The Peacock Spring (31 page)

Was it possible, thought Edward, that this little old thread of a man was father to the magnificent young gardener? Sri Bhattacharya’s legs and arms were so thin that they looked brittle;
his head was covered with short grey stubble except where one lock was left raggedly long in orthodox Hindu fashion. He had not shaved and his skin had a fig-purple tinge as if he were cold and he
was toothless; probably, thought Edward, he disdains false teeth, but nothing could have been more unattractive than that watery mouthing as his lips moved. Was he praying? But a spot of fresh
sandalwood paste on his forehead showed that he had already made his prayer. Chewing perhaps? Or was it a querulous habit? Edward could well understand why Ravi did not want to go home.

Sri Bhattacharya looked far over Edward’s face, as if he preferred not to see him, and spoke: ‘Why have you come?’

‘About your son,’ said Edward and, in a few short sentences, made his indictment. There was no interruption or exclamation, not a quiver in the other’s face, only the little
eyes continued to look far beyond Edward.

When he had finished, Sri Bhattacharya said, ‘I have no such son.’

‘Ravi Bhattacharya is your son.’ Edward said it steadily. ‘He has committed an offence against my daughter. If he brings her here—’

‘She would be immediately returned to you. Such a girl would not be permitted in my house.’

Angry colour rose in Edward’s haggard cheeks. ‘If you have daughters—’

‘I have no daughters. I had an only son.’ There was a spasm in the face but, at the slight on Una, Edward’s temper broke.

‘You understand, Sri Bhattacharya, that I have no alternative but the police. This could be a criminal charge. My daughter is not yet fifteen. Your house could be
searched—’

‘They may search it. He . . .’ Sri Bhattacharya would not say ‘Ravi’, nor ‘my son’. ‘He has not been here for two years, and he will not come back. I
have given orders. His mother may have kept a few small things . . .’ The folds of the lohi, too, were quivering now and Edward’s temper gave way to compassion; here was a wound,
perhaps worse than his own.

‘Sri Bhattacharya,’ but the shorn grey head was held higher. ‘I can do nothing to help you. It is time for me to take my meal. Good morning, Sir Edward.’

The village, thought Alix, is ten miles from Ambala; that makes it some hundred and twelve miles from here. Chinaberry may take time to find it and I expect the road will be
bad. Edward will need to talk with the Bhattacharyas . . . and Alix calculated he could not be back in Delhi before the afternoon, but soon after eleven o’clock he telephoned. ‘Send Ram
Chand down to the office with a change of clothes and my shaving things.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘To Varanasi. The embassy people have been more than kind and are lending me their private plane. The Inspector General is coming with me.’

‘You have found out something?’

‘Nothing.’ Edward was curt.

‘Then why—?’

‘I have a possible clue – that is all.’

When Edward had come out of the Bhattacharya house, or been dismissed from it, he had found a woman waiting by the car – a lady, he corrected himself. Though her sari was
plain-white red-bordered muslin and worn in the old-fashioned way on the right shoulder, her jewellery unobtrusive, only a thin gold chain, gold stud earrings, her head bare, her feet in village
sandals, she was – unmistakably noble, thought Edward. ‘How do you do, Sir Edward. I am Ravi Bhattacharya’s mother.’ Her husband’s English had been stilted; hers was
as smooth as Edward’s own. Years younger than her husband, she was taller than Alix; no wonder their son was such a splendid specimen, and she had his golden complexion – bright wheat;
more, there came to Edward a feeling of immense capability as she spoke quickly. ‘At times one is forced to eavesdrop and I heard. Sir Edward, try to understand: no worse blow could have
fallen on my husband. Though he seems unfeeling, our son is his heart – and was his hope. In our gotra – the table of our family – there are ten generations of Bhattacharyas in
the direct line. I am the mischief,’ she said in earnest. ‘I was educated in the Western way and brought new ideas, persuaded him over Ravi and now, to him, Ravi is tainted.’

‘And my Una, even if she were old enough to be married, would be the final taint?’

‘There would be no pure heritage,’ said Srimati Bhattacharya, ‘so, even if circumstances were different, to my husband such an union would be unthinkable.’

‘And to you?’

‘It is the way the world is moving, barriers are breaking, but she is so young and they have been – unprincipled.’

‘Unprincipled? Yes,’ said Edward. ‘Tell me, did a brother-in-law or your brother die yesterday or the day before that?’

‘Indeed no.’

‘That was why your son asked for leave.’

‘That was certainly unprincipled – but what I came out to tell you,’ she said, ‘is that I think it possible they – Ravi – might have gone to his grandmother,
my mother who lives now in retirement in Varanasi. She would take them in without question. Here is the address.’

Now that there was a ray of hope, Edward, paradoxically, had an instinct to draw back, as if he heard an echo of Alix’s word ‘damage’. ‘Yet I have to find them.’
That beat steadily in his tired brain. ‘I have to. I must. It is the only sane thing to do,’ and, ‘If your son is there,’ he asked, ‘How should I deal with
him?’

‘You must intimidate him.’ She was fierce. ‘Ravi can be intimidated, especially if anything threatens his work, but what to do with him, you must decide.’

‘Most mothers would plead.’

‘How can I plead? There is your daughter. You are right to be outraged with us. What you choose to do with Ravi you must do.’

Edward’s eyelids were coated with dust, red with soreness and tiredness. Now they were suddenly wet.

‘I cannot plead,’ said Srimati Bhattacharya. ‘I can only trust.’

‘Where are you going?’ said Edward to Ravi in the alleyway.

‘To report back for duty, sir,’ which was true.

‘In Shiraz Road?’

‘Where else?’ Ravi was trying to bluster it out. ‘I have been on leave of absence to perform the obsequies of my uncle.’ He was talking as stiltedly as his own father and
the bluster withered under the sternness of Edward’s look.

‘This is your grandmother’s house?’ Edward could see it was built on the bank above the river, a tall house faced with pink stucco, the rooms overlooking the alley
close-shuttered. Through the narrow door he could glimpse a walled garden, smell jasmine. ‘Your grandmother, Srimati Roy?’

‘She is not at home.’

‘I think she is. You will take my card to her.’

‘I am not your servant.’

‘You have just said you were.’

‘She does not receive strangers.’

‘She received one yesterday. Come, boy. Be sensible,’ said Edward.

‘You must not lose your temper,’ the Inspector General had cautioned him.

‘It won’t be easy. I should like to strangle him,’ said Edward.

‘Understandably, but you must think how you are placed – and the Bhattacharyas, too, are not without influence. The minister begged me not to cause embarrassment. Be cool,’and,
with an effort, Edward only repeated, ‘Be sensible. You know I have come for Una.’

‘Una? What Una?’ But, before Ravi could make another futile attempt, ‘This is Colonel Jaiswal,’ said Edward. ‘Inspector General and Chief of Police.’

‘Inspector General . . . Chief . . .’ Ravi’s gasp could have filled the alley. He had dreaded a policeman but now the power of Edward’s position dawned on him – the
Inspector General himself – and, in panic, ‘It is Hem Sharma who has given us away,’ shouted Ravi.

‘No dramatics, Bhattacharya.’ Colonel Jaiswal was brisk. ‘Neither I, nor my men, could get one word from Sharma. You gave yourselves away. Now take Sir Edward’s card in
to Srimati Roy. Then you will talk to me,’ but Ravi’s nerve had snapped; he dodged back into the house and would have slammed and bolted the door but for the policeman’s quickness
in putting his boot in the gap; they heard Ravi run up a stone staircase and his frantic cry of ‘Naniji! Naniji! Naniji!’

‘You are sooner than I expected,’ said Srimati Roy.

‘You expected us.’

‘Were you not bound to come – though it might have been later.’

‘Srimati Roy, is my daughter here?’

‘She is here.’

‘You did not turn her away?’

‘That would not have been kind.’

‘Your son-in-law would have called her a pollution.’

‘Pollution – a young girl? You must forgive my English; until last night I have not spoken it for twenty years. Please sit down. You must take some refreshment. Ravi, order them to
bring salt lussee – that will be cooling – lussee and fruits. Ravi
beta
.’ The last was said warningly. Ravi was kneeling by the daybed on which Srimati Roy was sitting as
her son-in-law had sat, cross-legged but infinitely more upright. The rest of the big room was bare except for a painted chest and the low stools on which Edward and the Inspector General were
sitting; by the sunlit water reflections on the walls, the room overhung the river. ‘
Ravi!
’ Unwillingly, Ravi rose.

‘I will go with him,’ said Colonel Jaiswal.

‘You will not let him out of your sight.’ She nodded in acceptance or approval – Edward did not know which – and in a few minutes they came back with a grey-bearded
servant who brought the cool curd drink served in silver tumblers with a plate of orange segments, bowls of nuts and fresh shredded coconut; it was, as Srimati Roy had said, refreshing; she did not
eat, but sat talking about everyday things until her guests had finished, when the policeman beckoned Ravi away, leaving her and Edward alone.

Edward had expected more aloofness – ‘Srimati Roy is an extremely holy woman,’ Colonel Jaiswal had said. ‘She lives in strict asceticism and spends most of her days and
nights in meditation; probably she repeats the name of God a thousand times a day,’ – but the only sign Edward saw was that it seemed all her personal pride had ceased. Remembering Sri
Bhattacharya’s snub, he had insisted that they should stop at some hotel to wash and change their shirts; now Edward saw he need not have bothered. Srimati Roy would not notice such
things.

Like her daughter, she was a tall woman, which accentuated her thinness; she was emaciated to gauntness. Edward was sure that did not concern her in the least. ‘What does it matter?’
Srimati Roy would have said. Her sari, of white muslin, was limp, almost revealing her shrunken breasts, and the veil had slipped from her hair which was cropped to a rough whiteness. She wore no
jewellery but Edward could see ring marks in her nose and ears; once, he guessed, the jewellery was of quality, certainly gold; now there were only the empty holes, from choice, he knew. As with
Srimati Bhattacharya, he had the feeling of immense capability but here was more; the eyes, made bigger in the gauntness of the face, looked steadily beyond him, not to ignore him as her son-in-law
had but, while recognizing him and his errand, fitting him into some infinite pattern far beyond this room and its reflections, even beyond the sacred river. Edward’s urgent importances
seemed to dwindle into perspective because this was not a willed peace, a shutting away, but peace itself, steady, kind, unruffled.

A police officer in uniform had come for Srimati Roy’s loved grandson; a stranger broken her seclusion on a grave charge yet she was not disconcerted; in fact, she smiled absently on
Edward. ‘Yes, I was expecting you. In your position, naturally there would be great hue and cry – not great in public sensation, we hope, great intelligence. How could you not find them
out?’

‘If I had not come, would you have sent for me?’ asked Edward.

‘I think not. Better, I think, to let things take their course.’

‘Even when a young, young girl has been abducted?’ Edward was still obstinate. ‘Where is Una?’

‘The little one is asleep. She is severely overtired and I think has some heatstroke and, I suspect, a little dysentery.’

‘Heatstroke – dysentery.’ Edward reared up.

‘Yes.’ Srimati Roy remained tranquil. ‘It seems Ravi gave her crushed sugar-cane juice, bought at some station; it is seldom clean.’

‘You have called a doctor?’

‘I have treated her,’ Srimati Roy said with dignity. ‘You can trust me. I should so have treated my own daughter.’

‘Which is more than your son-in-law would have done.’ The morning still rankled.

‘Indira, my daughter, is there. Indira would have seen to it,’ and Srimati Roy said serenely, ‘The attacks have passed so could you not let Una sleep? Now you have found her,
what is the hurry?’

That nettled Edward. ‘The hurry is that a scandal might blow up in Delhi.’

‘Or be blown up.’

‘Exactly. Also I have work to do that some people might think important.’ Which made Srimati Roy smile again, but gently.

‘Speaking of scandal,’ she said, ‘you must, I think, give up the thought of abduction. You have a phrase in law, Sir Edward, “the innocent party”;
“party” is good, we are all made of parts, unfortunately often contradictory.’ She sighed. ‘Here there is no innocent party. Either both my grandson and your daughter are
innocent or both are guilty – if you call it that.’

‘What do you call it?’

‘Normal.’ Her voice was sing-song but as mellifluous as it was calm. ‘I am well aware that I am harbouring what is supposed to be a crime. You may have surrounded my house with
police. If they search, what will they find? A young man and woman in love. Is that not normal?’

‘The circumstances are not.’

‘Ah! The circumstances.’ She dismissed them as if, thought Edward, they were a flick.

‘You see no objections?’

‘Perhaps a hundred. They do not alter facts.’

‘The fact is, she is under age, and they have run away.’

‘From what did they run, Sir Edward? From fear of their families. Fear is an ugly thing and should not be in a family, but my son-in-law, Ravi’s father, lives by
“littles”, as I think you, Sir Edward, do, though perhaps not consciously; divisions, separations: Indian–English, caste–class, old–young. You make such trouble for
yourselves, such tamasha, brou-ha-ha – that is a word I thought I had forgotten. Well,’ she sighed again. ‘With such ideas why did you not safeguard her?’