The Moneylenders of Shahpur (20 page)

The Desai business was too large to be totally neglected during the week before the wedding. Old Desai, Partner Uncle and Mahadev, therefore, stayed in the Desai Society, while the rest of the family moved over to the house rented by Dr Mehta for his guests.

Mahadev had had a trying time commuting between the Society and the Mehtas’ home, to attend the various ceremonies preceding the actual wedding day. Though his head ached abominably and his left arm was still in a sling to protect the shoulder while it healed, his paternal aunt had insisted, at one of the ceremonies, that he must have the traditional iron ring tied into his hair. It seemed that every time he lay down, he lay on the ring. He wished passionately that the Mission doctor had shaved his head completely, when preparing to stitch up his wound; instead the doctor had considered that he might be a Hindu and had, therefore, kindly left one longish tuft, to which the ring had been appended.

His father and his Partner Uncle had spent weary hours with him discussing the expansion of the French business. They were all agreed that, in these uncertain times, they should have some money invested outside India.

In one of the earlier marriage ceremonies, he had sat in the flapping marriage tent, with a silent, veiled Anasuyabehn beside him, and had hardly glanced at Ganesh, the benign elephant-headed god, remover of hindrances, who was being worshipped. His mind had been filled with the legal difficulties of the French investment, so much so that he had jumped when a lucky woman, taking four pieces of wood and dipping them in oil, had touched his forehead with them. Then the ring had been tied into his hair.

Ceremonial gifts of rupees had been given to him and to Anasuyabehn. Other money gifts had also been presented by relatives, to be kept until after the ceremony, when they would be divided between his and Anasuyabehn’s paternal aunts.

A company of elderly Jains had been specially invited for the later ceremonies; they would inspect the quality and the quantity of the wedding gifts.

Mahadev sighed frequently. Though the marriage festivities would be briefer than those for his first marriage, they were time consuming. It was well that he had been able to get plane reservations for Paris for the second day after the vows had been completed.

Gradually, however, as the day of the actual wedding came closer and his health improved, his mind turned towards his bride and he began to think of the pleasures of again having a wife. He dearly wished to please her and to see her eventually installed in a modern house of her own, where his little daughter might thrive better and have brothers and sisters. He never doubted that Anasuyabehn would care for the child, and in this he was correct.

One morning, he had to compose convincing arguments to persuade the Government of India to allow an overseas investment, and when he finally put down his pen, it was with a feeling of relief that he had done it skilfully. He sat in his dreary office, feeling wells of hopeful anticipation rise in him. He collected up his papers and at the same time began to sing a morning raga. The clerks in the counting house lifted their heads in amazement, as the strains of this devotional hymn came rolling out of the private office.

With a fine disregard for his comfort, Mahadev’s brother had been ordered to oversee the wedding party at Dean Mehta’s rented house and to travel back and forth daily to supervise the counting house. Now, while Mahadev carolled away in his room, in another little office his younger brother was inquiring of his father, ‘What are we going to do about the Maharaja’s jewels? I sent a telegram saying we would send another messenger. But what are we to do now?’ His plump face creased with anxiety.

His father leaned back on the sausage-shaped pillows of his divan. ‘Humph. Didn’t Partner Uncle tell you? We shall
indeed dispatch another messenger. You’re going to go – and take the stones with you.’

He watched in quiet amusement, as his son’s weak mouth opened in surprise. There was also a gleam of fear in the younger man’s eyes – he knew he was no hero, and he dreaded violence of any kind.

‘You’ll go by plane – in spite of the cost,’ his father assured him.

‘But we haven’t got the jewels?’

‘Oh, yes, we have,’ the old man chuckled. ‘I put them in the strongroom myself.’

Relief replaced anxiety. ‘But … but …’

Old Desai wagged his finger at his son. ‘Your brother’s sagacity is something to emulate.’

The younger man appeared to shrink into himself. The small button eyes almost vanished amid the folds of fat. The chin sank down to the chest and the chubby fingers were clenched. So the almighty Mahadev had done something wonderful again.

‘What did he do?’ he inquired dully.

Old Desai clasped his hands over his stomach. ‘Well, it was interesting. Your uncle and I were sitting by the bed at the Mission, wondering how to broach the subject of the missing money belt in front of a constable, who was still there. We didn’t want to accuse anyone of taking it, and find we had a libel suit on our hands. Anyway, when Mahadev was dressed and ready to be discharged from the hospital, he sat on the edge of the bed, to rest himself before making the further effort of going to the carriage.’ Desai ran his tongue round his few remaining teeth, while he looked at his dejected younger son.

‘Well?’

‘He was quite clever. When the Mission doctor entered the room, he looked at him and said, “I’m ready to put on my money belt now. Will you kindly fetch it for me?”’

The younger brother was intrigued. ‘What happened?’

‘The doctor replied, “Certainly.” And then he went to get it.’

‘How extraordinary!’

‘Yes, it was. If he had not intended to keep it – if he could – the Mission doctor would surely have mentioned to Mahadev that his valuables were being kept in safety. With his simple request, Mahadev gave the impression that he remembered the belt being removed from him by the doctor.’

The brother sighed, and old Desai glanced again at him. In comparison with Mahadev, the boy was dull. He was, however, extremely useful; he dealt with all the irritating details of the business. Old Desai thought suddenly of the Maharaja and his brand new radio factory. The Maharaja might be willing to pay an experienced accountant very well, to come to him. And all over India new enterprises were springing up which needed more than an abacus-rattling clerk to keep their accounts; his younger son might easily plunge into a new life, away from his family.

Old Desai did not like these ideas; the boy was flesh of his flesh; he did not want to lose him.

He picked up a memo pad from the portable desk beside him on the divan, and unscrewed his fountain pen. As he addressed his son, he wrote down each point. ‘Now that you have reached years of discretion,’ he said, as if he had been patiently waiting for his younger offspring to grow up, ‘I shall put more responsibilities on your shoulders. I can no longer travel, as I used to, and your uncle is also feeling the strain. This Delhi trip will be the first of many for you, for Mahadev has, in addition to his other responsibilities, to watch the Paris and Bombay businesses.’

He could almost feel the relief shooting through his son’s
veins. Just to get away from his wife, thought the old man grimly, would probably cheer him up. And to travel on a plane was definitely prestigious. Though it pained him to say it, he added, ‘And you will need to draw more money in future.’

The plump figure ceased to slump. It expanded to its full girth. Dignity descended upon him like a new garment slipped over his head. As a trusted representative of the family, always bustling off to new places, he would at last be able to patronize his wife.

As expected, the Desais had not yet paid their hospital bill. The medical missionary, however, knelt by his bed and thanked the Lord for removing the temptation of the money belt. The muttered prayers ceased for a minute or two, while the sorely tried worshipper rested his head on his string bed. Then, in an almost businesslike voice, he again addressed his God, ‘And now, Lord, about some funds. The need of your children is terrible. Must they suffer so?’

Perhaps God heard, for about that time some ladies in California met together and, for the sake of something to do to fill their spare time, decided to have a fund-raising drive to extend the Mission of Holiness near Shahpur in India.

Though Savitri and her parents, being Hindus, had not been asked to Anasuyabehn’s wedding, they were, like John Bennett, invited to a reception to be held after it. Because she was a close friend, however, Savitri came and went freely in the house. Her thin scornful voice mocked the ancient ceremonies, until Anasuyabehn asked her wearily to cease.

Though Savitri’s eyes were myopic, they missed little. She had guessed from Anasuyabehn’s lack of enthusiasm that her friend was not very keen on the marriage. She had suggested that if Anasuyabehn was not happy she should refuse the offer. Anasuyabehn had said dryly that she had not been given much opportunity to do so; everything had been fixed before she was consulted. When Savitri mentioned this to her own parents, they had ordered her to hold her tongue; Dean Mehta knew what he was doing. Rather cowed by her parents’ joint outrage at her attempted intervention, she had obeyed.

Her spirits crushed by Tilak’s apparent desertion, Anasuyabehn wanted to curl up in some secret lair and never come out again. But she was being carried along by events and had no one to trust, except her father. She clung to the idea that the reward of filial obedience was a well-ordered and contented life. Clutching at this frail hope, she complied with all her aunt’s requests. In any case, what use was there in fighting when there was no one for whom to fight?

She had spent one night seething with rage and frustration, asking herself madly why Tilak should so suddenly vanish. Involved in the preparations of the marriage within the two families, she had not heard the rumours as to the cause of his quick departure. It had naturally not occurred to her father or the Vice-Chancellor to tell her the exact reasons.

The white light of morning had brought a dawn of commonsense. Tilak was an honourable man. Perhaps he had left her because she was already affianced and, anyway, of another religion and caste. The furious temper was curbed, the burning desire held down. She bowed her head and told herself, without much hope, that true happiness was to be found in a loyal partnership with a man chosen by one’s parents.

On her wedding morning, she submitted quietly to the
ministrations of her cousins and aunts. They bathed her, washed and oiled her hair and plaited it with flowers. With great care, her eldest cousin knelt before her and painted her face with delicate flower designs. Another one stained the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet a soft orange. Finally, they wrapped her in a fine red silk sari embroidered with gold thread.

Before they pulled the sari end down over her face, they brought her a mirror, so that she could admire herself. She looked into its shiny depths and saw a stranger, a very glamorous one. She looked at the image expressionlessly; then she thought of Tilak seeing her when the veil would be lifted, and her lips curved in a gentle smile. The smile faded. Bitter tears welled up and coursed unrestrainedly down her cheeks, to spoil the paint and to trickle over the large, glittering nose-ring and fall like small diamonds into her lap.

The cousins laughed and mopped up the tears. They touched up the painted flowers and agreed that everybody cried when they had to leave their home.

‘When you’ve got a little son in your arms, you’ll be truly happy,’ Aunt assured her.

Dressed in their best, the families were waiting in the compound. She had, therefore, to compose herself and join them in worship, her face mercifully veiled.

Fourteen young girls were merrily feasted. Armed with gifts of wheat, dates and coconuts, they then streamed down the lane, where a potter awaited them. He cheerfully supplied them with four water-pots.

The fun of a wedding overflowed the compound and spread around the neighbourhood. Little groups of servants, sweepers and village people on their way to town stood in the lane, to glimpse what they could of the fine clothes and jewellery. At the side of the house, the caterers
built up their great charcoal fires again and again, and sweated and shouted and turned out innumerable sweetmeats and savouries.

In the storeroom, the Dean’s younger brother, with a couple of nephews to assist him, doled out sugar, nuts, flour, spices, oil and vegetables, with a sure hand, seeing that nothing was wasted or stolen, and that yoghurt and water were kept cool and not spilled.

A small band of musicians drummed and squeaked in a corner, their well-practised efforts often lost under the babble of dozens of voices.

The Brahmin, who would officiate at the actual marriage rites after sunset, was fed and fussed over, his shaven head and gnarled hands gesturing a polite ‘No’, as his palm leaf plate was heaped higher and higher.

The Dean wished that his daughter’s wedding should be a joyous occasion. He sailed amongst his guests, greeting them jovially, giving no hint of his inward worry about Anasuyabehn, with whom he had spent an uncomfortable half-hour the evening before. In response to his forecasts of a happy family life, she had responded sadly with a simple, ‘Yes, father.’ He hoped sincerely that Mahadev knew enough to make her happy.

Meanwhile, in the rented house, a slightly abashed Mahadev was submitting to other ceremonies. Still clucking about the mess his shorn head was in, his paternal aunt replaced the iron ring attached to his topknot with a silver one. With suggestive jokes, the barber washed and powdered one of his toes. A group of giggling young women swooped on him and fed him with sweets.

His friends then helped him mount a decorated horse. His shoulder objected strongly to the exercise, and he winced. As they rode to the temple to worship, they
chaffed him that he was lucky the dacoits had left him able to consummate the marriage.

In a splendid procession of cars, horses and pedestrians, he was taken from the temple to Anasuyabehn’s home. His heart beat furiously under his silk shirt, and he hoped the girl would like the jewellery he had bought her.

The sun was going down, as they went through the streets. Women and children lolled on the little verandas above the shop fronts, as they waited for the evening breeze to come rippling down the ovenlike, smelly streets. On the pavements, their menfolk squatted idly, smoking and gossiping after their evening meal.

The flickering lights of the procession brought everyone to their feet. At one corner, a beggar in the crowd stood and cursed. He shook his fist at the bridegroom. The bystanders laughed at him; they knew him well. He was harmlessly crazy. They knew he hated the Desais because they had foreclosed on his little shoe shop and forced him into beggary; but, then, none of them liked moneylenders.

As gold and silver trimmed saris, gold bracelets and jewelled necklaces glimmered in the beams of the car headlights, the watchers admired unrestrainedly. They sniffed appreciatively, as waves of flower perfume passed over them from the multitude of garlands carried in the procession. The men admired the horses and the shining cars. Except for that of the beggar, there was no animosity at the display of wealth; they enjoyed the spectacle and never thought of it in relation to their own pressing needs. The Desais, however, were not very trusting. The walking ladies were confined within heavy ropes carried on either side of the procession by their servants and younger male members of the family. Nobody was given the chance to snatch at so much as an earring.

In the centre of it, Mahadev, his pain soothed by aspirin,
his spirits high, enjoyed the pomp of his wedding day. Unhaunted by thoughts of his first wife, for whom he had gone through the same performance, it was as if he went to his first marriage. This time, he told himself, he was marrying for love, and he knew a great content from the thought of it.

The compound had seemed quite full before the advent of the Desai party. Now it was jammed. Space was somehow made, however, for the bridegroom to make his way to the bungalow, where a crushed Anasuyabehn sat dully behind a curtain.

As required, she spat betel juice at him, while her maternal aunt, in lieu of her dead mother, marked him with auspicious marks and threw little balls of rice and ashes over him. The aunt then waved a vessel of water over his head, managing not to splash his magnificent, flower-bedecked, silk turban.

From behind the thin curtain and her shrouding red sari, Anasuyabehn watched him out of the corner of her eye. He looked very fine in his bridegroom’s clothes, and there was nothing about him to which she could truthfully object, except that he was not Tilak.

Escorted by their relations, the couple were now taken through the stifling March heat, to the marriage tent. There, a committee of leading Jains awaited them in festive mood. Mahadev’s friends brought forward his gifts to the bride and laid them before these gentlemen, who rapidly totted up their value, were greatly impressed by it and announced that the gifts were most generous. The gifts were then handed over to the bride’s friends.

Mahadev and Anasuyabehn were seated side by side and shook hands with each other. Under the stare of so many witnesses, Mahadev did not dare give Anasuyabehn’s hand a hearty squeeze; he had to content himself with a light shake. The end of her sari was then tied to his scarf.

One of his friends brought him a box, which he handed to
Anasuyabehn. When she opened it, her aunts leaned forward eagerly to view its contents. Rings and bracelets of solid gold made them gasp enviously.

With his face aglow, Dean Mehta brought his offering for his beloved daughter. Iridescent saris, blouse lengths and petticoat lengths to match, a finely-wrought gold necklace, more gold bracelets. Anasuyabehn had never owned so much in all her life. Father has spent too much, she fretted, and wondered if he would have enough money to retire on; then she remembered that he would need no money. As a monk he would need nothing, not even her. She would have no one to turn to – except her husband. She sighed a little sobbing sigh. Hearing her, Mahadev turned quickly towards her but could see nothing but the vague glimmer of her face behind the silk.

In the half-light of the oil lamps, old Desai seemed to float towards his son. Aided by an ancient cousin, he washed one of his son’s hands; Anasuyabehn’s maternal aunt did the same for her. She then placed Anasuyabehn’s hand in that of the groom. Mahadev cheerfully held on firmly and, despite her depression, Anasuyabehn was forced to take cognisance of the fact that the man sitting by her was real, with needs to which she must give attention. She began to tremble and Mahadev, feeling it, massaged her palm gently with his fingers. He tugged her to her feet and they solemnly circumvented the flickering fire before which they had been sitting. Four times, left to right, they paced together, while lucky women pressed forward to receive sopari nuts from Mahadev; thus must husband and wife walk together equally, like oxen, pulling the wagon of life.

Sweets cooked by a Brahmin were offered to the couple and were formally refused.

They walked together into the house, where worship
was offered to Anasuyabehn’s gotrija, her kinsmen of lineal and collateral descent from a common ancestor.

The couple were, next, to go in procession to the rented house for a similar ceremony in honour of the bridegroom’s ancestry. The day had been a long one and, before setting out, Anasuyabehn whispered rather frantically to her maternal aunt, and was given permission to go to the bathroom, escorted by her favourite young cousin.

The sweeper’s door into the bathroom had been left open for ventilation and, when she went to close it, she saw to her astonishment Savitri standing hesitantly on the field path.

‘Hey, Bahin,’ cried Savitri, stumbling towards her along the rough path.

‘Hurry up,’ whispered her cousin, from the other side of the door which led into the house.

‘Anasuyabehn,’ panted Savitri, keeping her voice low. ‘I’ve been trying for two days to get you alone – and now I don’t know what to do – it’s the letter.’

‘What letter?’ Anasuyabehn pushed her veil back from her eyes, so as to see her friend’s troubled face more clearly.

‘From you know whom – John Bennett gave it to me – he couldn’t deliver it himself – though he said he called on you.’

Anasuyabehn remembered John bringing the box of china himself. By all the gods who ever reigned, he had had a letter to deliver! The trembling which had begun in the compound became a helpless shake.

‘Give it me.’

‘Come on,’ urged her cousin and opened the other door.

Savitri ignored the young girl and took the letter from
under her sari. It smelled faintly of her perfume and Dr Bennett’s tobacco, and the envelope was quite dirty.

Ignoring her watching cousin, Anasuyabehn tore open the envelope, her fingers clumsy. The cousin pressed forward, but a glare from behind Savitri’s heavy spectacles made her shrink back.

And so the screw was turned once more.

The gentle, courteous words and promises, so quickly penned, seemed to hit her under the heart. The pain was so intense that she cried out, before she fell fainting into Savitri’s skinny arms.

The shocked little cousin rushed forward and together they half dragged, half lifted, Anasuyabehn into the passage. The younger girl opened her mouth to call her mother, but Savitri was made of sterner stuff, and whispered, ‘Shut up. Wet your hankie under the lavatory tap – quick.’

The cousin obeyed.

The touch of the water on Anasuyabehn’s face failed to bring her round. Her aunts could be heard calling to her to hurry. There was a shuffle of footsteps on the veranda. Savitri rose, and ran towards the footsteps, while the frightened cousin pillowed Anasuyabehn’s head in her lap.