such moments. I hate myself even more for hating her. She's happy and I'm not, that's all.

“He wants to go to Copenhagen first because of a Mrs. Lund there who's interested in the Movement. Have you been to Copenhagen?”

When I didn't answer, she assumed I was asleep. She lay down too, but I think she didn't get to sleep either for a long time. I've noticed there are whole nights she hardly sleeps, but all the same next day she's bright and active.

I drag myself around. I've never been like this before. Everything is so strange, so dismal; it's as if there's no light in the sun, and those glorious Indian nights, well, they too now are dark and drab to me. Even at the hymn singing we have morning and evening when he always seems to be singling out each of us separately, even then I'm not there for him. Lately I've stopped joining in with the others when they sing. I just stand there silent; I don't
feel
like singing. I'm sure he's noticed—he always notices when anyone doesn't sing fervently enough—but now with me he pretends not to. He ignores me completely. I don't know why. I think about it all the time.

I spoke to Evie about it. Because I couldn't stand it any longer by myself. At first she wouldn't say anything, she thought I was accusing him, so she turned away her face. But when I said I must have failed somewhere and wanted to know what I could do to make it right, she became more sympathetic. I asked her had he ever been like that with her—had he cut her out the way he was doing to me—and she said no; but she said it in a hesitating sort of way as if there were more she could say only she wouldn't because it was some secret thing.

I said, “He never speaks to me. He doesn't look at me.”

She asked me to be patient. She said she knew what I was going through because she'd gone through the same. I interrupted her eagerly: so he had been like that with her too at one stage? But she became all shy and trembly and said no, not like that but in another way. She begged me not to ask her any questions, she said she couldn't tell me anything more. It was something only between her and him, just as what was happening now was only between me and him. And if I could bring myself to understand that his present neglect of me was nothing but an expression of his care and love for me—if I could only accept that, then not only would my suffering be at an end but I would live in joy at my own submission. When she said that, she lowered her eyes and blushed softly. It was the first time I had seen her express so much emotion. She was even holding my hand and pressing it ever so gently. I didn't like that much, though.

Three Mad Crones

At first Raymond tried to refuse Gopi. He was very reluctant to meet Bulbul by the wall. But Gopi was so frightened and pleaded so hard that in the end Raymond knew he had to go. As soon as she saw him, Bulbul made a questioning gesture and asked, “Gopi?” Raymond shook his head. She said something which he couldn't hear because of the noise. It was the time of
evening prayers—always the noisiest part of the day with singing and cymbals bursting out of the temples and prayers echoing up and down the river as the sun sank into it.

Bulbul beckoned him into the house. It was just as noisy in there. Not only did the sounds penetrate from outside, but Banubai was leading a group of devotees in singing hymns. Bulbul drew Raymond into the windowless, pitch-dark little storeroom where she slept at night. She made him sit on the floor close beside her and began to talk very fast; but of course he couldn't understand a word.

The door opened and it was Asha calling for Bulbul. Instinctively Bulbul clapped her hand over Raymond's mouth. “Yes, sweetheart, I'm here,” she answered in her sweetest voice. Asha peered into the shadows where Bulbul crouched with Raymond. “Is there someone with you?” Asha asked. Bulbul cackled loudly. “What are you saying, darling, an old woman like me!”

“There
is
someone,” Asha said.

Raymond beat Bulbul's hand away from his mouth and struggled to stand up.

“Who is it!” Asha cried.

He identified himself. Bulbul was clutching and tugging at him to pull him down again and he struggled to get away from her and reach the door. But just as he got there, Asha shut it. Now they were all three of them trapped inside.

“Why are you here?” she asked. She fumbled along the wall for the light and found the switch; but there was no bulb. Bulbul lit a candle that stood in a niche with her images and Asha snatched it from her and held it up close to Raymond. “What are you doing here?”

“You'll burn me with that if you're not careful.”

“Why have you come?”

“Ask her.” He pointed at Bulbul.

Asha's hand trembled. Raymond cautiously took the candle from her and replaced it in the niche. All Bulbul's little clay
gods sprang into view, painted and smiling; she had also propped up an oleograph of Ganesh, the elephant-headed god, mounted on his rat.

“She told Gopi you wanted to see him.” He looked toward Bulbul still crouching in a corner and with her sari pulled right over her head as if she were pretending not to be there. “She told him all sorts of things. She frightened him no end. . . . I say! What are you doing!” he exclaimed.

Asha had pounced on Bulbul. She dragged her out of the corner. Bulbul was crying out in fear; she put up her arms to protect herself while Asha, flailing her fists, struck her again and again. While she was beating Bulbul, Asha also fired questions at her which Bulbul tried desperately to answer but always her answers were drowned in new questions accompanied by threats, curses, and blows. Raymond was shouting at Asha to restrain her, and then he tried to drag her away, but she was moving so fast and was so strong that it was impossible for him. He clasped his arms around her waist to try to pull her off. He felt her body pulsating with strength and fury; it was like clasping a demon. She dragged him here and there with her as she went on beating Bulbul, but he hung on fiercely. Their voices—Asha's in fury, Bulbul in fear and pain, his own in protest—did not quite drown the prayers rising from the river nor Banubai and her group singing their evening hymns.

At last he felt Asha's tensed-up body slackening and, using all his strength, he managed to drag her away from Bulbul. He got the door open and forced her outside, leaving Bulbul lying face downward on the floor inside. She whimpered and heaved—quite energetically, which was a relief to Raymond: at least she wasn't dead. He shut the door on her and turned to Asha, who stood against the wall, panting and flushed and with her black eyes glittering.

At that moment Banubai's little group of hymn singers came out of her room. They were mostly elderly people. Their faces smiled and shone. As they passed Asha, they greeted her with
a serene affection which enfolded not only her but the whole world and every human being struggling in it. One woman, in an excess of love, put out her hand to grasp Asha's—but drew it back immediately and with a cry. “How hot you are! Are you in fever?” She made to touch her again but Asha broke away from her and pushed through the devotees as if they were a flock of sheep.

Raymond followed Asha into Banubai's room. Banubai was displeased at seeing him and even asked, “Why does he come here?” But Raymond ignored this; he was intent on Asha.

“Are you all right now?” he asked her. “What about poor Bulbul? You're not going to—again? Are you? Are you, Asha?”

Asha shrugged indifferently. “She's had her beating.”

“You nearly
killed
her!”

“Ha! You think it's so easy to kill Bulbul?”

“Why doesn't he go?” Banubai asked crossly. “Why don't you go?” she asked Raymond. “You don't want to be here. You don't like us.”

Now he was forced to attend to her. She was looking at him with a glance that went right through him. There was nothing he could hide from her. Swamiji was the only other person who could look through him in such a way; but whereas with Swamiji Raymond felt that his thoughts met with tolerance, forgiveness, even amusement, it was not so with Banubai.

“We don't want people like you here,” she said. “Only those who truly appreciate our culture are welcome.”

Raymond wanted to defend himself. But he was not sure that he was entitled to do so; certainly, there was much, much he had truly appreciated, but he had to admit that there were other things he was not capable of appreciating at all. It was these evidently that Banubai was referring to.

“For two hundred years you tried to make us believe that you are superior persons. But now the tables are turned. Now that your culture is bankrupt and your lives have become empty and meaningless, you are beginning to learn where truth has been
hidden and stored away throughout the centuries. Even your scientists have learned this lesson.”

Unable to find an adequate reply, Raymond said, “I've enjoyed my stay here very much.” He added courteously, “I've learned a lot too.”

“You're not capable of learning. To learn from us you have to be—wide open! And full of humility. There was a German gentleman who came to me. A very cultured person, he had studied in all branches of science and philosophy and had many German degrees. But after all his years of research and learning, in the end he learned only one thing: that he knew nothing. He came to me with these words: ‘I know nothing.' When he said this, he folded his hands to me and touched my feet. I loved him for this attitude. I was very gentle and kind to him. I laid my hand on his head which he had shaved to be like a good Hindu. I said, ‘We will do our best with you.'”

Bulbul came in. She crept in cautiously, as if she were afraid of being noticed. Asha was sitting on the floor and Bulbul also lowered herself to the floor and somehow managed to get lower than Asha and to crouch at her feet. Asha allowed her to stay there.