Bhowani Junction (22 page)

I arrived at the Sirdarni’s house that evening determined to settle two things—K. P. Roy and my engagement. The Sirdarni and Ranjit were in the big room. I waited for a few minutes of general conversation to pass by, meaning then to say what I wanted to say. But when I was ready the Sirdarni said to Ranjit, ‘Our guests will be here in half an hour, and I have forgotten to make pakhoras. Please go and buy some. Don’t hurry. I have things to talk over with Miss Jones.’

When Ranjit had left the room the Sirdarni said, ‘You looked as if you wanted to say something to me, my child. What is it?’

We were talking in Hindustani. I said, ‘Beji, I heard from Mr Lanson this morning that you have been telling people that Ranjit and I are betrothed.’

The Sirdarni nodded and said firmly, ‘I have. You are the girl for him.’

‘But—but——’ I said, suddenly feeling helpless, ‘I don’t know that he’s the man for me.’

‘Any man will do for you,’ she said. ‘Now don’t be angry. I mean that you need a man—why, you are quite old—but you are the sort of woman who will remain herself whatever the man is like. Ranjit needs such a woman. You are stronger than he is, and you will be able to make him into whatever you wish.’

‘I don’t wish to make him into anything,’ I said. I tried to explain to her that I had always thought the man I married would make me into something.

‘That is a Western idea,’ the Sirdarni said impatiently. ‘In India we women make our men, whether we act from behind the screen or whether we come out into the open, as I have. You have become an Indian—by what you did in the yards that night, by the sari you are wearing—yet you have no Indian father and mother with whom I can make arrangements. So I am making them myself. It is all settled.’

I said, ‘I don’t know whether I——’

She interrupted me, poking her hard finger into my knee. ‘Didn’t you tell Ranjit the other day that you wanted the decision taken out of your hands? I’ve done it.’

I thought, Ranjit must tell her everything. He must have told her all that we did and said there by the river. Now the Sirdarni had made the decision for me, as she had said she would, and it still didn’t feel right. But I ought not to think or feel. I ought just to accept.

The Sirdarni said, ‘The marriage will take place one month from now.’

‘In what religion?’ I heard myself asking.

‘I am an atheist,’ she said. ‘Religion is the opiate of the people. Ranjit talks lately of returning to Sikhism. I think he is a fool, but I will not force him one way or the other. It will not matter soon. Someone as clever and as well educated as you cannot believe all that nonsense, and
you
are all that will matter. I want him to rely on you, not on the stupid gurus and their pious hocus-pocus out of the Granth Sahib. You have got a hundred years of wrongs to avenge. You can put some fire into Ranjit. Don’t think all will be well when the British go. It won’t. I’ll show you things, tell you things I’ve seen, that prove you cannot trust any of them—Gandhi, Jinnah, Nehru, Patel, Rajogopalachari—none of them. But we will have plenty of time to talk after the marriage, when Ranjit is out at work.’

It took me a long time to realize what she had said. Then I said, ‘You don’t want us to live here, Beji?’

She smiled grimly and said, ‘Oh, yes, I do. Certainly. It is the Indian custom. You will get used to it.’

I said, ‘But I think I must have a home of my own.’

She said, ‘Don’t talk about it now, my child. Remember that Ranjit is my only son.’ She dropped her strong hand from my elbow, which she had been holding.

I wanted to press the point. Many Anglo-Indians lived with their mothers-in-law, but I didn’t want to. Then I remembered I had something else even more important to say.

I said, speaking carefully, ‘Beji, the British keep asking me now whether I know K. P. Roy. They showed me a picture of him. It was very like Ghanshyam, your guest who was here.’

She said, ‘The man who hid the traces of the murder you committed? What did you tell them?’ She was looking at me calmly, as though she had heard all about this before. She probably had. Ranjit would have told her.

I said, ‘I said I hadn’t seen him. But Beji, is Ghanshyam really K. P. Roy? I must know.’

She said, ‘Why?’

I said, ‘It’s worrying me. Lanson and Govindaswami say he’s a Communist agitator and a murderer. They say he wrecked the troop train the other day, and stole the explosives, and burned down Maslan, and caused the riot of the processions. If he’s as bad as that, ought we to hide him? Oughtn’t we to tell the police everything we know or suspect?’

‘Ghanshyam is K. P. Roy’s brother,’ the Sirdarni said calmly, ‘and he’s not doing anything except help hurry the British out of the country, as the necessary first step to further progress. We have been searched. Ghanshyam was not in, and now he has left. About those things that K. P. Roy is supposed to have done—you must use your brain, child. Why should that black baboon Govindaswami tell you the truth? Why should Lanson? They’re just trying to drive a wedge between us—between the Moslems and the Hindus, between different wings of the freedom movement. Tell them nothing!’

I heard voices on the stairs, and a moment later two middle-aged Indian couples entered the room. There were many questions I still wanted to ask, but for the moment my time had
run out. Soon everyone was talking Hindi, and Ranjit had returned with the pakhoras, and a sweet shy girl was congratulating me on my betrothal and in the same breath asking me to describe what European girls wore as underclothes. For the moment I had to give in. The Sirdarni had won—for the moment. But I knew I could never allow matters to rest as they were. Ghanshyam
might
be K. P. Roy’s brother; I still thought he was Roy himself. Ranjit was a clean, fine man, but he was standing neck deep in foul water. I felt the stench of it in my nostrils as I tried to get closer to him. I was becoming obsessed, nervous, and torn by knowledge or guilt. I began to pray for something to happen that would force me to act.

On the following Sunday, which was June 2nd, I went to the Sirdarni’s house again. Ranjit came down to the Old Lines for me on his bicycle at about ten o’clock in the morning. I wondered at first why he had not telephoned, as he usually did to avoid the unpleasantness at Number 4 Collett Road. When he came in person they never asked him into the house but left him standing outside. I’d often told him to come in, but he wouldn’t.

On the way up the Pike I asked, ‘What’s on? Surely your mother’s not having a policital meeting at half past ten today?’

‘She just wanted to see you,’ Ranjit said. ‘So did I.’

The Sirdarni’s pressure on me was increasing. She was trying to make me realize my place as an Indian daughter-in-law, and I began to feel obstinate. Perhaps this would be a good time to take up where I had had to leave off the other evening.

The Sirdarni was sitting, European style, in a wobbly chak and staring out of the window. She greeted me and then did
not move or say anything for fifteen minutes. At last she looked up at us where we were standing a little to one side and talking quietly. Without apology she interrupted us, ‘Victoria, what is the latest about the mutinies? Is there really no spark left in either Karachi or Bombay?’

Her strong hands were folded in her lap, the white sari lay across her shoulder. She looked grim and untidy that morning, but very powerful, as usual. I told her. The mutinies were over; the government were picking up the pieces. They were holding courts of inquiry and taking summaries of evidence, forming judicial commissions and rounding up deserters. The warships lay peacefully at anchor in their ports. About fifteen ringleaders were under arrest; the other sailors were doing duty.

The Sirdarni said angrily, ‘There is a great opportunity wasted! The German revolution of nineteen eighteen began in their navy. The sailors played a big part in the glorious Russian revolution. And now we’ve wasted ours, let the fire go out, because of the treachery of Indian lickspittles. Look at that street!’ She jerked her head in an extraordinarily male gesture. ‘Look at it. The fools walk up and down as though they hadn’t just thrown away their best chance. The policeman’s on his platform at the corner. He ought to be ten feet above it, hanging from Mir Khan’s second-floor balcony.’

Ranjit said, ‘Mother, can we please not talk about politics this morning? I want to——’

She said, ‘Not talk politics, son? How often have I to tell you that politics isn’t something you talk? It’s not even something you do. It’s something you live. That’s the trouble with the Nehrus and Gandhis you admire so much. If they’d had one ounce of real fire in their livers, this street would be running in blood, and Govindaswami would have died where he was born—on a dungheap.’

Ranjit said, ‘You really ought not to speak of the Mahatma like that, Mother. You will——’

She said, The Mahatma! He’s a tool of the mill-owners, a cunning, ambitious little lawyer. He’s going to sell the country to the millionaires when the British go—
if
they go—and then
you had better look out for real trouble. The people must rise then, and blood must flow in rivers.’

I steadied myself and, ‘I think you are talking nonsense, Beji.’ I waited quietly, looking the Sirdarni in the eye.

She blinked as though I had hit her. I felt Ranjit staring at me in fearful astonishment.

At last the Sirdarni said, ‘Nonsense? That is a very rude thing to say to your mother.’

‘I do not mean to be rude,’ I said obstinately. ‘But I had to tell you that I don’t agree with you, in case you thought I did. Can’t we talk about something else?’

‘Such as what?’ the Sirdarni said, again folding her hands in her lap. I did not think she was really angry, just astonished and perhaps a little pleased. She had no use for weaklings, and now perhaps she was thinking I would be even more useful than she had thought. She obviously never doubted that she would master me in the end.

I said, ‘Let’s talk about something nice and unimportant, like—well, have you seen the new picture at the cantonment cinema,
The Road
to somewhere or other with Bing Crosby, Bob Hope, and Dorothy Lamour?’

It was a silly thing to say, perhaps, but it was the first that came into my head. When I had said it I thought, That does sound as if I’m fed up with Indian politics; it sounds insulting. Perhaps I meant to be insulting.

‘I have not seen the picture you mention,’ the Sirdarni said, ‘I never go to the cantonment cinema, as you know, and even here in the city I never see any film made in England or America. It is wrong to put money into the pockets of the capitalists. They use it to make guns and hire mercenaries like Govindaswami and your Colonel Savage and his Gurkhas to suppress freedom everywhere.’

‘Have you ever been to Paris?’ I said. ‘I’d love to go.’

She said, ‘I have not. I have never left India. The French are just as bad as the British, if not worse. They——’

It was like a rather bad-tempered game—I trying to change the subject, she trying to show that politics could not be avoided

I said, ‘Wouldn’t you like to go to Paris, Ranjit? I’ve heard it’s so gay and free there, and there are beautiful flowers everywhere in the spring. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if someone gave us a lakh of rupees as a wedding present so that we could fly to Paris for a week?’

‘It would be wonderful,’ Ranjit said, smiling nervously. ‘But I do not think anyone will give us a lakh of rupees.’

The Sirdarni said, ‘If they did, you should use it to increase political awareness among——’ and at the same time I said, ‘I would love to see the clothes they really wear in Paris. I’ve often wondered if the women are as smart as they’re supposed to be.’

The Sirdarni said, ‘Fashions in saris do not change. The money those people spend on one dress—what they call a cheap dress—would feed a whole Indian family for ten years—
ten years!
’

I stood up, feeling hot behind the eyes. I would burst into tears or lose my temper or do both at once if I did not go away. I said, ‘I think I must go home now, Beji.’

She got up quickly and came over to me. She put her arm round my shoulder and said, ‘Don’t go. Don’t be angry, Victoria. It is my fault. I am a headstrong, rude old woman. You can teach me something while I teach you something. I have arranged the marriage for July the first.’

Ranjit said, ‘But Mother, I told you I had to see the guru.’

She said, ‘I’ve seen the old fool. I’ve told him everything he wanted to know. He pretended he wasn’t keen on marrying you when he knew that neither of you were practising Sikhs, but he agreed in the end. I stayed in there arguing until he did. Now come to your room, Victoria, and tell me what I should do to it to have it all ready for you.’ She began to guide me across the room.

I felt weak from the continuous effort of forcing myself to contradict and fight her. In her mind, probably, she had made a great concession by allowing me to have the room the way I wanted it. I didn’t really feel strong enough to keep on with this struggle now, but I had to.

I stopped moving and said, ‘Beji, I can’t live here. It isn’t
that I don’t want to live with you, but I do want a house of my own, and I must have one.’

She still held her arm round my shoulder. She said slowly, ‘You refuse to live here with me? People will say Ranjit has thrown me out, you know that?’

I wished Ranjit would say something; but perhaps that was too much to ask. He would feel quite as horrified as his mother did—perhaps more so, because he was more conventional. I didn’t think the Sirdarni really cared what people might say. She was using that as a weapon against me. She wanted to be with Ranjit always and keep her hands on him, who could always be moulded, and on me, who would be the easiest instrument for her to mould with.

I said, ‘I’m sorry, but I know I must have my own home.’

The Sirdarni said, ‘You and Ranjit go out and have a nice walk. Talk about it. You will eat here?’

I agreed thankfully. I would have agreed to anything that got me out of there quickly.

Ranjit went with me, and we bicycled off through the city. I was thinking of the Sirdarni and what on earth I was to do, so I did not notice until we were nearly out of the city that everything had been very quiet. The people walked up and down, as the Sirdarni had pointed out, but there were few of them, and those few walked as though they had some definite job. They did not stroll. I knew the ‘feel’ of Bhowani and looked round for other signs. Soon I saw a shopkeeper barring his store against the street. ‘What’s happening this time?’ I asked Ranjit.

He hadn’t noticed anything, and I had to explain what I meant. He said, ‘I don’t know. I think you may be imagining it, Victoria. The shopkeeper is probably going away for a few days. Surabhai hasn’t told me about any plans.’

‘What about the Moslem League?’ I asked.

He said, ‘They’re not big enough to cause any trouble. Where are we going?’

I had been leading the way toward the same place on the river bank where we had gone before. I said, ‘To the river. I want to talk again, Ranjit. Only this time we must get things settled.’

We went to the same place, but now the sun was high and the ground yellow, dry, and glaring hot. We wheeled our bicycles a little back over the grass and sat under one of the big dark trees. From there we could see the river on one side and the parade ground of Kabul Lines on the other.

I put my hand on Ranjit’s and said, ‘Ranjit, do you love me?’

He said slowly, ‘I worship you, I think, Victoria.’

I squeezed his hand hard, demanding, ‘Yes, but do you
love
me?’

However close I got to Ranjit there was always a thing like a very delicate gauze screen or curtain hanging down between us. I had asked him if he loved me. I had never asked any man that question before, because it hadn’t been necessary. Men had breathed hard on me and tried to get close to press against me. They wanted only one thing, but at that moment they wanted it from me, and I had it. The point was, I knew them, I saw them, I felt them. There was no gauze screen. There were other men who liked the look of me but didn’t want me—perhaps they had other girls, girls of their own. And I always knew that, because there was no gauze screen. There were men like Ted Dunphy, who loved me but had made up their minds they were not good enough or clever enough for me, or couldn’t offer me enough. I wouldn’t have cared if I had loved them. But there was no gauze screen. Then there were men who just weren’t interested, and to them I was a thing in a skirt, sometimes a nuisance, sometimes a bore, sometimes quite pleasant, sometimes just a thing. But I knew, because there was no gauze screen.

All those men had been white, or thought they were white, or said they were white. Savage had been all those men to me—even the lover, even like Macaulay. The meaning of a look I’d caught in his eye, of a brutal word, of a roughness that might have been a tiger’s caress, burst on me in a sudden flash. Usually he was the last sort and treated me like a mere thing.

Patrick didn’t fit anywhere. He had been none of those men. There was only one sort of man left that he could be, the one sort I didn’t know about—the husband. It was a frightening
idea, because it was what Patrick himself thought—logical and inevitable.

But—Ranjit? What was the sign in an Indian, what was the language? It might be nothing to do with Indians in general; it might just be Ranjit, which made it even more difficult.

I said, ‘Kiss me, Ranjit.’

I closed my eyes and dropped my head against his shoulder. I suppose I turned my face up to him, but I don’t remember. Ranjit said agitatedly, ‘Oh, dear Victoria, I can’t! We don’t do it like that. We think it is shameful, insulting. Not here. Look!’

I opened my eyes and saw a man walking along a footpath a hundred yards away. I said, ‘I don’t care about him.
We
think it’s insulting for a man not to kiss a girl who asks him to, especially if he’s engaged to her.’

Ranjit dabbed his face down, and his dry lips touched my cheek.

I said, ‘On my lips.’ It was like the game with his mother, only much more important.

He said, ‘I
can
’
t
. It is—indecent. It is not done until we are married, Victoria. When we are married and alone in our room.’

I sat up slowly. I still didn’t know anything, and still the gauze screen hung there between us. It was shaking now, because we were wrought up, but still it hid more than it showed. Ranjit said, ‘I do love you.’

‘How do I know what you mean?’ I asked.

He said, ‘Love is more than this kissing. That is something animal——’

I said tiredly, ‘I know, Ranjit. I don’t want a lecture.’

So at last I had to think about sex. I knew all about respect and affection and devotion. I
didn’t
know whether I would ever get that far with Ranjit. I wasn’t Rose Mary, to plot and plan and go to bed with a man and be unchanged, untouched through it all. I didn’t dare think about, or treat, the idea lightly, because the God’s truth is that when it happened I was flooded and overwhelmed. I loved it and myself and the man, and was filled with the hot thoughts and love and respect and
affection all mixed up together, so that I couldn’t separate them. I suppose Johnny Tallent told Macaulay what I was like, without understanding at all, and that is partly why Macaulay couldn’t control himself. In that way I had led Macaulay on. And in that way I had murdered him. There never had been a man who understood what I was trying to give him. They called me ‘a piece of hot stuff, and still I had to go on wrapping my heart and soul and body round them, and dying to make them happy, until it was over.

Ranjit had my respect and affection and devotion. If only he would start on the other thing, to show at least that he cared about it, that he knew it was important, I’d have everything, and so would he.

I said, ‘My dear, you’ve got to get away from your mother.’

I said that to force him out into a place where I could see him clearly. I thought he would get angry and argue with me, and try to persuade me what a wonderful woman she would be to live with. But he said, after a very short pause, ‘Yes. I must.’