HELEN FORRESTER
The Moneylenders of Shahpur

DEDICATION

To Dianne, with love.

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

About the Author

Also by the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

‘They’ll think I’m mad,’ muttered Dr John Bennett to himself, as he waited for the station porter to load his luggage into a tonga. ‘To come back to India, when so many Indians are trying to settle in the West. It won’t make sense to them, even though I was born and brought up here.’ He smiled wryly to himself. ‘Mad dogs and Englishmen …’

For over a year now, he had been thinking seriously of returning to India. He was bored by his job as lecturer in Asian Studies. He was tired of Liverpool, its cold, its dampness, its depression; he longed for sunshine. Suddenly, he could stand it no longer. He had his Air Force pension and some savings; he had no family. At the end of the 1949/50 university year, he packed up his books and joyfully took a boat out to India.

Now he stood unsteadily at the top of the imposing steps of Shahpur station, a thirty-four-year-old Englishman, whose war wounds in his legs ached abominably, and wondered if he would still be welcome; India had, after all, fought very hard to rid itself of the British, and it had had its freedom for only two years.

People pushed and shoved past, their luggage perilously poised on the heads of porters. Where once there would have been a number of white faces amongst them, now there was none. Amid the crowds of Hindus and Muslims, a fair sprinkling of Jains stood out, distinguished by their plain white clothes and their more sedate movements.

Looking across the railway lines, he could see the Chemical Works which his father had managed until his death. He observed from the neon sign that its name had been altered to the Star of Asia Chemical Company, and a large addition had been built. The smell of sulphur and other chemicals from it far outweighed the more traditional odours of horse manure and open drains.

He shifted his weight off his wounded legs and on to the two sticks with which he supported himself. God, how the heat made his wounds throb – but at least here he would not have to stand on them while he lectured, he consoled himself. He would try to find his old friend, Dr Ferozeshah, and get him to prescribe a pain reliever for him.

A dignified, elderly Jain came slowly up the steps, his quiet, saintly face lit by a smile, the palms of his hands held together in greeting.

‘John, I am pleased to see you. I’m sorry I’m late. Your letter arrived only an hour ago.’

He paused for breath, and then looked aghast at John’s sticks. ‘You’ve not been cured?’ he asked, a quaver in his voice.

John was sharply reminded that Jains regard physical disability as a punishment for misdemeanours in previous lives, and his heart sank a little.

‘No,’ he replied, as he watched his father’s old friend trying to overcome his repugnance. ‘But I can manage quite well with my sticks – and on a bicycle.’

The older man recovered some of his composure.

‘I am very relieved to hear that,’ he said, looking again uneasily at the offending legs, then averting his gaze to look round the station yard. ‘We must get a tonga.’

‘I have one,’ said John, as he slipped a coin into the eager palm of the hovering porter.

They moved slowly to the little carriage, which was weighed down with a trunk, a bedding roll and three suitcases.

‘Thank you for coming to meet me, Dr Mehta.’

‘I was most happy to come,’ replied Dr Mehta with conviction. ‘Since the death of your dear father and mother in that dreadful aeroplane accident, I have felt as a parent to you – and I hope you will regard me as such.’

John warmed to the kindly old man, and he felt sad that someone so gentle should have aged so much. The once upright figure was bent and thin, the face fine drawn. The voice which he remembered so well from many a lecture on English literature had lost its richness and was faded.

‘You are very good,’ he said.

He struggled into the carriage after Dr Mehta, using a firm grip on either side of the door at the back to swing his awkward legs up and over the difficult steps. He cursed under his breath as he hit his knee.

‘And how is little Anasuyabehn?’ he inquired, as Dr Mehta and he settled themselves on the side seats. ‘She was about to be married last time you mentioned her in your letters.’

Dr Mehta arranged his white dhoti neatly round his legs before he answered. His ascetic-looking face registered an uneasy frown. Finally, he said, ‘Her betrothed died, so she is not yet married – being motherless makes life a little more difficult for her than it should be – but I shall arrange another marriage for her soon. She must have time to recover.’ He did not mention a grave shortage of suitable young men in his caste or that he had left his child’s marriage rather late, because he found it hard to part with her.

John nodded politely.

‘She’s getting into touch with your father’s old servant, Ranjit. We felt sure you would like to have him to serve you. He went back to his village after your father died.’

John was delighted. ‘I’d like to have him very much,’ he said. Ranjit was a Hindu, and he remembered the happy hours he had spent nestled against the strong, kindly peasant, listening to his harsh country dialect as he told him tales of the great Arjun, and of Ram and his faithful Sita. He also remembered suddenly his gentle, easy-going Ayah who had taken him with her to pray in Jain temples; he could almost feel again his offering of flowers clutched in his hand.

The carriage jogged along the narrow streets. Women were standing in queues to draw water from street taps, to carry up to their families who lived over the open-fronted shops. From behind white saris or red veils they peeked shyly at the strange Englishman.

In the Moneylenders’ Quarter, the sweepers were busy brushing the pavements with small rush brooms. They worked their way phlegmatically in and out amongst the beggars, who sat on their heels with their backs against the high compound walls surrounding the moneylenders’ communal family homes.

The carriage swept through the ancient Red Gate and John caught a glimpse of the temple to which his ayah used to take him when he was a little boy. It had a double row of lepers lining its imposing steps from top to bottom. Then, within a few minutes, they were engulfed by the overwhelming perfume of the Hindu flower bazaar.

The bazaar marked the end of the city. Dr Mehta raised his hand to point towards a group of fine, modern buildings, fronted by well-kept flower gardens.

‘Our new Government University,’ he announced with pride. ‘You can just see our original college – which you’ll remember – through the trees.’

Indeed, John assured him, he did remember – he had been happy when he had attended it. Many of his fellow scholars had been the sons of merchants and moneylenders from the Jain community, sent to the college to obtain a good command of English.

He had always been interested in Jains. They were so determined not to kill anything, not even an insect or one of the souls they believed inhabited the air or crowded into root vegetables and unripe fruit. Their desire not to commit violence meant that they could not use any implement, be it plough or typewriter; so they were usually moneylenders or merchants, though there were many monks and nuns amongst them and a fair number of scholars like Dr Mehta.

‘My bungalow is one of those facing the campus, along that lane over there,’ said Dr Mehta. He clutched the side of the carriage as it bumped suddenly off the gravel road and into the rutted lane he had just indicated. Then as it began to trundle more safely along, he asked, ‘I’m not sure, my dear John, what your plans are …?’

John’s voice was a little defensive, as he replied, ‘My History of India is selling so well in the States, and in Britain and India, that I thought I might follow it with a history of the Gujerat – approaching it, perhaps, through the story of the Marwari Gate temple here in Shahpur.’

Dr Mehta nodded, and directed the driver to his bungalow.

‘An old bachelor like me doesn’t need a great deal,’ John said. He did not know how to explain to Dr Mehta his desperate need to rest and be quiet. England had been as alien to him as to any other immigrant; his upbringing in India had not prepared him for the difference in its way of life. The struggle to earn a living when crippled had also been exhausting.

After the war, he had expected to marry the girl to whom he had become engaged before being taken prisoner, but she had looked with undisguised distaste at his torn legs and viewed with horror his tentative proposal that they should live in India. She had left him sitting in a wheelchair in a military hospital and, a month later, had married someone else. This unhappy experience had tended to make him brusque and defensive with women and he had never proposed to anyone else. He never considered that in spite of his damaged legs he was still a fine-looking man, with his brush of black hair lightly touched with grey, and blue eyes which normally twinkled cheerfully from under straight, bushy eyebrows; he had never really examined himself in a mirror for years.

As they descended from the carriage, Dr Mehta murmured gentle agreement with John’s plans. The driver began to unload the luggage and dump it into the sand.

The compound gate was opened by an excited boy servant. Behind him, fidgeting nervously, was Dr Mehta’s sister, who kept house for him, an old lady in white widow’s garb, her cunning face creased with anxiety about her English visitor, whom she remembered as a precocious, ever curious young man.

Anasuyabehn, small, plump and passive, stood half behind her aunt, peeking at John through thick fluttering eyelashes.

John whistled under his breath. It always defeated him how Jain women could look, at the same time, so prim and so seductive. No one looking at a Jain, he thought, could guess at the passions raging beneath their placid exteriors.

Smiling, both women advanced timidly, putting the palms of their hands together in salute.

As John bowed and said how pleased he was to see them again, he was thinking that if he were Dr Mehta, with a twenty-four-year-old daughter like Anasuyabehn, he would marry her off fast, before she got entangled with someone unscrupulous.

CHAPTER ONE

The office of the Vice-Chancellor of Shahpur University was extremely hot. It seemed as if the white walls of the Arts and Science Building had, that September morning, absorbed all the heat of the surrounding desert, and it had then become concentrated in the Vice-Chancellor’s usually pleasant room overlooking the carefully cultivated gardens in front of the building.

The Vice-Chancellor, Dr Yashvant Prasad, drummed his fingers irritably on his desk and tried to concentrate his attention on the papers before him, but the fan kept fluttering them and finally he closed the file and handed it to the Dean, Dr Mehta, who was standing by the desk.

The Dean’s gnarled brown hands shook a little as he took the file from his superior. Today was a fast day and he felt suddenly very weak and weary and thought wistfully of his retirement, still twelve months away.

He flicked over the pages of the file, which was neatly labelled Dr Tilak, Zoology, and said, ‘Dr Tilak should arrive this afternoon. I’m giving him two rooms in the students’ hostel for the present.’

‘That will do very well,’ agreed the Vice-Chancellor.

‘There’s a small room next to the Botany Museum which has water laid on, and I have arranged for him to have it as a laboratory.’ The Dean paled a little. He had long considered the requirements of Dr Tilak, the first staff member to be recruited for the new Department of Zoology. Would he, for instance, pin dead insects on to boards, as they had done in the Bombay Museum? Would he dissect animals? Perhaps, knowing how sacred life was in the Gujerat, he would teach with the aid of pictures and diagrams. Dean Mehta fervently hoped so, as he continued, ‘I – er am not sure what his research involves, but doubtless a little money will be forthcoming for equipment for him?’

‘I doubt it,’ said the Vice-Chancellor glumly. ‘It was difficult enough to squeeze his salary out of the provincial government.’ He chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. ‘I’ll try again,’ he promised.

Several flies were buzzing round the office, so the Vice-Chancellor banged the bell on his desk and called to the peon outside the door to shut the window.

The peon, a thin wraith of a man clad in crumpled khaki, slipped down from his stool and trailed languidly across to the window, skilfully palming his small brown cigarette as he passed the Vice-Chancellor’s desk. He banged the window shut and returned to his stool.

The Vice-Chancellor leaned back in his wooden revolving chair and fretfully pulled at his long straight nose. He thought longingly of his native Delhi and wondered why he had ever agreed to come to the Gujerat to head this struggling university at Shahpur. He had, he thought despondently, only two fellow mathematicians on the staff – poor company for a Harvard man like himself.

The peon brought him a cup of lukewarm, oversweet tea, and, momentarily forgetting the Dean’s presence, the Vice-Chancellor viciously swatted a fly about to descend upon it. Flies all winter, roasting heat all summer; then the humidity before the rains, then the rains themselves with their following of cholera, typhoid and typhus. When the rains stopped there were clouds of mosquitoes carrying malaria to contend with. Really, Shahpur was only fit to live in for about two months of the year.

The Dean tucked the file on Dr Tilak under his arm and said anxiously, ‘I hope that a Maratha like Dr Tilak will fit comfortably into our Gujerati ways.’

‘I am from Delhi and I am managing to do so,’ responded the Vice-Chancellor tartly.

‘Ah, yes, indeed, my dear sir,’ said the Dean, realizing his slip immediately. ‘You are, however, so understanding.’

The Vice-Chancellor bridled and said jokingly, ‘Well, well, at least the British left us a common language, so that it makes no difference that Dr Tilak’s native tongue is Marathi, yours is Gujerati and mine is Hindi.’

‘Oh, yes,’ agreed Dr Mehta hastily. But his mind revolted at the idea than an alien tongue united his beloved Gujerat with the cocksure southerners and the stupid northerners. His thoughts began to wander.

Although he was a professor of English, knew the plays of Shakespeare nearly by heart and had bookshelves crammed with the latest works in English, his heart lay in his little glass-fronted bookcase amongst his sacred Jain writings, laboriously collected over the years, some of them manuscripts written in Gujerati or Prakrit or Magadhi. Before this bookcase he would sometimes put a little offering of rice; and he would carefully take the writings out and dust them at the appropriate festival.

Vice-Chancellor Prasad glanced up at the Dean’s thin, lined face, clean-shaven except for a moustache, with its drooping eyelids and calm, firm mouth. The Dean saw the glance and came back to earth immediately. He pulled his watch out of his trouser pocket; it was a fine gold one which had belonged to his father, and he flicked the lid open carefully.

‘Dr Bennett is coming to see me for a few minutes at about twelve o’clock. He wants to go over the Marwari Gate temple; so if you will excuse me I’ll go now.’

‘Certainly. I should like to see Dr Tilak as soon as he arrives – I’m particularly anxious that our new Department should start off properly.’

‘I, too,’ replied the Dean with more fervour than he felt. He had advised against a Department of Zoology and he had an uneasy feeling that Dr Tilak could find himself on a collision course with Jain members of the staff.

That same morning, a very bored Anasuyabehn Mehta had been to the library to change her books. Domesticated and obedient as she was, she trusted implicitly her father’s promise to arrange another marriage for her. But in the meantime, she seemed to be living in an empty limbo, too old to associate with other single girls, yet without the advantages of matrimony.

Her aunt frowned at her as she entered and put the library books down in a corner. ‘Go and wash yourself, child, before entering the kitchen,’ she instructed. Then she turned to chide the boy servant for putting too much charcoal on the fire. ‘Savitri is waiting on the roof,’ she shouted, as Anasuyabehn trailed off to the bathroom.

Her friend, Savitri, knew her well enough to wait a little longer, thought Anasuyabehn, as she filled the bath bucket. Before commencing to wash herself, however, she went to the bottom of the stairs and called to Savitri that she would be up in a few minutes.

Savitri, comfortable in the shade of a tree taller than the bungalow, shouted that she had not to be back at work for an hour.

Anasuyabehn quickly bathed, washed her hair and changed her petticoat, blouse and sari. Then, taking a towel and rubbing her hair as she went, she climbed the stairs to the roof, promising herself that she would go down to help Aunt in the kitchen after a few minutes’ gossip with her friend.

Savitri lived such a full and interesting life, she thought enviously. She actually earned her living as a chemist. She herself had never been able to persuade her father to allow her to work.

‘Have you had lunch?’ she asked Savitri. Her voice was solicitous and deferential. It rejuvenated the other girl’s self-esteem, which always sank when she saw Anasuyabehn.

She turned her thin, heavily bespectacled face towards her friend and said she had eaten. She thought mournfully that she had a university degree and competed successfully in the world’s hardest labour market; but when she and Anasuyabehn walked together in the evening it was at Anasuyabehn that young men cast longing glances. Savitri’s needle-sharp wit might enliven a party, but it was to Anasuyabehn’s shy acquiescing answers that men really listened – negative, obedient Anasuyabehn – so obedient, thought Savitri grimly, that it was just as well that she had few opportunities to meet young men alone. Savitri herself had haughtily repelled her father’s offers to find her a husband and yet she craved for a man of her own.

She sighed, and watched without interest as a tonga loaded with luggage rumbled down the lane beneath her.

A thin, sharp shriek of ‘Niece!’ up the stairs broke into their conversation and reminded them suddenly that a caustic-tongued old lady awaited Anasuyabehn’s ministrations.

The girls grimaced at each other.

‘I wish I were married,’ they said in chorus and then dissolved into laughter. They were still laughing and joking when two gentlemen walked down the lane.

CHAPTER TWO

John Bennett had found the peace he sought in a high-ceilinged, stone-floored room in the house of a retired teacher, a few doors away from Dr Mehta’s home. The room was light and airy and austerely furnished with a wooden couch for sitting and sleeping, a big desk and a chair, and a table from which to eat; there was also a large cupboard for his books and other possessions. On a veranda behind the room, Ranjit camped contentedly among the cooking pots; and on another veranda, to the front of the room, were comfortable basket chairs.

Since his arrival, John had immersed himself in his new history and was almost happy. Though he could not trace any of his former English friends, he had met some Indian ones again and found that none of them held any rancour against him for being English. He had visited his old friend, Dr Ferozeshah, at his surgery, where he was introduced to his head nurse, an English lady of quiet, professional demeanour, Miss Armstrong; Ferozeshah told him that she had previously served in a medical mission north of Shahpur.

As time went by, he was able to discard one of his walking sticks, though his legs still caused him pain occasionally.

While Savitri and Anasuyabehn chatted on the roof of Dean Mehta’s bungalow, John took the record of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony off his record player and dusted it carefully.

He opened the cupboard and laid the record on the top shelf, put the record player on a lower shelf, and closed and locked the door.

‘Ranjit,’ he called, as he began to unbutton his shirt, preparatory to changing.

‘Ji?’ responded his servant. He put down the tray of wheat he had been cleaning and creaked slowly to his feet. Though elderly, he was a powerful-looking peasant. He had come to Shahpur from United Provinces forty years before, when only a boy. Except when the Bennett family was on leave in England, he had never left them. He had made a close study of Shahpur and was well known for his profound knowledge of exactly where to place a bribe to hurry officialdom or obtain a favour.

‘Put those papers into my briefcase, while I change my shirt. I’ve an appointment with Dean Mehta.’

Ranjit wiped his seamed face with the dish towel draped over his shoulder and, with surprisingly deft movements, he packed the briefcase. He turned a toothless smile upon John. ‘Will you be in for lunch?’ he asked.

John buckled his belt, and, balancing himself by holding on to various pieces of furniture, he went to the bathroom in search of a comb.

‘Yes,’ he decided, as he combed vigorously at his hair, which never would lie down properly. ‘I won’t go to look at the temple until tomorrow.’

When he was ready to leave, Ranjit preceded him through the shady compound, in order to open the gate for him.

‘Sahib, there’s a tonga here.’

John presumed that the occupants of the carriage had come to visit his landlord. He viewed with interest, however, the tall, slim man who sprang down into the dusty lane. An elderly woman and a thin young girl still in the carriage peeped at him from behind their veiling saris.

‘Excuse me,’ said the man in good English. ‘Can you tell me where to find Dr Mehta, the Dean?’

‘Certainly. His house is the eighth one from here, down that way,’ replied John, indicating the way the tonga had come.

‘I’m really looking for his office.’

John looked thoughtfully at the man. Definitely not a student, he decided.

‘I’m going to his office now,’ he said. ‘Would you like to come with me?’

The young man glanced up at the two ladies, who were whispering to each other, and seemed undecided. The tongawallah, on his high perch, started to fidget and began to mutter about people who made him wait forever and lose business. It was apparent that, at any moment, he would demand an increase in the agreed fare.

‘I don’t know what arrangements have been made for us. Mother is tired after our long journey.’

John’s perplexity must have shown on his face, because he added, ‘I’m Tilak from Bombay. I’m to teach Zoology here. In which department do you teach?’

‘I’m not a member of the University staff,’ John replied. ‘But Dr Mehta mentioned that you were coming. I hope you’ll like it here.’ He extended his hand to the newcomer.

Though Tilak’s fingers looked slim and delicate, his grip on John’s hand was firm. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘Perhaps the ladies would like to rest in my room,’ John suggested. ‘My servant would look after them, while we go to see the Dean.’

The offer was accepted with alacrity. With Ranjit’s help and with much puffing and blowing, Mrs Tilak and her daughter were installed in John’s room. John left to Ranjit the task of offering refreshments to the ladies. He had no idea of their caste or orthodoxy. If they were very orthodox, they would refuse all refreshment, in spite of the fact that Ranjit was himself a Brahmin.

Dr Tilak and he walked down the line of flat-roofed houses and bungalows before turning into the path which led to the Arts and Science Building. Tilak looked about him in a brisk, almost military manner which proclaimed his Maratha forebears, in marked contrast to the stolid, slower movements of Gujeratis. He seemed excitable and full of life, and remarked enthusiastically upon the green lawns and little flowerbeds which had been conjured up out of near desert.

Tilak had the beauty of face and form, thought John, which had made Indians famous for their looks, though he was gaunt and very dark-skinned. Though he did not know who John was, he was respectful to him, and he soon drew from him some details of his writings, in particular, about his new book on the history of the Marwari Gate temple and the surrounding district.

But Tilak’s expression lost some of its exuberance, as they chatted. Finally, he said, ‘I wonder what these Jains will think of my subject?’

‘Why? I expect there is a demand for Zoology courses here. Otherwise, it would not have occurred to the University to appoint you.’

‘There’s a demand – probably from Hindus. However, it may not have occurred to anyone that I’ll require small mammals to dissect for the benefit of my students – and fish to dissect for my own research.’ He turned to John, his face very earnest, ‘One can never be sure with Jains.’

John smiled at the ominous tone in which he pronounced his last sentence. His eyes twinkled, as he replied, ‘The Vice-Chancellor is a graduate of Harvard – I’m sure he’ll understand the requirements of modern research. We have some old diehards here. A few staff fought against the establishment of a Science Faculty. Dean Mehta is, himself, quite orthodox in his personal life – but I’ve never noticed his trying to impose his views on anyone else.’

Tilak relaxed a little and was about to make some further remark, when his attention was caught by a flutter of pink on the roof of the Dean’s bungalow, which they were approaching.

John, also, had noticed Anasuyabehn on the roof, her pink sari almost obscured by her long, black hair which she was drying in the sunlight. She was generally a very retiring girl and, presumably, imagined that she could not be seen from below or she would undoubtedly have dried her hair indoors; her Western education had failed to rob her of her modesty or dignity. Now, she stood, in all innocence, shaking out her wonderful tresses, and laughing and chattering with her friend, Savitri, who was seated on the low parapet which guarded the edge of the roof.

John thought what a contrast the two women made. Anasuyabehn had an inborn winsomeness, and, as she raised her arms to rub her hair, her fine figure was readily apparent; yet her laughing face and cheerful voice had all the ingenuousness of the carefully protected woman. She was no beauty; but he knew that when she felt at ease with people, she could be quite charming.

Savitri – well, Savitri was Savitri. Thin as a camel after a desert journey, hair cut short and permanently waved last time she had been in Bombay, large, horn-rimmed spectacles; an assertive woman, whose violent efforts to be modern sometimes had results which left her acquaintances gasping. Yet she and Anasuyabehn were old friends, products of the same school and the same college – but different parents, thought John. Though Savitri’s parents were Hindus, their home was almost completely European, while in Dean Mehta’s house, despite his study of English, many of the old Jain ways still lingered.

As he and Tilak came level with the bungalow, Anasuyabehn approached the parapet, and, parting her waterfall of hair with her hands, she looked out across the compound straight at Tilak.

Tilak stopped in his tracks, fascinated by the gentle, fair face, made stronger looking by sweeping black brows, and by the marvellous hair rippling down past the girl’s knees. In that unguarded moment she did, indeed, look very different from her usual modest self. Behind her, the leaves of an overhanging tree rustled and cast a dappled shade over her, guarding her from the searching rays of the sun.

She stood for a moment, as if captivated, and then, suddenly realizing her dishevelled state and the impropriety of staring at a man, she whipped away across the roof to the staircase.

Tilak continued to stare at the spot where she had stood, as if the shabby, white parapet had mesmerized him.

‘Heavens,’ he breathed in English, and then blinked and turned his face away, as he realized that he was being insolently scrutinized by Savitri, who was still seated on the low wall.

Embarrassed by this merciless examination, he turned to John and said in his stilted English, ‘What were you saying about the Vice-Chancellor and the Dean?’

John was also acquainted with Savitri. He gravely lifted his stick in salute to her. She smiled acknowledgment and he turned his attention again to Tilak.

Though Tilak had reopened the conversation, it was obvious that he was not really listening to John’s reply. His face was rapt as they walked along, the eyelids narrowed, the lips parted, and John felt uncomfortably that this lean, attractive newcomer was probably far too emotional to slip quietly into the life of the University. An intense man, thought John, with a difficult subject to teach, in a district where the life of every crawling bug is sacred.

In the middle of a story being told to him by John of how local villagers refused to spray a locust invasion, because of their beliefs, Tilak asked suddenly, ‘Whose was the bungalow where the two girls were up on the roof?’

As they climbed the steps of the Arts and Science Building, he looked up at John, impatient for his answer.

A quizzical gleam in his eye, John glanced back at Tilak. ‘It was Dean Mehta’s bungalow. Why?’

Tilak flushed at the query and did not reply at once. Then, with a burst of inspiration, he said, ‘It is helpful to know exactly where various members of the University staff live, and so on.’

In the hall, he saw the name of the Dean on a door facing him, and he promptly changed the subject, a slight grimness in his voice. ‘Well, here I go. Now we shall see what effect Zoology creates in a Jain world!’

But Dr Tilak was received with quiet courtesy by Dean Mehta and his fears were allayed. The Head Peon was instructed to help him remove his mother and sister and luggage from John’s room and he left to do this, while John arranged with the Dean to visit the Marwari Gate temple with him the following morning.

CHAPTER THREE

The Marwari Gate temple had been built by an emperor as a sacrifice for the sins of his teeth. John had visited it on a number of occasions, but this time he wanted to arrange to see some of its sacred manuscripts.

The next morning, with clean handkerchiefs held politely over their noses, he and Dr Mehta followed their amiable guide, a monk, through the courtyard and into the halls and sanctuary. He marvelled again at the lacelike carving of canopies, roofs and figures of Tirthankaras, all in white marble.

It was explained to him that some of the manuscripts he wished to see were kept in the Treasure House and no stranger could be admitted to that. He was allowed, however, to examine the outside of the Treasure House. It was covered with finely engraved silver. The engravings told the story of the fourteen dreams of Trisala, the mother of Mahavira who was the founder of Jainism. John asked if he might make sketches of these.

The monk was reluctant to agree to this, and called several others to consult them. John remembered again that a limp is considered punishment for past sins, and, from the conversation, he thought he would be turned down because of this.

They finally agreed, however, and John arranged to visit them again in a few days’ time.

Dean Mehta wished to remain at the temple with his religious teacher, so John wandered off by himself.

A few minutes’ walk brought him to the flower bazaar and to the big, frowsy cinemas; the latter were tawdry with electric lights and hand-painted posters showing languid, suffering film heroines.

Near one of the cinemas, he stopped to buy some hot sweetmeats from a man clad only in a loincloth, who had a tiny stall tucked into the angle of a wall.

While he slowly ate his sticky sweets out of the palm leaf in which they had been wrapped, he watched an artist in the cinema entrance painting a poster to advertise the next film. Crowds of people pushed impatiently around him. A beggar woman, clutching a naked, swollen-bellied child, squatted at his feet and whined hopefully. He put a coin into the child’s hand and the woman blessed him, while the starving child stared unseeingly over its mother’s shoulder, giving no sign of life, except to clutch the coin firmly in its mouselike hand.

Although such sights were familiar to him from childhood, a sudden wave of pity swept over him as the woman crept away. With an irritable gesture, he threw away the dripping palm leaf, and made to move out into the crowd.

‘Bennett Sahib!’ exclaimed a cheerful, feminine and very English voice. ‘How could you?’

Startled, he looked round.

Diana Armstrong, Dr Ferozeshah’s head nurse, was standing half behind him. Down her rumpled khaki skirt was a spreading splash of sugar syrup, where the palm leaf had struck her. Her freckled face, brick-red with heat, was crinkled up with laughter. Her red hair was plastered down against her head by perspiration and her khaki shirt was equally soaked and clung to her slim figure.

John’s first thought was that he had never seen a more bedraggled-looking Englishwoman. Then he hastily collected his wits. She was, after all, his doctor’s head nurse.

‘Miss Armstrong!’ he exclaimed. ‘I am so sorry.’

He looked around him helplessly.

‘Can I get you a tonga in which to return home? Or perhaps the restaurant across the road would find us something to wipe it with.’

‘The restaurant, I think,’ replied Miss Armstrong. Her voice had suddenly lost its laughter and was rather quavery. ‘I think I’d be grateful for a cup of tea as well.’

John looked at her sharply. The flush was ebbing from her face and he saw the blue smudges of fatigue under the clear green eyes. Poor woman, he thought. Why on earth does she work as she does, for an Indian doctor who probably pays her in annas?

He put his free hand under one of her elbows and, marshalling his stick, he guided her firmly across the street to the restaurant and into the gloom of a family cubicle at the back of it. He took her little black nurse’s bag from her and sat down. He knew her quite well as Dr Ferozeshah’s efficient shadow, but had never wished to know anything more of her, except to wonder idly how she came to work for Ferozeshah; and he was now quite surprised at his own temerity. She was, however, English like himself and obviously not feeling too well. He would not admit to himself that he wanted to speak English to somebody English.

‘Tea,’ he told the white-shirted, barefoot waiter, who was goggling at the rare sight of an English couple in his humble café. ‘English tea with sugar and milk separate – boiling water for the tea. And a clean cloth to wipe the Memsahib’s dress.’ He pointed to the sugar stain.

‘Would you like something to eat?’ he asked. ‘They make nice kabobs here.’

She smiled, showing uneven, very white teeth. ‘No, thank you,’ she said. ‘Just tea.’ She leaned back and closed her eyes for a moment, looking, in her exhaustion, soft and vulnerable.

The waiter departed, not too sure how to make English tea, but hoping the cook would know. He brought a cloth to sponge the skirt, and Miss Armstrong removed the worst of the stickiness.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘I’m a wreck anyway.’

John was inclined to agree with her but had sufficient diplomacy to stop himself saying so. He just twiddled his cold pipe which he had taken out of his pocket, and wondered what to talk about.

Miss Armstrong leaned her head against the wall of the cubicle and hoped she would not faint. She had certainly walked too far and too fast that morning. This John Bennett, though he was something of an oddity, was very kind and she was overwhelmed with gratitude at his bringing her into the restaurant and his concern at her spoiled skirt. She wished suddenly that she was beautiful, charming and amusing so that she could really entertain him with witty conversation. The ceiling gave a sudden swoop and was obliterated by a cloud of darkness for a second.

‘I think you had better sip some water.’ His voice came from far away, though he was bending over her and holding a glass, clinking with ice, to her lips.

She sipped gratefully and the faintness receded. John’s lined, red face, topped by its unruly brush of dark hair, came into focus.

‘Thank you,’ she said with a wobbly smile, ‘I am all right now.’

‘Perhaps you’re working too hard,’ ventured John. ‘Surely Ferozeshah doesn’t expect you to work all the hours God sends?’

‘Oh, no. He’s very reasonable – though he works like a machine himself.’

She leaned forward and put her elbows on the stained, battered table, and ran her fingers across her eyes. Her shirt was open at the neck. John found himself a little flustered by a glimpse of lace barely masking full, incredibly white breasts. It had been a long time, he thought depressedly.

Unconscious of the stir she had caused in her companion, Miss Armstrong relaxed in the welcome gloom of the restaurant. The dark, varnished wood partitions and the smoke-blackened ceiling gave it an air of shabby, homely comfort.

‘There’s so much to do here – for a nurse,’ she said, a note of compassion in her voice.

John sought uneasily for a further source of conversation. Finally, to bridge the growing gap of silence, he asked abruptly, ‘Were you visiting someone sick, just now?’

‘No – this is my spare time. I don’t have to be in the operating room until eleven, today. However, some of the big Jains here are trying to do a real survey of the city. They want to find out how many people live in each district, what water supplies they have, what parks or playgrounds for children. It’s an awfully difficult job. I’ve been counting refugees from Pakistan camped out on the pavements round here.’

John’s bushy eyebrows shot up in surprise.

‘That’s a departure – for Jains. They’ve always believed that suffering is brought upon oneself. I didn’t realize they cared how the other half lived. What’s the idea?’

‘To raise funds to provide some amenities in the worst slums.’

Miss Armstrong rubbed absent-mindedly at a water ring on the table. She looked up at John’s strong, calm face.

‘Humph,’ grunted John. ‘Times they are a-changing!’ His wide, thin mouth broke into a grin. ‘Jains are usually more interested in protecting animals than humans – charity is simply giving to monks and beggars.’

‘I know,’ replied his companion. ‘That’s why I want to help them.’

She removed her elbows from the table, so that the waiter could put down the tea tray. When he had gone, she seized the teapot in a small, strong hand and poured out the tea.

John took the proffered cup and himself added sugar and milk, while Miss Armstrong sipped eagerly at the black brew in her own cup. She sighed. ‘That’s better. Mind if I smoke?’

‘Not at all. Do you mind if I smoke a pipe?’

Miss Armstrong dug a packet of Capstan out of her shirt pocket. After he had given her a light, she began to look a little less flushed and her skin took on its more normal appearance.

‘Cream velvet powdered with freckles,’ reflected John in some surprise. ‘She can’t be much over thirty.’

He told himself hastily to stop thinking like a naive youth, and he dragged his mind back to the prosaic subject of the proposed map. ‘I know Shahpur quite well,’ he told her. ‘I was actually born here, and I think I could draw a map of most of it. I’m sure that a proper one doesn’t exist, particularly since the influx of refugees – they’ve built all kinds of shanties – I’ve watched them go up.’ He laughed a little grimly. ‘I bet the postmen are the only ones who really know Shahpur.’

‘You’re right.’

‘It would save a lot of time, if you had a map – and, believe me, I could fill in a great deal of detail – mosques, temples, ruins, fountains – what few gardens there are …’

‘Would you really draw one?’ Miss Armstrong asked eagerly. Her face was alight, the mouth a trifle open to show the tip of a tongue as narrow as a cat’s. ‘Could I tell Lallubhai – he’s the Chairman – about your offer?’

‘Certainly,’ replied John, and wondered what possessed him to undertake such a monumental piece of work. ‘Do you want a wall-sized map – or sections?’

She looked doubtful and then quickly glanced at her watch. ‘I’m not sure. Look, I’ve got to be in the operating room by eleven.’ She picked up her bag. ‘Could we meet somewhere to talk about it?’

John was immediately appalled at this complication. There was not a single European restaurant in the city. He could not very well ask her to his room. A vision of Ranjit’s horrified face floated before him – an English Memsahib in his room would probably ruin her reputation. He had no idea where she lived or with whom. What a fool he was to get involved.

He fumbled with his pipe, matches and stick, at the same time trying to open the swing door of the cubicle for her. She waited patiently while he sorted himself out and thought of an answer to her question.

‘Perhaps you should first talk to your Chairman, Mr Lallubhai,’ he temporized, as he finally managed to push the door open with his elbow. ‘If a student or artist would volunteer, I’d be glad of a little help. Any map I draw is not going to be technically perfect, but it’ll save your Committee a lot of work.’ He paused outside the cubicle, and then asked, ‘I wonder if Mr Lallubhai has thought of asking the City Engineer for a look at his maps. He’ll have some showing drains, waterpipes …’

Miss Armstrong’s little white teeth flashed in a quick smile. ‘I’m sure none of the Committee has thought of it. I’ll suggest it. I’ll write to you – your address is in Dr Ferozeshah’s file.’

As they moved through the crowded restaurant, customers paused in their conversation to watch them pass. At the bottom of the narrow entrance steps, they were besieged by beggars. Miss Armstrong ignored them. She looked up at John, and said, ‘You’re a brick to offer to help – it’s a big job – are you sure you want to do it?’

She looked anxiously at him, and he could not say to her that he wished he had not volunteered, and said instead, ‘I shall enjoy it – it will be a change for me. Now, can I get you a tonga?’

She was dismissed and, in spite of his affirmative reply, felt unaccountably a little hurt.

‘No, thank you,’ she muttered, ‘I’ll walk. Goodbye – and thank you.’

She turned stiffly on her heavy, flat-heeled shoes, and in a moment was lost in the jostling crowd.

John waved at a passing tonga, and the driver drew into the pavement.

‘University Road,’ said John, ‘How much?’

‘Eight annas, Sahib,’ said the driver outrageously.

‘Four annas and not a pice more.’

‘Sahib,’ the voice was full of reproach.

‘Four annas.’

‘Six annas,’ said the driver, ‘and not a pice less,’ and he lifted his whip to start his horse, to indicate that he would rather go without a fare than reduce his price further.

‘All right,’ said John, and clambered in through the door at the back of the carriage. A little boy, who had been sitting by the driver, scrambled down, ran round the tonga and locked the door after John.

John smiled at the boy and gave him an anna. But behind the smile he felt cross. In two days two new people had entered his life, if one counted that Miss Armstrong had previously been only a pair of hands passing papers to Dr Ferozeshah. They both seemed to be people who would disrupt the peace of his life; Dr Tilak appeared likely to seek his advice quite often and Diana had momentarily disturbed his usual composure.

Since his dismissal by his fiancée, he had tried to avoid women, swearing that he would never let himself be hurt again. Almost every time he walked, he was reminded of the repugnance in his fiancée’s eyes, when she saw how crippled he was; and then he would damn all women.

He told himself not to be ridiculous. Nevertheless, by the time he was deposited at his compound gate, he had worked himself into a thoroughly bad temper. When Ranjit saw him, he scampered out to his own veranda, from which he did not stir until he had listened to the typewriter pounding steadily for more than half an hour.

Later, when he crept into the room to ask the Sahib what he would like for dinner, he was surprised to find him leaning his head disconsolately against the typewriter, looking as miserable as he had when first he returned to Shahpur.

‘Sahib?’ queried Ranjit, his wizened face full of concern. ‘Are you well?’

The Sahib did not raise his head from its hard resting place, but he smiled up at Ranjit out of the corners of his eyes, and with a jolt Ranjit was reminded of the small boy John had once been who wept and raged his frustrations out of himself.

‘I am all right now, Ranjit. Sometimes I get fed up because I don’t walk very well.’

Ranjit scratched his jaw, and wondered if that was the only trouble. He decided, however, that this was not the time to probe further, and said, ‘Your legs improve daily, Sahib. Don’t get depressed.’ Then in a cheerful managing voice, he asked, ‘What would you like for dinner? I have some good lady’s fingers, succulent and green.’

‘I’d rather have them smooth and white,’ said John with sudden spirit, while Ranjit looked at him aghast.

CHAPTER FOUR

It was about three weeks later that John was again reminded of an uneasy sense of unwanted change in his life.

Ranjit came in to tidy his room and, seeing that he was not working, sat down on the floor to gossip.

He regaled John with a detailed description of the contents of Tilak’s baggage, Mrs Tilak’s disgruntlement at the poor lodgings provided for her son by the University, Dr Tilak’s hot temper and, by comparison, the quiet character of his sister, Damyanti. Mrs Tilak was a widow, he said, and she and her daughter normally lived with her elder brother-in-law in Bombay.

John lay resting on his wooden couch and laughed at Ranjit. He lay on his back, with one muscular arm curled round his head, and Ranjit, as he watched him, thought that he must be much taller than he seemed when standing. When on his feet, he tended to stoop and put a lot of weight on his stick. A strong man, however, and very virtuous, though, in Ranjit’s opinion, he was too young to live in quite the sagelike manner that he did.

‘It defeats me, Ranjit,’ remarked John, ‘how you manage to find out all these things.’

‘Sahib,’ replied Ranjit primly, ‘I do but listen to the conversation of others. Ramji told me himself that Mrs Tilak upbraided him personally because, she said, the lavatories were filthy, and, you know, Sahib, that he does his best to clean them.’

John thought of Ramji’s apathetic efforts at cleaning, and snorted.

‘And anyway, Sahib, what else does one expect a lavatory to be except very dirty?’

‘Ours is clean,’ said John, yawning and stretching like a cat.

‘You clean it yourself, Sahib,’ said Ranjit disapprovingly.

‘If I left it to you and Ramji it never would be clean.’

He rolled over to face Ranjit and his eyes were suddenly a little flinty.

‘Why should one not clean one’s lavatory, may I ask? Gandhiji set everyone a good example by taking a sweeper’s broom and doing a sweeper’s work.’

‘I am a Brahmin, Sahib, and well versed in the scriptures.’

‘You cook for me.’

‘True, Sahib – but times are changing and I must change with them,’ said Ranjit huffily, fingering the little shikka on his head. His grey hair was thinning rapidly, but he cultivated carefully this precious tuft of hair by which God, in due course, would pull him up to Heaven.

John abandoned what he knew to be a useless argument and swung his legs down to the floor.

‘Let’s look at the account book,’ he said. ‘It’s time we did.’

Ranjit heaved a sigh and produced from his shirt pocket a much thumbed notebook, in which were entered in Gujerati characters the various expenditures of their small household. John ran an experienced eye down the list, to make sure that not overmuch of any one item was being used; occasionally, Ranjit’s hospitality to his family extended to gifts of tea or sugar out of John’s store, as well as free meals.

Meanwhile, Ranjit took out of his shirt pocket a dirty screw of newspaper and from this extracted three rupee notes and a handful of small change, which he carefully counted out on to the floor in front of the couch. John checked the amount with the book and found it balanced. Satisfied, he returned the housekeeping book to Ranjit, heaved himself up and unlocked the almira, took out his cash box and went back to the couch.

Without thinking, he sat down cross-legged and was surprised that he could arrange himself in that position without pain. Ranjit held out an incredibly wrinkled brown hand and John counted his wages into it. He then gave him money for a week’s supply of food and fuel.

The servant folded the notes up carefully and stowed them away in a grubby handkerchief, after which he sat looking rather gloomily at a small line of ants marching across the floor, until John asked him, ‘What’s the matter, Ranjit?’

‘Sahib, you have thousands of rupees in the bank and yet you live like a monk. It is not fitting, Sahib, for an Englishman to live so. You should have a pukka bungalow with a compound – and a mali to cultivate the garden – and a kitchen boy to help me.’

‘Ranjit,’ said John with a sigh, ‘you should be in the Secret Service. Do you by any chance know the exact amount of my bank balance?’

Ranjit flushed under the implied reproof, though he answered steadily, ‘Yes, Sahib. Rs. 40,581, As. 3.’ He cleared his throat, and went on, ‘Further, Sahib, you will soon get another letter from Wayne Sahib, your book man in America, with more money; and you have two wealthy students to coach here – more money!’

John leaned back against the wall and roared with laughter.

‘You know more about my finances than I do,’ he said.

‘The Statement from the bank lies on your desk,’ replied Ranjit blandly.

The idea of launching out on to a sea of housekeeping appalled John; he liked his present existence. It was comparatively uncomplicated, he had plenty of learned men for company, and for a change he could take an occasional trip to Abu or Delhi or Bombay, without having to worry about the cost of it. Already Tilak and Miss Armstrong had stirred in him a faint premonition of unwanted change, and here was Ranjit lecturing him about rearranging his life. A sharp reproof rose to his lips, but he stifled it hastily – Ranjit cared more about his wellbeing than anyone else.

‘I’ll think about it,’ he told Ranjit gravely, and dismissed him.

He sat down at his desk and commenced reading the notes he had made on the Marwari Gate temple.

The evening was approaching and there was a comfortable clatter of saucepans from Ranjit on the veranda. Behind it John could hear the wind whining among the bungalows and University buildings. He rose and stretched. Balancing himself by holding on to the furniture, he went to the door and opened it. The sky was flushed with sunset, the pinkness dulled by the threat of storm in it.

His landlord’s grandchildren were playing, as usual, in the compound, and the smallest child was in the act of unlatching the compound gate. As he watched, it managed to heave the gate open and peep through it, and then ventured outside. John called to it to come back but it did not, so he got his stick and walked as quickly as he could to the gate.

The toddler was sitting in the middle of the lane cooing to itself, while a small black carriage, drawn by a single horse, bowled smartly towards it.

As he went to retrieve the child, he shouted a warning to the driver. He pulled the youngster to its feet and, with a pat on its behind, sent it back through the gate. He paused himself, because the awkward bending had hurt his legs. The mangy horse drew up by him, and its owner leaned down from beside the driver.

Mahadev Desai smiled and bowed. ‘Good evening, John. Can I give you a lift anywhere? Nice to see you.’

John surveyed the plump speaker through the dust engendered by the carriage. He had known Mahadev casually for most of his life. He was the son of a powerful moneylender and jeweller; but today he wore, like any fairly prosperous businessman, a plain white cotton shirt, jacket and trousers. A white Gandhi cap surmounted a moonlike, though not unhandsome, face. Shrewd eyes stared unblinkingly, while he awaited John’s answer. Behind him, sat his younger brother and sister-in-law, who murmured ‘Namuste’ in greeting.

‘No, thanks,’ replied John. ‘I called to you, because I wasn’t sure if your driver had seen my landlord’s grandchild – the little tike had strayed into the lane.’

‘I saw him, Sahib,’ the driver interjected hastily, lest he be blamed for carelessness.

John nodded, and inquired after Mahadev and his family. The cadences of the man’s voice, he thought, had not changed over the years. He knew the nervous respect with which Mahadev was treated in the city. The Desai Society in which he lived was nearly in the centre of the old town, and from it, financial tentacles stretched out into the mills and homes of half the city, even as far as Delhi and out to Europe, it was said. Nobody held more mortgages and family jewellery in pledge. Nobody could put pressure on a hapless debtor faster than the Desais, or produce a bigger bribe when needed. Their knowledge of invective, that priceless asset of any Indian moneylender, had not been lost as their business became enormously expanded. John had heard Mahadev himself, before he had taken charge of their business in France, screaming in the bazaar at some unfortunate businessman, while a crowd gathered to see the fun, and the police vanished.

Desai was speaking to him.

‘I am going to catch the Delhi Mail, after calling on Dean Mehta,’ he confided in a slightly pompous whisper.

‘Indeed,’ said John absent-mindedly, his thoughts already wandering back to his book. ‘A pleasant journey.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Desai graciously. ‘A-jo.’

‘Goodbye,’ said John, stepping back as the driver, in response to a gesture from Desai, whipped up the horse.

John went slowly back into the bungalow. The children had gone in for their evening meal. The wind still whined its threat of a dust storm.

He went back to his desk and looked again at his sketches of the Dreams of Trisala, so often meditated upon by Jain women. He saw instead the ivory-coloured face of Mahadev.

The wife of one of his father’s old friends on campus had told him that the well-known moneylender was considering remarriage; as one of the richer men in Shaphur he was of interest. His first wife, she said, had died in childbirth and, soon after her death, he had been sent by his father to Paris, presumably in connection with their business in fine jewellery. Rumour had it that he had opened an elegant jewellery shop there, where they sold silver filigree and other Indian-designed ornaments. By all accounts, this venture had thrived well.

Now Mahadev was home again and, perhaps because of his hairstyle, looked rather Westernized. He was not so influenced, however, that he had lost the ancient instinct of a moneylender to hide his wealth; he was still dressed quite humbly and drove a half-starved horse.

John smiled to himself, as he remembered Ranjit’s description of why Mahadev Desai was being encouraged to look for another wife.

‘It is well known, Sahib,’ Ranjit had said, ‘that the older Desais fear greatly that Mahadev may take a French woman to wife – France is next to England, isn’t it, Sahib? And there has already been enough trouble in the Desai Society.

‘The Society was quite happy when ruled by Mahadev’s mother and father, and his little daughter blossomed in spite of the lack of a mother. But when the old lady died and that shrew of a younger sister-in-law became the eldest lady, then, Sahib, trouble seemed to spread from house to house inside their compound. The cousin brothers went away because their wives would no longer stand the ceaseless nagging. Then the wretched woman complained to all the neighbours that she was worked to death, because there was no other woman in the house – though they do have a number of servants, Sahib.’

Ranjit had stopped to blow his nose into a corner of his handkerchief which was not knotted round the housekeeping money, and had then gone on disparagingly, ‘Trust them to think of the most economical thing to do – they are persuading Mahadev that he must marry again.’

CHAPTER FIVE

As Mahadev continued on his way to visit Dean Mehta, he mused on the charms of his possible future wife.

He wished to marry for reasons other than economy. He had discovered, to his cost, that a well-to-do Indian jeweller, alone in Paris, could be quite popular amongst women; and their bare legs and tight dresses had been a constant temptation, to which he had, too often, succumbed.

He thought that an educated Indian wife might keep him out of further mischief; he could take her on his travels. He also passionately desired a son. He was fond of his little daughter, but, all too soon, she would grow to marriageable age and leave him, whereas a son would be a joy to him all his life.

For different reasons, the older Desais were of the same mind. Mahadev had hardly distributed the gifts he had brought from France several weeks before, when, with sly hints, the matter was broached. Girls of suitable caste and orthodoxy were suggested; Mahadev found fault with all of them.

‘It looks as if our French investment will flourish,’ he reminded his father, ‘so it is important that I should have a wife able to mix with French ladies.’

‘French women!’ exclaimed his father. ‘She’ll live in this house. She doesn’t have to go with you to Paris.’

Mahadev felt the perspiration trickling down his back. He did not know how to explain to his father the witchery of the women he had seen in France. The amount of sin he had accumulated during his visit appalled him; somewhere, sometime, it would have to be expiated.

‘It’s the custom in France to travel with one’s wife,’ he lied in desperation. ‘It’s expected of one.’

His father digested this information in silence. He was aware of the pitfalls of travel. There was the temptation to eat meat, for example.

As if reading his thoughts, Mahadev said, with a burst of inspiration, ‘It’s extremely difficult to eat properly without someone to cook for me.’

‘Ah,’ exclaimed his father, satisfied at last. ‘Most of the girls whom your uncles mentioned can read and write. They’d be docile enough and do whatever you asked.’

Mahadev mentally dismissed the whole solemn, dull collection of them. He had seen a woman walking, with her boy servant, near the University. He had known her for years by sight. He remembered her long plait of hair swinging softly over pretty, rounded shoulders, her delicate ivory skin, her demurely lowered eyelids. Swallowing hard, he inquired of his father, ‘Did Dean Mehta’s daughter ever get married? Her father’s with the University – you may remember him.’

Old Desai looked at him. ‘She’s not one of our people.’

‘I know,’ replied his son, rather crestfallen. ‘But she is a Jain.’

Desai Senior pursed his thin lips, and considered the merits of the match. Finally, he said uneasily, ‘She’s not a lucky woman – she’s been bereaved even before being married – and her horoscope may not be correct.’

Mahadev dared not show the irritation that he felt, neither could he describe the subtle seductiveness of Anasuyabehn or say that he had thought her beautiful long ago, when he was a young man and she was a quiet school girl travelling to and from her lessons. He had never questioned his father’s choice of his first wife, who had been a good, obedient girl, but now Mahadev was no longer young – he was a rich, experienced man who hungered for a woman of his own choosing. He wanted Anasuyabehn, the sight of whom made him tremble. And of what use was being rich if one could not buy what one wanted?

The elder Desai listed a multitude of reasons regarding Anasuyabehn’s unsuitability as a wife, but they only hardened Mahadev’s determination to wed her.

‘Perhaps eldest aunt from Baroda could inquire discreetly about the horoscope,’ he said, trying to keep his face impassive.

His father looked at him penetratingly. Mahadev seemed set upon this woman, and he himself was very anxious to see him safely married. Mahadev was his favourite son; in comparison, his younger son was a dunderhead – and the boy’s wife was an avaricious shrew. He wondered what kind of a temperament Anasuyabehn had; something about her evidently pleased his son.

‘Have you spoken to this girl?’

‘No, father.’

‘Have you seen her?’

‘Yes, father. Many times since childhood. She used to go to a school near the Red Gate and I would see her getting off the bus at the flower bazaar with the other girls.’

‘Hm,’ murmured his father, thinking that young men did not change much from generation to generation. ‘I’ll consult your uncles.’

The elder man waved his hand in dismissal, and Mahadev knew intuitively that he had won. He got up from the mattress on which he had been sitting, bowed and made for the door.

‘Wait,’ said his father, and Mahadev turned apprehensively.

‘You realize that a man in your position can choose almost any girl in our caste – parents would happily approve of you.’ He paused, and then went on, ‘You should consider this carefully, for I do not know whether the Mehtas will be so happy. Dean Mehta presumably has had other offers for his daughter.’

Mahadev, secure in his family’s financial empire, had never thought of being snubbed by Dean Mehta and he was nonplussed for a moment, and then said, ‘Would Baroda aunt cause inquiry to be made on this point first?’

He is quite determined, thought his father fretfully. I should be firmer about it – and yet the other boy is very unhappy with his witch of a wife.

‘Very well,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Here, take these photographs and have another look at them – you might change your mind about one of them – Baroda aunt’s young sister-in-law looks quite nice.’

Mahadev reluctantly took from him the half dozen or so studio portraits of prospective wives, promised to consider them and made his escape.

A man of thirty-four, who had seen the world, he fumed, should surely be allowed to choose a wife; and yet, beneath his resentment at his marriage being arranged for him, lay the knowledge that his father was being extremely patient.

He wandered into the compound, round which were ranged dwellings dating back a hundred years or more. How crowded and dirty it looked! Its smoke-blackened stone verandas with their steps hollowed out by generations of feet, its rotting woodwork, its lack of paint, depressed him. Later on – he would not admit to himself that he meant when his father and his Partner Uncle died – he would build a new Society in a more salubrious neighbourhood, and leave this compound to his brother.

Now that India had settled down after the horrors of 1947, others, less rich than he was, had moved out; he would, too. He sighed, and looked at his watch. Time to go into the office and relieve his brother.

In the gloomy, dusty office, his brother was haggling superbly with a rather cowed local landowner about a loan against his next crop. Mahadev went to stand quietly by him.

His father might consider Younger Brother dull and commonplace, but Mahadev was fond of him and felt he would make an excellent junior partner, completely reliable in all routine matters, and, as far as the family was concerned, painstakingly honest. It was a pity that his father was so hard on him.

Gradually, Mahadev was drawn into the argument, and in a very short time he was engrossed in squeezing a higher interest rate out of their client.

The would-be brides soon had an account book banged down upon their neatly photographed features – and were forgotten.

CHAPTER SIX

Anasuyabehn’s widowed aunt had made her home with her brother and his daughter because she had no sons and disliked the idea of living with one of her brothers-in-law. She had constantly berated the old scholar about his neglect of his daughter in respect of finding a husband for her. The only reply she had been able to obtain from him had been, ‘We should wait a full two years from the time of her betrothed’s death – it is not judicious to hurry the girl.’

As a result of this, Aunt had almost given up hope of ever seeing her niece married, since the older a girl became the harder it was to marry her off. Aunt felt that her own abilities as a matchmaker were simply withering away.

She had, therefore, been delighted when, by devious routes, it was made known to her that the Desais would make an offer for Anasuyabehn, if they could be sure of not being snubbed. This was an opportunity which could not be ignored, a real test of her matchmaking skills, which would benefit dear Anasuyabehn immeasurably. She consulted nobody, but assured the lady from whom this indication had come that such an offer would be well received. She was overwhelmed by the idea of being the instrument by which such a wealthy alliance could be brought about; it would crown all her previous successful efforts on behalf of other relations. After this, all her female relations with children to marry off would crowd about her, begging her favours on behalf of their offspring. Her thin, hooked nose quivered at the anticipation of her future importance in the family.

She conveniently forgot the difference in caste. She thought only of the Desai bank balance and willingly became the mediator between the two fathers. Two other offers for Anasuyabehn from the parents of poverty-stricken scholars were left to die from neglect on her part.

When she first broached the subject, Dean Mehta looked up from his book, said flatly, ‘No,’ and returned to his studies.

Undeterred, she continued to sit in front of him, chewing her thumb. He again glanced up, and added, ‘I’ll advertise for a husband for her in early spring.’

‘The girl is already twenty-four years old.’

‘I know, I know,’ said the Dean testily, ‘but Desai is not a Mehta.’

‘He’s near enough,’ said his sister, ‘and he’s rich, healthy and in love with her. What more could we want in these changed times?’

‘Does Anasuyabehn know Mahadev?’ asked the Dean suspiciously. It would, he thought, be quite easy for her to carry on an intrigue without his knowledge – after all, she occasionally went shopping or to visit a friend by herself.

‘No,’ said Aunt decisively. ‘Someone would have seen her and told me, if she had ever spoken to him.’

The Dean sat silently at his desk for a few minutes, staring out of the heavily-barred window and idly twiddling his fountain pen. He reviewed carefully all he knew of the recent history of the Desais, the hints he had heard of their holdings in many new enterprises, their influence amongst Government officials, Mahadev’s travels. At last he said, ‘Discuss the Desais with Anasuyabehn. She’s old enough to be consulted.’

His sister hid her satisfaction at this reply, and merely said, ‘All right.’

Her bare feet made a soft brushing sound on the stone floor as she shuffled off to the kitchen, ostensibly to consult Anasuyabehn.

The Dean continued to think about the Desais. Except on grounds of caste, there could be no reasonable objection to the match, and for years he had been preaching that Jainism had originally been a revolt of the Kshatriya military caste against their overbearing Brahmin priests; there was no caste among the original Jains. Young Desai was reasonably educated, had a good, though old, house and was certainly rich; his trips to Europe would have broadened his outlook and, indeed, these days, the family seemed to be financiers and jewellers rather than orthodox moneylenders.

It was said that Mahadev’s father was ailing and his uncle was very old, so it would not be long before Mahadev became the head of his communal family. Further, in less than twelve months Dean Mehta would himself retire, and he dearly wished to give himself to a life of contemplation – to become a monk; he had for some years been quietly directing his life towards this goal by study, fasting, confession and the taking of those vows permitted to a layman. To have Anasuyabehn settled now might mean that he would see a grandchild before he severed all earthly relationships by taking his final vows.

He re-opened his book and composed his mind again for work.

‘We’ll see what Anasuyabehn has to say,’ he decided.

Aunt, meanwhile, had sat in a corner of the kitchen and helped to prepare vegetables, while she considered what to say to Anasuyabehn.

The kitchen was quite modern. It had a water tap and beneath it, on the floor, had been built a low, stone enclosure to confine the splashes from it and guide spilled water down the open drain. The walls were whitewashed and, on a built-in shelf, glittered the brass cooking utensils. A watercooler reposed on a stand in a corner near the casement window, and huge double doors, which led on to a veranda, stood open to let in the morning freshness before the real heat of the day began.

‘Take the new box of charcoal outside,’ Anasuyabehn said to her little servant, ‘and brush it.’

The boy picked up a small handbrush and the box and obediently went out into the compound, where he could be heard happily talking to a squirrel, as he gently went over each piece of charcoal with the brush to make sure that no insect was accidentally burned when the fire was lit.

Aunt seized the opportunity to say, ‘I saw Mahadev Desai this morning.’

‘He’s been away a long time,’ said Anasuyabehn. ‘I don’t suppose many people will be glad to see him. He drives even harder bargains than his elders, I’m told.’

She was sitting idly on her kitchen stool waiting for the boy to come in with the charcoal. A neat pile of prepared vegetables, flanked by a tin of cooking fat and her spice box lay on the well-scrubbed floor beside her. The empty charcoal stove was out on the veranda and soon the servant would light a cooking fire in it and bring it to her, carrying it gingerly with long pincers so that he did not get burned.

‘Tut,’ said Aunt. ‘You listen to too much gossip.’

Who’s talking? thought Anasuyabehn grimly.

‘He’s concerned mainly with the jewellery side now – opened a shop in a place near England.’ As she snipped away at the vegetables, she tried to think of aspects of Mahadev which might appeal to a young woman, and added, ‘He had a Western suit on this morning. I saw him driving through the cantonment, when I was on the bus – on my way to Mrs Patel’s.’

‘Did he?’ murmured Anasuyabehn politely, and thought absently that she must buy some more glass bracelets next time a bracelet seller came round.

Aunt had no intention of discussing matrimony with Anasuyabehn, but she did want to obtain from her some words of approbation in respect of the Desais, which she could carefully misinterpret as assent to a proposal. Mistress of domestic intrigue, dedicated matchmaker, she had no intention of giving Anasuyabehn the opportunity of refusal, and she was certain that a man with the taint of moneylending about him would be refused. She, therefore, said no more that day, but during the weeks that followed Anasuyabehn was regaled with quite a number of stories of the nobility and kindness of Mahadev Desai.

Anasuyabehn should undoubtedly have realized what was in her aunt’s mind, but she was entirely absorbed by ideas of marriage elsewhere. The memory of the beautiful, intense features of Dr Tilak staring up at her, as he walked past her home with Dr Bennett, had occupied her thoughts recently, and she only half listened to her aunt’s chatter.

Aunt, meanwhile, luxuriated in the thought of bringing off such a superb alliance in spite of the difficulties of Anasuyabehn’s advanced age and partly Christian education. If only her sons had lived, she thought sadly, how much more interesting life would have been to someone as skilled in matchmaking as herself; there would have been grandsons and granddaughters to marry off. Why the cholera should strike at her sons and leave her daughters was beyond her; and what trying daughters she had – always complaining because they had been married off to brothers who lived in Bombay, so far away from Shahpur. They were lucky, she thought bitterly – at least they ate twice a day, which was more than she had done in the first days of her marriage.

How good her brother had been, she reflected, to give her a home. Anasuyabehn, too, was a charming, respectful girl; Aunt would enjoy taking an interest in her children, though, of course, she would not see very much of them – once a girl was married she belonged to her husband’s family, not to her father’s family.

First, however, Anasuyabehn must have a husband.

If I can get my brother so enmeshed in marriage arrangements that it would be difficult for him to retreat with dignity, he also will press Anasuyabehn towards the marriage. And I must prepare Anasuyabehn, so that at least she does not immediately object when the offer comes.

Lucky women went to and fro between the parents’ houses, and it was curious how, every time a visitor was expected at the Mehta house, Aunt thought of something which was required from town, and Anasuyabehn and her boy servant were dispatched to purchase it, whilst the horoscopes of the proposed bride and groom were discussed and compared.

Anasuyabehn was not a gossip; she had no reason to suspect anything. Even Savitri, her best friend, who might have told her, knew no one else amongst the Jain community and, busy with her work as a chemist in a cotton mill, heard nothing.

Skilfully the old lady spun threads of praise and flattery between the unsuspecting fathers – the wily old moneylender, who was busy trying to rid his family of most of the taint of moneylending and to gain instead a reputation as a jeweller and financier of integrity, and the absent-minded scholar, who, having inspected and spoken to Mahadev, liked him very much. There were times, not so long since, thought Dean Mehta ironically, when neither of them would have dreamed of speaking to the other, but many things were permissible nowadays – the walls between the castes were crumbling down, and Dean Mehta was quite prepared to give them a helping push.

Once Dean Mehta asked his sister, ‘Is Anasuyabehn content about this marriage?’

‘Oh, she has all the foolish ideas of a young girl – but she will appreciate a good man. She agrees that the family in this generation is becoming a most worthy one – and she has been most interested in my stories of Mahadev.’

‘Ah,’ said her brother, a little relieved. ‘I’m content, as long as she has no antipathy to the match.’

‘None at all, none at all,’ said Aunt, with considerably more conviction than she really had. She hoped fervently that all her propaganda directed towards her unsuspecting niece was having sufficient effect to ensure an affirmative answer when the time came.

As she became further committed, the horrid thought of how other women of the family would snigger behind their hands at her, if she failed, began to haunt her – they might even suggest that she was, with advancing years, losing her skill, and that would be hard to bear. She put these thoughts firmly behind her; dear Anasuyabehn should have a wonderful marriage – and all through her aunt’s sagacity.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The day on which Mahadev would make a formal visit to his prospective bride’s family drew near. Unfortunately, his aunt had to return to Baroda to nurse a sick son, so it was understood that Mahadev would be accompanied by his brother and sister-in-law.

That morning, Anasuyabehn’s aunt hinted to her that her father had a well-to-do and charming suitor in mind for her. Anasuyabehn, who had done little else but dream about the new, unmarried Professor of Zoology, ever since she had seen him from the roof of her father’s bungalow, asked with interest, ‘Who is he?’

‘Ah-ha,’ responded Aunt, all cheerful coyness. ‘Your father will tell you in due course.’

Anasuyabehn could not think of any particularly eligible man who had swung into their orbit recently, other than Tilak, and she smiled happily.

Aunt had informed her brother that all was now arranged. The first gifts had been exchanged, and Aunt explained, ‘I locked them in the almira, so that they will be a nice surprise for Anasuyabehn, when you tell her that the final arrangements have been made.’

The Dean smiled. He liked the idea of giving his daughter a pleasant surprise. He had been extremely busy, because the enrolment in his Faculty had increased markedly that term, and he had hardly exchanged a word with his daughter for weeks. He felt that he really must now talk to her about her marriage, though his sister, he was sure, would already have discussed everything with her. He opened his study door, and called, ‘Daughter, come here.’

‘Well,’ he greeted her, as she entered a little apprehensively. ‘This is a happy day for us, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, father,’ she answered submissively, masking a tumult of anxiety in her heart.

Aunt shuffled in behind her and sank on to the couch.

Dean Mehta sat down in his desk chair and took his daughter’s hand. ‘Well, now, are we quite happy at the idea of leaving our old father and going to a fine, young husband?’

Anasuyabehn did not know how to reply, and raised her heavily kohled eyes to her father.

Finally she said, ‘I don’t want to leave you, father – but I know it is time I was married.’

‘Good, good. You won’t be going far from me, anyway.’

He contemplated his daughter benignly. A placid, obedient girl, educated and yet without the flighty ideas of some of the women students on the campus. He beamed at her with satisfaction, while she waited with as much patience as she could muster. Then she said, in reply to his remark, ‘That will be nice, father.’ After all, Tilak would probably remain for years at this university.

Dean Mehta dug his key chain out of his pocket and selected a key, which he handed to his sister, while he nodded his bald head in amiable agreement.

‘Get the parcels out of the cupboard,’ he instructed her, and Aunt creaked to her feet to do so. Anasuyabehn watched her with pleasant anticipation, willing to go along with their desire to tease her gently.

‘The Desais have sent some beautiful gifts,’ said her father, as he watched his sister bring out a number of bundles.

‘The Desais?’ Anasuyabehn looked at him with blank incomprehension.

Dean Mehta glanced quickly at her, startled by the surprise in her voice. She was looking at him as if she had suddenly discovered a corpse.

‘Yes – Mahadev,’ he said.

Anasuyabehn sank into the visitor’s chair by her father’s desk, dazed by the shock. Far away, she could hear her father’s voice, but the only word she really heard was Mahadev. She was so aghast that it seemed to her that she never would take breath again; however, her aunt evidently turned the fan towards her, because she felt the breeze on her face. Gradually, the world took shape again. Out of the mist loomed her father’s face, full of anxiety, and his voice boomed into her ears.

‘Dear child,’ he said, full of self-reproach. ‘I kept you standing too long on this hot day. Let Aunt give you some water.’

Aunt had already poured a glassful from his carafe, and she held it to the girl’s lips. For once, the old woman could not think of anything to say.

Anasuyabehn sipped obediently, and life flooded furiously back into her. All her aunt’s gossip of the previous few weeks came back to her and fell neatly into place.

‘Marry a moneylender?’ she gasped scornfully. ‘Oh, no, father. No!’ The last word came out in a wail.

Dean Mehta looked at her in some astonishment.

‘He’s hardly a moneylender, child. He’s a big financier. Desai Sahib and his associates put up no less than half the money for the new chemical works at Baroda. Anyway, I thought you wanted to marry Mahadev.’

‘Why should I think of marrying him?’ Anasuyabehn asked, through angry tears.

‘Your aunt assured me that you wanted to.’

‘When I spoke of him,’ interposed her aunt hastily, ‘you agreed what a nice family they were. You made no criticism whatever.’

‘I never thought of marrying one of them,’ retorted the girl. She dabbed her eyes with the end of her sari.

Dean Mehta looked at his sister, and demanded sharply, ‘What’ve you been doing? Didn’t you ask her?’ He seemed suddenly fierce.

Aunt looked uncomfortable. Her mouth opened and shut, as she searched for a reply. She had not expected serious opposition from Anasuyabehn, once her father was committed to the match. She thought the girl would accept fairly contentedly the prospect of such a fine, rich bridegroom.

Anasuyabehn’s faintness had passed and she glared at the old woman, whose white widow’s sari served only to remind her of the troubles of early widowhood, the likely result if one married a man much older than oneself. Only a lifetime of training stopped her from screaming with rage at her aunt.

Aunt mustered her forces. She said indignantly, ‘I’ve talked of little else for weeks. I told her all about the family and about the return of their eldest son. I was sure she understood.’

‘Marriage never occurred to me,’ Anasuyabehn defended herself, through gritted teeth. ‘They’re not the same caste. I just thought you were telling me the news – gossiping!’ The last word came out loaded with rage.

‘Sister!’ Dean Mehta’s voice was full of reproach. ‘Now we are committed. You stupid woman!’ Mentally he reviled himself for leaving so important a matter to her.

‘It’s a good match,’ said Aunt defensively. ‘Mahadev could marry anyone he chooses round these parts – and he chose Anasuyabehn.’

‘Chose me?’ exclaimed Anasuyabehn. Since she had never even spoken to Mahadev she had assumed that his father was arranging the marriage.

‘Yes,’ replied Aunt quickly. ‘He’s admired you for years. However, you were betrothed. But now he finds you are free, and dearly wants to marry you.’

‘Oh,’ said Anasuyabehn, surprise for a moment overcoming her anger.

The Dean, thoroughly exasperated by his sister, nevertheless saw his chance, and said to his bewildered daughter, who was agitatedly running her fingers through her hair, ‘My daughter, your aunt is right. It is a good match in these troubled times.’ He pursed his lips, and then went on, ‘Certainly she should have talked it over thoroughly with you – I regret not asking you myself, but I’ve had so much on my mind lately – however, here we are committed to it, and before we do anything more, I want you to consider it carefully.’

Anasuyabehn looked at him helplessly. She felt, as her father pressed Mahadev’s suit, that her last Court of Appeal was being closed to her, and she sat like a silent ghost while her father extolled Mahadev’s virtues. When he produced an exquisite sari which had been brought, as a token of the engagement, by one of the ladies concerned in the negotiations, she sat with it half opened in her lap, and hardly heard his voice.

‘Child, it was sad that your betrothed should die – I know you liked him. And, unfortunately, it made you look a little unlucky in the eyes of parents …’ He tailed off.

‘Mahadev is a handsome man,’ put in the old woman, her voice almost wistful, only to be crushed by an icy look from Anasuyabehn.

‘And a generous and thoughtful one,’ added her father, cheering up a little, as he picked up a small box from his desk.

Mahadev had often been impressed by Anasuyabehn’s quiet and dignified demeanour when he had watched her in the streets; she walked with the perfect foot placement and timing of an elephant, he had many times told himself. Older and wiser than most bridegrooms, he greatly desired to win the favour of his wife-to-be. He had, therefore, insisted that the traditional bags of white and brown sugar be sent to her home, burying in them, instead of the usual two rupees, a small silver box with which to surprise her. It was this box which her father now handed to her.

Though she was very dejected, Anasuyabehn’s curiosity was aroused by the unexpected token. She took the box from her father and opened it.

On a fluffy bed of cotton reposed a small nose ring consisting of a single diamond set in gold. Exquisitely cut, it flashed in the sunlight with a delicate blue radiance, a beautiful ornament which spoke, with fabulously expensive eloquence, of its donor’s wealth, and of his interest in her as a person. With an odd quirk of humour, Anasuyabehn saw the mental agony with which a close-fisted, traditional moneylender must have parted with such a valuable gem. He must be in love to the point of insanity, she thought grimly.

Fascinated, she lifted the ornament out and laid it on the palm of her hand, a hand that began to tremble with a deep fear of the unknown. Here was proof positive that her suitor would not take a negative answer easily. The gift was really valuable and quite unnecessary at such a time.

Until her father had handed her the little box, she had taken it for granted that, somehow, she would be able to escape from the marriage agreement. But now fear seemed to creep out from the blue stone and wind itself round her heart. A man who loved passionately was not going to be fobbed off so easily – nor was his powerful family, who seemed to be bent on rising socially as a caste. She knew what it was to be in love, she admitted, in love with a strange Maratha from Bombay, and, as she met Tilak on various social occasions, she had begun to feel the white heat of it. What might a powerful man like Mahadev do, if he felt the same?

And deep down inside her was a little worm of added fear, nesting in her Gujerati respect for money, that, because of Mahadev’s undisputed wealth, she might be tempted to be unfaithful to the new unnourished love which possessed her – though Tilak was not a bad match; a professor had everyone’s respect and a steady, if not large, income.

She could feel fresh grief rising in her, in belated mourning for her original betrothed. If he had lived, she would have had a family by now and would never have lifted her eyes to Tilak – and Mahadev would have looked elsewhere for a wife. She had not cried at the time of her fiancé’s death – one rarely does about someone seen only once; but now she wished deeply that his thin, tuberculosis-ridden body lay between her and the fires of passion and fear now consuming her.

I’ll object, she thought, and her inward sense of weakness made her outwardly more belligerent. She gritted her teeth and glared furiously through her tears at her aunt.

Her father took her silence for reluctant acceptance, and said quite cheerfully, before her defiance could be expressed verbally, ‘Well, daughter, now you can see how highly Mahadev thinks of you. I think well of him myself and I believe you would learn to, too. Come, let us make him happy and give him a marriage date.’

Toothless and shrivelled as a dry orange skin, her aunt squatted on the floor, nodding her head and smiling amiably.

‘An astrologer should arrange it,’ she said, taking out her betal box and scraping round in it for a suitable piece of nut to chew. ‘Though first there should be some parties, so that my niece may meet her future husband.’

‘I don’t want to be married,’ said Anasuyabehn in a small tight voice.

‘Tut, tut,’ said her aunt, grinning as she chewed.

‘I’d rather be a nun.’

‘You’ll change your tune when you have a small son in your arms,’ said the old lady, waving one scrawny arm to hitch her sari further over her shoulder.

‘Father,’ implored Anasuyabehn, tears pouring down her face. ‘Must I?’

The Dean scratched his head in embarrassed silence. Finally, he said, ‘Daughter, I have loved you too well and kept you by me too long. It will not be easy to find anyone else as well-to-do, so healthy or so influential.’

‘I don’t like him, Papa. I don’t care about him being rich.’ She sniffed back her tears. ‘He’s not the only man in the world.’

‘Come, come, daughter,’ he said. ‘You have not yet even met your future husband. We’ll have all the usual tea parties, as if you were just a young girl, and you may speak with him. Don’t cry, child. I am sure you’ll be a patient and dutiful wife and will be amply rewarded.’

Her aunt sniffed and looked at the ceiling; her own rewards in marriage had been few. It was unnatural, however, for a woman not to be married; and this is what came of leaving girls single too long – they became stubborn.

Anasuyabehn covered her face with her sari and, under its comforting darkness, she saw for a moment a dark, thin face looking up at her as if enchanted. The new Zoology man was a fine man to look upon. She gave a little, shivering sigh.

‘Father, could you try for somebody else?’

‘Who?’

‘Perhaps someone in the University.’

‘They’re all married.’

Anasuyabehn tried to bring herself to the point of saying that the Professor of Zoology was not, but her courage failed her and she whispered, ‘Not all of them.’

‘Who isn’t?’ asked the Dean, his ire against his sister again beginning to rise.

Aunt cackled. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen you with the other girls, making sheep’s eyes.’

‘Well, who?’ queried the Dean again.

‘The Zoology Professor!’ laughed Aunt.

The Dean digested this information slowly. He had honestly not considered this young man, but the suggestion did not meet with much approval. Marathas were not popular in the Gujerat; thin, taut, warrior-descended, mentally agile, they were the very antithesis of Gujeratis; and this particular Maratha, with his demands for journals, for more lecture time, for a greater water supply, for a laboratory assistant, was already proving a bane to the worthy, but slow-moving Dean.

Meanwhile, Anasuyabehn stared unbelievingly at her aunt, marvelling at her powers of observation; she tended to think of her as part of the furniture, a necessary encumbrance, without life in herself.

Her fears redoubled.

Very quickly, Aunt loosed the deadliest shaft she possessed.

‘A man who kills and cuts up animals,’ she said.

Dean Mehta stared at her, horrified, his worst fears realized.

‘No!’ he exclaimed.

‘Oh, yes. The mother of one of his students told me.’

‘I must see him about it,’ he muttered.

Making a great effort to be calm and firm, he turned to Anasuyabehn. ‘A young man about whom we know so little would not be suitable, child. I would prefer you to marry a Gujerati, at least.’

Anasuyabehn nearly burst with rage at her aunt, and was about to explode verbally, when her little servant boy slid into the room.

‘The young Desai Sahib is here,’ he said to Dean Mehta. ‘He’s sitting on the front veranda.’

Anasuyabehn’s rage gave way to panic; she sprang to her feet as if to fly.

Her father and aunt got up immediately, and her father said kindly, ‘Don’t be afraid, child. Would you like to see him?’

‘No!’ said Anasuyabehn fervently, while her aunt exploded, ‘Tush, what are things coming to?’

‘All right,’ said the Dean a little testily, and, turning to the servant, he told him to bring Mahadev into the living-room.

Anasuyabehn fled to the kitchen veranda, picked up a basket tray full of millet which she had been cleaning earlier, and began feverishly to pick the small bits of stone and the insects out of it. When she was sure all the insects were out and carefully deposited over the side of the veranda, she tossed the grain up and down on the tray to bring to the edge any other impurities. She picked these out and then emptied the millet into a shopping bag.

‘Bhai,’ she called to the servant, ‘take this to the miller.’ Her voice still shook, but she had gained some comfort from her domestic task.

The boy shouted that he was making tea for the Sahib, and she waited quietly until he had finished and had taken the tea to the study.

He came slowly back to her, his bare feet dragging, and took the bag from her. He did not leave her at once. He stood first on one foot and then on the other, his grubby face as woebegone as Anasuyabehn’s. In the moment or two he had been in the study his world had crumbled; from the conversation he knew that Anasuyabehn, whom he loved as much as his mother, far away in his native village, was going to marry the terrifying Mahadev Desai. He was only ten, and he could not visualize life in a house which held only a tart, old lady and an absent-minded old gentleman.

‘Well?’ asked Anasuyabehn.

‘Bahin, are you really going to be married?’

Anasuyabehn nearly choked, as sobs rose in her and were hastily crushed down.

The boy looked frightened, and she took his hand and pulled him to her. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘But you mustn’t worry. Your work will be here just the same.’

He was not satisfied; a child’s instinct to sense trouble was with him, and he feared change.

‘Can I come with you to serve in Desai Sahib’s house?’

‘I don’t know, boy. I will ask. Do you want to come?’

The boy fell to his knees and touched her feet. He would have lifted her foot and touched his head with it, but she restrained him. Such devotion from so small a person hurt her. ‘My cup is full,’ her heart cried. ‘My cup is full.’

‘There,’ she said comfortingly. ‘If the marriage is finally arranged, I’ll ask the Sahib. Go and get the clean shopping bag, to put the flour in – and remember to feel the flour as it comes out of the chute. Last time you brought back half of someone else’s rubbish which was already in the machine. The miller is a rogue.’

Her gay tone made the boy laugh. He crammed his round, black cap on to his head and was soon on his way.

Anasuyabehn sat stonily on the veranda. The first panic had ebbed from her and she felt tired and exhausted. Furthermore, she had no idea what to do. She was no fool; she knew that by worldly standards an alliance with the Desais was desirable; the difference in caste troubled her not at all – she had gone to school with many different castes – but the possible Bania orthodoxy of the Desais’ home life did. It was an orthodoxy which forbade more than a minimum of communion between husband and wife, judged success in life by the amount of money buried in the floors of the house and regarded its acquisition as a religious duty.

Then there was Tilak, whose burning, narrowed eyes sought her out from among the other women at the tea parties and badminton parties given by the University staff, so that she blushed and had to put her sari up over her head to hide her confusion.

In angry revolt against her father’s wishes, her tired mind sought frantically for a solution. She could become a nun, she considered desperately, and gain universal respect thereby – but the Jain religion offers little of true comfort for a woman.

She could run away – to what?

There is no place in India for a woman by herself, she thought bitterly, no honourable means of earning a living alone.

She remembered mournfully those brave Jains who sought release from the cycle of rebirth by starving themselves to death. She thought of her soft, round body tortured by hunger, reduced to an ugly bundle of suffering.

‘I couldn’t do it,’ she acknowledged miserably. ‘I want to live – life could be so sweet.’

She thought of Tilak and the weight of disapproval that would descend upon him, as a result of her aunt’s remark about his dissecting. What an old troublemaker she was. She wept.

As her weariness gained on her, fear receded. Eventually, half asleep, she began to dream of a real lover, someone who thought her beautiful in mind and body, someone who would give her a son like himself, tall, slender, dynamic, and a little girl to dress in frilly, Western dresses. But the fact that Desai obviously thought of her as a very desirable woman was forgotten.

Desai had stayed half an hour, listening politely to his would-be father-in-law and hoping to catch a glimpse of his betrothed. At last, reluctantly he took his leave, and it was arranged that he would call again more formally, bringing his relations with him to meet Anasuyabehn. The Dean gave no hint that his daughter might repudiate the agreement, because he heartily hoped she would not. Orthodox he was in much that concerned himself alone, but he was intelligent enough to know that his grandchildren were going to live in an entirely different world, and he felt that that world, as far as India was concerned, was going to belong to those with capital and initiative. The Desais had both. He knew that many might criticize his choice of a husband for his daughter; yet his instincts told him that he was right. Moreover, he liked Mahadev personally; the man was neither ignorant nor stupid and he heartily respected his future father-in-law’s learning.

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