Travelers (23 page)

But Banubai wasn't. She had never liked Bulbul although Bulbul always treated her with tremendous respect. Now too Bulbul flung herself at Banubai's feet, striking her forehead on the ground and calling her blessed saint; indeed, she rather overdid it, so it was no wonder that Banubai received her coldly. But Bulbul didn't care about that. She made herself at home in the house and attended on Asha.

Asha was like a sick person and seemed to be sinking under her load of suffering. At last Bulbul could bear it no longer and said, “Let me bring him to you.”

“No!”

“You'll die, sweetheart. You'll kill yourself.”

“What does that matter. As long as
he
is happy with his bride.”

A Summons

The men of the prospective bride's family had come to visit the prospective bridegroom's. There were so many things to discuss—marriage settlements, wedding arrangements—but these were being politely kept in the background so as to give the visit a purely social aspect. There was eating, drinking, joking: the two families were looking each other over to see how they got on together. There would be many, many occasions in the future when they would be meeting in this way, at other weddings, at births, at festivals, at funerals. Their life would be forever intertwined at all its stages. So it was important that they should suit each other. And evidently they did—at any rate, they laughed at the same jokes, ate and drank with the same relish; an atmosphere of good cheer prevailed. The women hurried backward and forward with heaped-up dishes, their faces flushed with excitement and happiness.

No one took much notice of Gopi. He hovered on the outskirts of the circle and listened to the jokes and conversation. He was not expected to contribute anything and he accepted this and liked it. These men had taken over his fate and he was content to leave it in their hands. He felt secure with them. They were all of them—from the bride's side as well as his own—prosperous, self-made, comfortable men. They had seen a lot, they had learned a lot, they had cleared a good niche for themselves from where they knew how to deal with things. They were very, very different from his Delhi uncle, who was always weary and depressed and didn't know how to deal with anything. Gopi did not want to think of his Delhi uncle at all. He wanted only to be with these men and let them guide him and do whatever they said he should do.

They were laughing at a joke, and he smiled too—not because he was amused but because he wanted to prove himself in full accord with them. He was so engrossed in them that he failed to notice a plucking at his sleeve. The plucking was repeated,
increased; a moist little voice whispered “Babu.” He turned and saw the servant, a meek, worried, much scolded little boy. He looked more worried than ever, his whole face was creased like an old man's. “Babu,” he said again. The smile faded from Gopi's lips, he removed his arm and said in annoyance, “What do you want?”

“Babu, there is someone calling you.”

“Who?”

The boy's eyes darted around nervously; he was terrified. He had to swallow several times before at last he dared to whisper, “A woman.”

Then Gopi was terrified too. He got up at once and followed the boy, who led him into an alley at the back of the house; at the end of the alley stood a horse-drawn cart and inside it there was indeed a woman waiting for them. Gopi's first feeling was one of immense relief that it was not Asha; but this relief did not last long when, from amid the folds of sari which she wore like a shroud, he made out the familiar figure of Bulbul. She took a coin and threw it to the boy; at the same time she hissed a warning to him and hissed it again till he nodded to show he had understood; then she allowed him to run away, which he did without once looking back as if afraid of what might be following him. Bulbul made Gopi climb up into the carriage with her. She touched and patted him and laughed with pleasure. But he only wanted to get rid of her as fast as possible. He said, “Why have you come here?”

“To see you,” she answered; she pinched his cheek and smiled. “Pretty, pretty.” He jerked away indignantly and that made her laugh again. “What, are you shy with your Bulbul?”

“Are you mad coming here? My God, what trouble you will get me into.” He looked around him in fright.

But the alley was completely deserted. Bulbul's cart was parked at the end of it, abutting on to an abandoned building site. This too was deserted except for the owner of the cart and horse who squatted there on his haunches. He showed no sign
of interest in them, only in his cigarette butt at which he pulled and puffed through his cupped hands.

“I told a lie,” Bulbul confessed. “It is she who has sent me. Only she said don't tell him I sent you. How she cried and cried and begged and begged, ‘Bring him to me! Bulbul, bring him!'”

Gopi turned away from her and scowled.

“If you had seen her, if you had heard her!” When Gopi gave no sign of relenting, she edged up close to him and whispered in his ear: “Have you forgotten? All those lovely times we had . . . in the hotel. . . .”

Gopi drew back. He felt repelled by Bulbul's nearness, by her breath on his ear, by her smell of betel, spices, and musty unwashed clothes. And he didn't want to be reminded of the hotel.

“That's all finished now,” he said.

“Not for her.”

“For her also. It is all philosophical now. Philosophical and spiritual. You don't know anything.” He made as if to jump down from the cart but Bulbul held on to him. She had skinny, tight hands that held him like a vise.

“You think that bald old witch knows better than Bulbul?”

“Don't speak of Banubai like that! You are not fit to speak of her. She is a saint.”

Bulbul spat betel juice in a practiced stream. Again Gopi tried to jump down, again she prevented him. “Come with me, we'll go to my sweetheart. She is waiting for us.”

This time, by being quite rough, he managed to free himself. He jumped off the cart and hurried away down the alley; he longed to be safe inside his uncle's house again, enjoying the party with the others and smiling at their jokes. Bulbul was like a bad dream.

She was calling after him in a loud voice. He was afraid that someone might hear and come out and find them, so he had to stop. She had got off the cart and was coming after him as fast as she could, clutching a painful hip.

“What should I tell her? When will you come?”

They were quite close to the little back gate leading into his uncle's house. Gopi had to get rid of her fast. He said, “Soon.”

“When?” Suddenly she broke into a wail. “How she will be waiting, how she will be looking out for us! Oh, I can see her before my eyes! She is suffering, suffering!”

Gopi shushed her desperately. “I'll come—as soon as I can.”

“Tonight?”

He nodded.

“I shall wait for you. I shall be standing at the end of the road—you know where?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Not the river—”

“I know.”

“By the wall. If you don't come—”

“I'll come.”

“If you don't, I will be here to fetch you. I shall come right into the house and I shall ask, ‘Where is Gopi?'”

“Go now—”

“At seven o'clock. By the wall.”

Before leaving, she tweaked his cheek again—affectionately but also quite hard, like a warning.

Lee

He was very nice to Miss Charlotte. He insisted we should bring a chair for her to sit on instead of on the ground with the rest of us and he called her madam and apologized for the heat and discomfort. Afterward he talked a lot about his admiration for Jesus Christ and how really all religions are one and God is one. Miss Charlotte didn't say much. She looked funny sitting there perched up on her chair with her hands folded in her lap and her ankles crossed. She was wearing one of her awful frocks. Whatever Swamiji said, she said “yes” and “quite” like a polite guest agreeing with the hostess. She was prim in the same way Raymond gets prim and terribly polite when he's embarrassed
or put out. Actually, the two of them sitting there seemed to sort of belong together—if only because they were so different from the rest of us. Raymond didn't get a chair but the way he sat on the ground was quite prissy and awkward (he's never learned to do it properly, he doesn't know what to do with his legs). He was also the only one besides Miss Charlotte who was not wearing Indian clothes. Their faces were different too, I can't quite say how but they didn't have that
look
that everyone else in the ashram has, Evie and Margaret and all the rest whether they're Indian or foreign (but especially foreign). I suppose it comes from meditation and all of us feeling the way we do about him.

Then suddenly, while he was talking about Jesus Christ, Miss Charlotte asked about Margaret. Swamiji pointed at her and said, “Well, how does she look to you?” but Miss Charlotte didn't answer that, instead she said that these diseases could be very insidious and it was impossible to tell when they might not flare up again or what they might not secretly be doing to you from inside. Margaret didn't like Miss Charlotte talking like that, and she interrupted her to say that she was quite all right, that she had taken some Indian powders which had cured her completely. She said she felt better than she had ever felt in her whole life before. And when she said that, she looked at him, and really there was a glow in her face that I know has never been there before. But he told her to be quiet and not to interrupt Miss Charlotte. So Miss Charlotte went on to say—she spoke calmly like always but there was something stubborn in her now too—she said that it was true these Indian powders were often very efficacious, but on the other hand it happened that the disease could get a deeper grip than the patient suspected. Experience had unfortunately taught her that this was not unusual with Westerners coming to India and unaccustomed to its food or water or climate; and that in their case it was only the most powerful antibiotics that had any effect. Margaret said she didn't believe in antibiotics. Miss Charlotte went
on as if she hadn't heard her, she said that she really must warn Margaret that not only were these diseases extremely dangerous but even, and not all that infrequently, deadly. Miss Charlotte did not pull her punches when she said that word—it came out really like death and all it meant, so that everyone was quiet for a moment. But then Margaret cried out—she sounded a bit frightened now—she cried she was all right, all right, and it wasn't only the powders that had cured her but her own happiness too and being in spiritual harmony. Yes, said Miss Charlotte, spiritual harmony was fine, was very good, but we did live in physical bodies too and we couldn't achieve much if we failed to look after those.

Swamiji applauded her. He said he liked to hear such good sense spoken, and that the trouble with all of us was that we tried to live on too high a plane: higher than we deserved, he told us, affectionately but meaning it too. Now, he said, what he would like to do was to put ourselves entirely in Miss Charlotte's capable hands and whatever Miss Charlotte said should be done about Margaret we should follow her advice. Miss Charlotte lost no time in taking up his offer and said that she would like to take Margaret back to Benares with her and show her to a doctor there.

“I've
seen
a doctor!” Margaret said. She began to look a bit panicky.

Miss Charlotte argued with her, tried to persuade her. It was just between the two of them, no one else said anything. Margaret kept glancing toward Swamiji, as if waiting for him to intervene. And because he didn't—because he didn't
order
her to go with Miss Charlotte as he could have done, and as we all (including perhaps Margaret herself) expected him to do—she became bolder with Miss Charlotte and at last she said definitely, “No, I'm not going, and you can't make me go.” Then she got up and left us. And again we all waited for him to do something, to call her back perhaps, and again he didn't. Instead he spread his arms helplessly and said to Miss Charlotte, “Now you can see
with your own eyes what naughty disobedient disciples I have,” and he smiled at her in his nicest, most charming manner.

She didn't smile back. Her face was flushed, and she was fumbling to pin up her thin little bun, which had come undone in her agitation. She told Raymond they had better go back to town or it would get too late and their driver would miss his meal. Swamiji got up off his cot and personally escorted them to their car. Miss Charlotte walked in front and busied herself in talking to me, so he had to walk behind us talking to Raymond. He was jovial and laughing, I could hear him, but Raymond was very quiet. Then I heard Swamiji say, “I think you're cross with me, Raymond,” but Raymond caught up with Miss Charlotte and me and walked by my side, leaving Swamiji behind. I stopped still to be with Swamiji but Raymond wouldn't let me, he drew me aside. He said, “There's something wrong with you too.”

I knew he had been watching me all the time. Not in curiosity but in concern. And that was the way he looked at me now too. I wanted to get away from him, but also I was terribly tempted to speak, to unburden myself.

“Lee?” he asked, waiting for me to answer. And his voice was also full of concern—
personal
concern—caring for me. At that moment I was ready to open my heart: and how I longed to do so!

But I was saved from my own weakness. I glanced away from Raymond and—yes, of course,
his
eyes were on me. For the first time in how long he showed a sign that he was aware of me. I left Raymond at once to go and stand beside Swamiji. He gave no further sign to me—he was busy being polite to Miss Charlotte—but I stood there and felt grateful and was able to say good-bye to Raymond cheerfully.

Home Is Home

Miss Charlotte did not talk much on the way back in the taxi. Raymond could see that she was disturbed but also that she was
doing her best to overcome her feelings. She seemed disinclined to discuss the two girls. There was nothing that could be done for them. So Miss Charlotte struggled to resign herself to this knowledge, and after a time she appeared to have succeeded. Her face was again serene and her bun firmly pinned into place. She asked Raymond, “What do you hear from your mother?”