The Moneylenders of Shahpur (14 page)

The Dean had put his head round the kitchen door to see how the dinner was coming along. The meal was late, and it troubled him to have to eat after nightfall – no Jain liked to do that. ‘Indeed,’ he exclaimed. ‘You must have been mistaken.’

‘My sight isn’t that bad,’ snapped Aunt. ‘Perhaps,’ she added cunningly, ‘he asked Dr Bennett to introduce him.’ That, she surmised, might damn him in Anasuyabehn’s
eyes. She glanced quickly at her niece, never ceasing the quick rolling of the bread she was making.

The girl sat as if turned to stone, her eyes wide, a lid in her hand poised over a saucepan of vegetables. Suddenly, within her, raged jealousy so raw that she could have spat like a fighting cat.

So that was why he had not come to the temple. Given the chance of an English girl in marriage, he had dumped her like a coolie dumping a bag of sugar.

Aunt smiled contentedly down at her frying puri.

‘He would never allow himself to be seen walking with her unless he intended to marry her.’ She flicked her sari back from her face and looked up at her brother. ‘What do you think?’

The Dean lifted a hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘It doesn’t matter, anyway.’

Matter? Anasuyabehn nearly screamed aloud at him. It matters terribly, and I don’t know how I can bear it.

The boy servant slipped silently into the kitchen. No one noticed him, except Aunt, who hissed out of the corner of her mouth, ‘And where have you been, Maharaj?’

The sarcasm of the appellation made him cringe. He shrank into a corner, scared by the thought of the money in his pocket.

Consternation grew in him; supposing she found the four-anna piece? Its weight burned against his thigh, its delicious promise of sweets lost in overwhelming fright. If
she found the coin, the old owl would shriek and nag at him until she discovered how he came by it; and, dimly, the little boy understood that this would cause not only trouble to himself but, possibly, to his dear Anasuyabehn as well. The fact that the note might be more incriminating than the coin did not occur to him – he regarded it merely as a piece of paper.

In a funk, the child moved to the charcoal bin. As if to make up the fire, he took a piece out and at the same time dropped the coin into the box. It fell with a soft plonk into the slack at the bottom.

At the sound, Aunt turned round. ‘Don’t make up the fire now,’ she snorted.

His fear receded. She had not seen. Obediently, he put back the piece of charcoal and stood waiting for the family to finish their dinner, so that he could have his.

The Dean suggested a walk in the Riverside Gardens. Everyone agreed, and, with a swish of saris, the ladies rose and went to the bathroom to wash their mouths.

Aunt turned to the servant. ‘Next time you’re sent on a message,’ she growled, ‘come back at once, do you hear me? At once. Otherwise, I’ll take an anna off your wages for every five minutes you’re late.’

The boy skulked in a corner and hung his head.

‘No dinner, tonight,’ added the indefatigable crone. ‘Now, clear up the dishes.’

The hungry boy hardly heard her. If they all went for a walk, he would be alone in this terrifyingly big bungalow, where the spirits in the air went
shush-shush
as they flew round the compound; and they rattled at the door bolts and made the curtains flutter at the windows.

As he stared at the discarded brass talis on the floor, they seemed to grow bigger, like staring eyes, too big for a little boy to scour. The littered kitchen floor stretched out before
him like the desert of Rajasthan, miles of it to be swept and washed before he might curl up on his mat and lose his misery in sleep. He sat down on the floor and wept loudly.

Anasuyabehn heard the noise and came swiftly back to the kitchen. ‘What’s up?’ she asked her aunt.

‘I’ve told this naughty boy that he can’t have any dinner,’ replied Aunt.

The sobs redoubled.

Anasuyabehn tried to look stern. ‘You’re right, of course,’ she said, and then paused. ‘Perhaps, tonight he could have his dinner, and, if he ever dawdles again, he could go without?’

Aunt got up to follow the others to the bathroom. Over her shoulder, she snapped, ‘You spoil him.’

‘I’m sure he’s very sorry.’

The boy stopped crying, wiped his nose with the back of his hand and nodded vigorously.

‘All right, if you wish,’ replied Aunt and swept out of the kitchen, all injured dignity. The servant ran to Anasuyabehn and touched her feet.

‘Eat quickly,’ she told him. ‘Wash the talis and clean the floor. You can do the saucepans in the morning.’

‘Ji, hun,’ he assented, still sniffing, while his eyes made an anxious inventory of the amount of food left in the saucepans. Obsessed by the need to eat, the note lay unremembered in his pocket.

Long ago, in the days of the East India Company, an Englishman had built himself a miniature palace by the river and, round it, had laid out a fine park with a wide promenade along the river bank, the whole surrounded by a high wall. His grandson, an irascible bachelor appalled by the overcrowding of Shahpur, had willed it to the city, to be a park forever, open to all castes and classes to walk and play in.

The people thronged into it, happy to be free of traffic and
dust. Admittedly, the grass had worn a bit thin in places, and, at one point, the surrounding wall had broken down, yet it was still a blissful retreat on a hot evening. The palace was now a boys’ school, sadly lacking in paint though high in reputation. Like the park, it was open to Untouchables, as long as they could pay their fees.

Beggars were kept outside the gate by an officious chowkidar. They gathered as near to the gate as they could get, however, exhibiting a horrible collection of deformities and lifting distorted hands to the passersby. Like some dreadful opera chorus, they chanted hopefully, ‘Ram, Ram, Ram.’

Through this ghastly crew floated like petals on the wind girls and women in pastel coloured saris. They were closely escorted by their white-clad menfolk and were accompanied by a bevy of grave-eyed children. Amongst them, Anasuyabehn walked demurely behind her father and her uncle, a giggling cousin on either side of her, while the two aunts brought up the rear.

Though it was getting late, the park was far from gloomy; each path had its line of electric lights. The evening breeze blew coolly off the river, and the party walked the length of the promenade.

Anasuyabehn found it difficult to maintain her outward composure. Great gusts of fury kept sweeping over her. That Tilak should one day make protestations of love to her, and the next night be seen walking with an English lady was incredible. In this provincial town, nobody would walk alone with an English woman unless he had designs upon her. She forgot that Tilak was from Bombay.

‘You’re really so dull and depressing about your marriage,’ complained one of her cousins. ‘I’d give my eyes to be engaged to such a wealthy man – a man who sent me diamonds.’ Her voice rose in sharp envy. ‘And he looks so handsome in his photo.’

The reminder of Mahadev’s generosity struck Anasuyabehn forcibly. She lifted her head proudly and her lips curled in a hard smile. At least her fiancé wanted her badly.

They came to the end of the promenade, and the older ladies sat down to rest for a few minutes on a stone bench, upon which they arranged themselves so that there was no room for anyone else. The two gentlemen walked slowly up and down the path in front of them, while the cousins stood patiently nearby. A lamp illuminated the bench, though it served only to deepen the shadows cast by a huge, drooping tree behind it. Faintly from the burning ghats on the other side of the river came the smell of burning wood, a sad warning of man’s mortality.

The cousins grew tired of Anasuyabehn’s long silences and ran across the walk to the balustrade, which divided the river shore from the park. Thankful to be alone, Anasuyabehn paced up and down on the grass behind her aunts. Under the shadow of the tree, her green sari made her almost invisible.

A husband and wife, who knew her family, stopped by the bench to pay their respects to the aunts, and Anasuyabehn stepped deeper into the shadow, rather than face another barrage of good-natured jokes about the joys of matrimony. Though very exhausted, she was still simmering with anger.

When she heard the very softest whisper behind her, she was shocked. Stifling a shriek, she turned. ‘Go away,’ she whispered back to Tilak. ‘How dare you come near me? And how did you find me?’

Tilak’s black jacket made him invisible against the tree’s great trunk, as he breathed, ‘Followed you from home. Now, listen. Quickly. Have you a passport?’

Indignation welled up. ‘How dare you? How dare you?’ she upbraided him.

‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t get away.’

‘No? I imagine you were very pleasantly occupied.’

Puzzled at her attitude, he said irritably, ‘Tell me, Rani. Your passport. I have to make plans for us.’

Anasuyabehn peered at him through the gloom. He was so close to her that she could feel his warmth. In the midst of her rage, her physical desire for this handsome man tore through her. One touch from his hand would have diverted the flood of jealousy into channels of self-recrimination and explanation.

‘Sister, sister, where are you?’ called one of her cousins, running back across the walk.

She whipped round, and, then, forcing herself to advance casually into the light, she called back, ‘Here I am.’

Bewildered and frustrated, Tilak slunk into the darkness.

Old Desai sat on his wooden divan in his dismal counting house, his portable desk beside him. Sitting near him was his sister’s husband, hastily summoned by telegram from Baroda. With him had come his sister’s sons, aged fifteen and eighteen respectively.

Leaning against a battered filing cabinet and staring vacantly at the visitors was Mahadev’s brother, his face showing none of the sense of panic within him. Mahadev and the Maharajah’s jewels were missing and unusual decisions had to be made. He would probably have to go out to help with inquiries amongst dull Hindu clods in the villages, and he was not looking forward to it.

Why didn’t his father leave the job to the police?

He knew the answer only too well. His father loved Mahadev above everyone; he would literally leave no stone unturned in order to find him.

The stout, plain man in his round black cap gave a small quivering sigh, and tried not to think of his wife’s bitter tirade that morning. She had said she hoped that Mahadev would be found, since there had to be one brain in each generation of the family.

Old Desai turned to the one man in the room to whom he felt close, his Partner Brother, still spry in spite of his years and his sorrows, a man whose sons had died before him. He alone could truly appreciate his dread of losing Mahadev.

Partner Brother’s small eyes gleamed behind his heavy, horn-rimmed glasses. ‘Well, where shall we start?’ he asked.

Baroda Brother took off his pince-nez and polished them, to indicate that he was getting ready for action. Since Mahadev, fleeced by the dacoits, had not arrived at Delhi, he was, in his opinion, lying dead somewhere along the railway track. He kept his belief to himself, however, and suggested briskly, ‘We could search either bank of the railway track for some miles on each side of the site of the robbery.’

‘The police will have already done that,’ said Partner Brother.

The thorough, ponderous mind of Mahadev’s own brother had not been idle. ‘Father,’ he said, with a trace of excitement, ‘if there were anything dead within a couple of miles of the railway track, vultures would have come in clouds and would have been clearly visible; the police would have gone immediately to see what was attracting them.’

The other men looked at him in surprise. There was a stunned silence, and then everyone spoke at once.

‘He
must
be alive,’ said old Desai, his voice trembling.

Baroda Brother-in-law put his pince-nez firmly back on to his nose, and added, ‘He must, since his body was not on the train.’

Mahadev’s brother gritted his teeth. Even when he showed intelligence, he fumed, nobody really noticed. Even his name was forgotten by most; he was simply Husband or Brother or Son – or, worst of all, Mahadev’s Brother – a simpleton in the background of other people’s lives, lost in the shadow of a more brilliant brother and bullied by a shrewish wife.

Yet, who supervised all the account books of his father’s great concerns? he asked himself. Who checked the incoming interest and made the first moves against those who failed to pay? Who sat up late at night, to comb carefully through each agreement, so that not once had they lost a court case when some outraged landowner took them before a magistrate?

He hoped, in the forefront of his mind, that Mahadev was safe. But, deep inside, he wished savagely that he was lost for good. He chewed again his already closely bitten fingernails.

His father’s voice cut through his rumination. ‘We’ll first inquire of every Desai Society along the route, up to a distance of fifty miles from here. There is no great town to comb, unless he is, say, a hostage, in Shahpur itself – only villages.’

He then began to organize them. ‘Dress plainly,’ he advised. ‘You are moneylenders going about your normal business. On no account mention the jewels. Go by bicycle or by horse carriage.’ He tapped his fingers on his little desk, and then went on, ‘Take a servant or one of the others with you – if we find the task too great, we’ll close the office and use the clerks.’ He wagged his finger warningly. ‘Be careful to
be courteous to the Headman or the Panchyat, when you inquire. And stop at isolated huts – and don’t forget the Untouchable quarters.’

All the men nodded agreement.

‘Should we inform Dean Mehta now?’ asked Partner Brother.

Old Desai considered this question carefully. He would have preferred to keep the matter secret, but the Mehtas might hear a rumour.

A fresh fear struck him. Such rumours might well reach the dacoits. If Mahadev had been left for dead, if he had seen the robbers’ faces and they realized that he was still alive, would not they also start to hunt for him?

He winced, as he foresaw a quick knife thrust under Mahadev’s well-covered ribs, the moment he showed himself. Impatiently he pushed the unwelcome thought out of his mind, and answered his brother’s question. ‘I’ll go to his office to tell him – so that, for the moment, his family does not have to know.’

He remembered grimly his Baroda Sister’s remark, when she had first been asked to act as go-between. She had said, ‘The girl is not lucky – she has already lost one fiancé.’ He had snubbed her thoroughly as being superstitious and old-fashioned.

The men got up and stretched, and he clapped his hands. When his Chief Clerk came running, he told him to bring in the morning mail, together with his notebook and pencil. While he was doing this, old Desai turned to his younger son and instructed him to stay and mind the business. After he had dealt with his letters, old Desai tottered into the long, dark room which was his general office. His half dozen more junior employees all rose to salute him obsequiously. He made this round of the office daily, pausing to poke into every small detail that caught his eye. Occasionally, he left some young
man trembling and ashen-faced, after being upbraided. All his employees were in some way related to him, and it was unlikely that he would ever discharge one of them; but he held the purse-strings tightly in his rheumaticky hands, and it took devoted service and slavelike hours of work to loosen them.

After having left a trail of moral destruction in the office, he returned to his younger son in a more amiable frame of mind. He wanted to compliment him on his deduction that Mahadev was probably alive, and he considered giving him the emerald ring he always wore. He half slipped it off his finger; then his lifetime habit of parsimony re-asserted itself, and he slipped it on again. Words, however, cost nothing, and he left his son considerably cheered up, when he finally climbed into his carriage to drive himself to the University.

From the depths of his dusty cubicle, Dean Mehta’s secretary informed him that the Dean was at the Marwari Gate temple and would be a little late that morning. He looked at his watch, and said, ‘He should be back in about ten minutes.’

‘I’ll wait,’ Desai decided, and he was shown into the Dean’s office.

The secretary returned to his work and Desai could hear him shouting down the telephone. Desai fretted that he should have telephoned before he came. He had a telephone in his office on which he received incoming calls, but he could never bring himself to make a call. Lines could be crossed, he worried, and the contents of very private agreements be overheard by outsiders; skeletons might rattle in family closets; thieves might overhear. The telephone was, indeed, not something to be used lightly. In fact, most telephone calls received by the Desais resulted in one or the other partner driving over to see the caller.

The Dean came in slowly, his ascetic face mirroring clearly his sharp abstinence from food that day and his lack of sleep.

He bade Desai welcome and sent for tea for him. He then sat, amazed, listening to his story. In the back of his mind, he wondered if Mahadev had absconded. Though Desai had not mentioned it, he guessed that Mahadev had been carrying valuables, probably jewellery. A fortune in jewels would be a great temptation to a young man who would know how to dispose of them and who seemed to like living in the West.

They discussed whether to tell Anasuyabehn and decided that she had better know. A rumour would disturb her almost more than knowing the truth of the matter.

The Dean asked what assistance he could give. His brother, he said, had already arrived to help with the wedding and was supervising the delivery of supplies for it.

‘If you hear anything that might bear on my son’s disappearance, would you let me know?’

‘Naturally, I will.’

The Dean forced himself to stand up and see Desai out to his carriage. As they walked along the corridor, quiet except for the occasional burst of a lecturer’s voice as they passed a half-closed door, Desai said that, if Mahadev was all right, he wished to bring forward the date of the wedding. He wanted to send the boy and his new wife to Paris again for a little while.

The Dean foresaw cries of objection from his sisters and his sister-in-law; women were always so fussy about ceremonies – and the astrologer would be full of forebodings, no doubt, at a change of date. He was, however, a little uneasy. Since her first outburst, Anasuyabehn had said no more to him about breaking the betrothal. Aunt had assured him that the girl now seemed quite reconciled to it.
Yet, he felt, he would be thankful when it was over; his last family responsibility would have been fulfilled.

As they paused at the top of the front steps, he said, ‘The preliminary invitations have been sent out, but I’ll hold back the second ones and the special invitation letters, until I hear from you.’

Desai smiled and saluted him. ‘A-jo,’ he said, and got back into his shabby, little carriage.