The Moneylenders of Shahpur Read online

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked in Gujerati.

  Ranjit stood up, and his clean, white loincloth gleamed in the sun, as he set his legs belligerently apart.

  ‘A Memsahib has called and is waiting in your room,’ said Ranjit, rank disapproval apparent in every line of him. Never, in all the time he had served the Sahib, had a Memsahib called. Why, the Sahib hardly ever visited English people himself.

  ‘A Memsahib! Who is it?’

  ‘Armstrong Memsahib.’ Ranjit had an excellent knowledge of English names.

  ‘Oh,’ said John. ‘She’s come about the map, I suppose.’

  ‘Map, Sahib?’

  ‘Yes, Ranjit, I’m going to help her and Lallubhai Sahib prepare a special map of the city – showing drains and playgrounds and parks.’

  ‘I see,’ grunted Ranjit, relaxing a little. One never knew, however, what happened when a Memsahib was made free of a gentleman’s home – Ranjit could not imagine a worse disaster.

  John knew fairly precisely what was running through Ranjit’s head and the gossip which would sweep through the campus, and yet, as he hurried across the compound, he was full of pleasurable anticipation. He forgot Tilak and his frog and thought only about talking to someone English; he found it hard to admit this need but knew it to be true.

  He paused at the top of the veranda steps to rest his legs, then approached the door more slowly.

  She was seated nervously on the edge of the chair by his desk, her face turned expectantly towards the door. He smiled as he approached her and shook her hand. Behind the smile there was great surprise.

  He had previously seen her only in her nurse’s uniform and again on the occasion of meeting her in the bazaar, when she had been garbed in grubby khaki. Today, her red hair shone with washing as it fluttered in the breeze of the fan, and, though her green eyes still had rings of fatigue round them, they were oddly appealing in a face no longer brick-red from exertion. Like many English women in hot climates, she wore little makeup, and the natural gold of her eyelashes and the delicate pink of her mouth reminded him of one of his mother’s beautiful china figurines.

  The same artist’s eye which could note and transfer to sketch book the incredible detail of Jain sculpture saw and realized the implications of her plain white dress, obviously made at home from the cheapest mill cloth, and the plastic chuppells on her feet. Propped against her chair was a black umbrella, the cheapest way to protect herself against the ruthless sun.

  God, thought John, Ferozeshah must pay her in annas. Yet, in spite of her obvious poverty, she made a pleasant picture, sitting in his working chair.

  She explained shyly that Lallubhai and his Committee had come to the conclusion that the housing needs of the refugees were very urgent, so the previous evening they had asked her to convey their thanks to John and to discuss with him the map and the data already collected by the Committee. As she handed him a file of papers, she added her apologies for descending upon him so abruptly, but she had only one day a week free, and this happened to be it. ‘I didn’t want to delay it another week,’ she went on. ‘We have only four months before the rainy season and we hope that the maps will show up small open spaces, which we can begin to beg from landlords in order to put huts on them.’

  John smiled and soon made her feel at ease, and she continued by saying that they had enlisted the help of the reluctant, overworked City Engineer, who had agreed to let them have access to his records, inasfar as they touched on the mapping of the city. The Mayor was already on the Committee, so civic co-operation was assured, as long as it did not get bogged down in the usual inertia of Indian officialdom.

  John listened with pleasure to the rather deep voice, slightly tinged with a Gloucestershire accent, as she made each point clear. Occasionally, he asked a question. They had no hope, she said, of compiling a properly surveyed map, but, using John’s and the City Engineer’s maps as a base, they hoped to fill in most of the blanks sufficiently well to discover the more pressing needs of the population.

  John considered all this for a minute or two. Then he said, ‘They’ll have to watch that the funds don’t get misappropriated somewhere along the line.’

  ‘Lallubhai is incorrupt,’ said Miss Armstrong, ‘and so are some of the others.’

  ‘Yes. It’s a very good Committee. Jains are like the little girl with a curl in the middle of her forehead. When they’re good, they’re very, very good, and when they’re bad they’re horrid.’

  Miss Armstrong laughed.

  ‘Could you stay to lunch?’ asked John, and he was amused to see her go faintly pink as she answered that it was her free day, and all she had to do was to visit an old woman in Pandipura later in the day.

  John went to confer with Ranjit, who was grinding spices on a flat stone, with a stone rolling pin. He still looked as sour as old milk but agreed that he could feed the lady, if she could take the north Indian food he usually prepared. John said that he was sure that she could eat it, provided he did not put too many chillies in it.

  John returned to his guest and explained the situation to her, and she confirmed that she enjoyed Indian food.

  ‘I eat a good many meals with the Ferozeshahs,’ she said. ‘Mrs Ferozeshah is a friend of mine – she was trained in Edinburgh as a nurse.’

  ‘Ah, I wondered how you coped in a purely Indian hospital.’

  Miss Armstrong blushed at the implications of the remark.

  ‘Oh, I’ve never had any trouble,’ she said. ‘Dr Ferozeshah and his hospital have an excellent reputation, and he’s always treated me very well. He’s an FRCS, you know.’

  ‘I know. He’s lucky, though, to have a State Registered Nurse to help him.’

  She beamed at him, and fingered the tiny brooch pinned to her dress; its enamel and gilt indicated her nurse’s status.

  ‘I find the work very worthwhile. Doctor does a lot of work in the City Hospital – and a good deal in the villages round about. You should see his doorstep at Divali – people come from miles around to bring him thankofferings of flower necklaces or fruit – he won’t take anything else from poorer people.’

  John was enjoying this feminine company more than he cared to admit, and wanted badly to know more about her. He chanced a direct question.

  ‘Have you been with Ferozeshah long?’

  ‘About two and a half years – I was with the Mission of Holiness before.’

  John had never heard of such an institution, and said so.

  ‘They have a tiny Mission about twenty miles north of here – almost in the desert. There were two American nurses, besides myself, and an elderly doctor.’ She hesitated, and then said, ‘They do excellent medical work …’

  ‘A bit “holier than thou”?’

  Miss Armstrong grinned mischievously.

  ‘Very,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t stand it any more, and yet I liked India and was in no hurry to go home. One day, when I’d come to Shahpur to buy shoes, I met Mrs Ferozeshah also trying on footwear. She saw my nurse’s brooch and spoke to me, and ended up asking me to have tea at her house. She used to help her husband in his work, but now she has children she has not much time; and after another visit, when I met Dr Ferozeshah, I was offered my present post. The salary isn’t much – a little more than he would pay an Indian nurse – but I can manage, and both of them are wonderfully kind to me, and I love their children, too.’

  ‘You could nurse in England – and you must have friends there, also.’

  ‘Yes, but the need there isn’t so desperate. Maybe when I’m older and can’t stand the heat so well, I’ll go back home. My father would like to have me at home with him – he is a minister, a widower – and would like me to settle down at the parsonage and keep house for him.’ She looked shyly out of the corners of her eyes at John. ‘I simply couldn’t face it,’ she said with feeling. ‘At least I’m alive here.’

  ‘It can’t be very entertaining for you, here, though. So few English people around.’


  ‘On the contrary, I find I have quite a social life. The Ferozeshahs have introduced me to a number of their friends, and I get invitations to tennis parties and tea parties from all kinds of people. I feel very content. Nobody drives me in any way – I am free.’ She unclasped her hands, which she had previously held tightly in her lap, and made a little opening gesture as if to show how her character had expanded in the wide latitude of Indian life.

  John deliberated over this, and then said, ‘You’re right – I have the same feeling of freedom from social pressure. People aren’t pressed so tightly into moulds here, are they?’

  ‘No, they’re certainly not.’ She gave another of her low soft laughs. ‘Is that why you stay here?’ she asked.

  ‘Me? I – er – well, after the war I just came back to the place I knew best.’ Her question had confused him. He could feel an old depression creeping over him. ‘To be honest, I felt after the war that we should be blown to hell pretty soon and, since there was not much I could do about it, I wanted to enjoy what time was left doing the work I like best. So I came home to Shahpur. After all, I was born here,’ he finished up a little defensively.

  The laughter went from Miss Armstrong’s face and she stared unseeingly out of the window. His reminder of the menacing atomic shadow over the world brought back to her her reasons for taking up nursing. A desire to repair, to build in some small way in a destructive world, had become a dedication so that she had soon lost herself in her work. Now, she never thought further than a day or two ahead, and that mostly when she was arranging Dr Ferozeshah’s tight schedule of visits, operating, and so on.

  She glanced quickly at John. He had absent-mindedly taken out his pipe and was packing tobacco into it, and at the sight of this male refuge being prepared, she smiled.

  ‘I’m told that your coming here has been very fruitful. I’ve read your book about the conquest of the Gujerat in the thirteenth century, and, frankly, I found it so gripping that I read it at a sitting.’

  She wanted badly to cheer him up and see him laugh. Today they were alive and there was time enough to worry about other days when they arrived. She was delighted to have such a cultivated Englishman to whom to talk and wanted desperately to please him.

  He was grateful to her for turning the conversation, and replied, quite cheerfully, ‘Ala-ud-din the Bloody in 1297. He was nearly as thorough as present day conquerors.’ And once launched, he kept her spellbound, while he told her tales of ancient Shahpur.

  The door to the back veranda swung open. A frigid Ranjit, in clean shirt and dhoti, announced that lunch was ready.

  Miss Armstrong ate neatly with her fingers, using pieces of bread as a spoon where necessary, as did John. Afterwards, he persuaded her to wait a little, in the hope that the heat would decrease, before she set out to see her patient in Pandipura; but it was still very hot when she announced that she must go, and firmly picked up her small, black bag. He looked at her uneasily.

  ‘Would you like Ranjit to accompany you?’ he asked. ‘The police are supposed to be looking for the train robbers in this district.’

  ‘I heard about it,’ she said. ‘But I shall be all right, thank you very much. The police know me and most of the villagers do, too.’ She went to the door and opened the umbrella. ‘Mr Lallubhai has promised to invite you to the next Committee meeting. I do hope you can come.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said John. ‘Only too happy to help.’

  He was rewarded by a quick smile from beneath the ugly umbrella, and he felt reluctant to let her go. The Indian countryside was not a place for a woman to walk alone, particularly when it was believed dacoits were in the district. He told himself that his disquietude was unwarranted, that she was obviously accustomed to going about by herself and that the robbers had probably made all haste back to Saurastra, their usual stronghold.

  He saw her out of the gate and received again her thanks, then closed the gate and shot the bolt.

  Back in his room, he surveyed with distaste its cell-like bareness; only the desk with its untidy piles of paper spoke of life and work. He sat down on his chair and thumbed idly through his notes, which represented months of research. Determinedly, he picked up his pen and began to write.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Tilak went slowly up the long, stone staircase which led to his rooms. His back hurt more than he had admitted to John, and his spirits had suffered an equal blow. He could still hardly believe that a student had stoned him.

  He dropped his briefcase on to the cement floor of his living-room, shut the door quietly and locked it. His second room led off the first and had been used by his mother and Damyanti.

  He peeled off his shirt and vest to examine the backs of them. They both had a little blood on them, so he took down the cracked piece of mirror which served him when shaving, to have a look at the wound.

  By holding the mirror at an angle and peering over his shoulder he was able to see the nasty weal, raw in places, which the brick had caused. He put the mirror down on his work table, on which the remains of a hasty breakfast still lay.

  Deeply depressed, unsure of what to do, he crawled on to his unmade bed and lay there through the long, hot afternoon until darkness fell, his thoughts wandering miserably backwards and forwards over the events of the previous few days.

  Footsteps in the passageway stopped at his door, and a white envelope shot under it and across the floor. He sat up quickly, winced when his back hurt him, and went to retrieve the missive.

  In a polite note, Professor Jain regretted that a tea party, to which Tilak had been invited, had been cancelled, owing to unforeseen circumstances. ‘Arree,’ grunted Tilak. ‘Poor frog – you are now called unforeseen circumstances.’ Irritably he screwed up the note and flung it into a corner.

  This letter reminded him of another, and he went to his briefcase and took it out. Delicately, he unfolded the two precious sheets of paper, and went back to his bed to sit down and read them again. The first page said:

  Dear Dr Tilak, I am requested by the Committee of the Thomas Jones Foundation to inform you that they have considered your recent application and are pleased to grant you a Thomas Jones Fellowship, tenable at our laboratories in London from October 1st, 1951, for two years, after which consideration may be given to extension of this period by a further year. The scholarship consists of a grant of £700 per annum plus travelling expenses to and from England, and a small sum to cover visits to universities during your stay here. Kindly let me know when you expect to be able to take up the Fellowship.

  Yours sincerely, Ian MacAngus, Secretary.

  The second sheet was an informal and kindly epistle from Mr MacAngus, congratulating him and offering advice regarding travel and accommodation.

  Tilak caressed the letters gently with his fingertips. The Head of the Foundation was Sir Andrew Diamond, a specialist in Tilak’s field; and Tilak knew that, working under such a great man, he would expand his own knowledge and could hope for international recognition of his research.

  Could he marry Anasuyabehn in a civil ceremony, get her a passport and whisk her out of the country, before her father could catch them? An elopement, that was the English word for it. The problem was that the Fellowship was not available until October and as yet it was only March; the Desai marriage was probably planned for sometime in the next two months.

  ‘What the hell shall I do?’ he fumed. ‘What can I do?’

  Would his uncle offer for her? No point in that; he would almost certainly be turned down politely, on the grounds that she was already betrothed. Alternatively, if he approached the Dean himself and begged a reconsideration of her present commitment, he would court an immediate rebuff. His dead frog would be enough to put the Dean off, never mind the problem of untangling himself from an agreed marriage. To add to the problem, there was always the argument that they were of different religions and different language groups.

  While he stewed over the problem, he lit his Primus stove and made a
cup of coffee. He took it over to the open window and sat down on the sill.

  From the floor below rose the din of brass on brass as seven Brahmin students were served their dinner by the Brahmin servant they jointly employed to cook for them, and Tilak realized fretfully that the vegetable seller had not called on him that evening. This worthy, being the brother of the nightwatchman, was able to go through the hostel hawking vegetables, and he had never missed calling on Tilak before.

  Perplexed, Tilak put down his cup and went out into the passage, in case he had failed to hear his knock and the man had left some vegetables outside his door. There was nothing. Three doors down, a wilting green leaf testified to his passing. Tilak’s eyes hardened and he went quickly back into his room and banged the door shut.

  The vegetable seller was a Muslim and it meant nothing to him that Tilak chopped up animals or fish for his research. It did, however, mean a great deal to him if some of the larger Jain families or groups of Jain students, who lived in or around the students’ hostel, indicated that they would take their business elsewhere, if he continued to serve Dr Tilak on the second floor. Undoubtedly, the vegetable seller’s memory would slip conveniently, and Dr Tilak would be forgotten. Tilak wondered if the milkman would also forget.

  He surveyed the grain bins in the corner of his room and wondered if he should cook himself some rice and lentils. He decided that it was too much trouble. Instead, he took down a round brass tin from the shelf and extracted half a small loaf of bread from it. Dipping pieces of it into another cup of coffee, he wandered round the room eating it. Though the bread was very dry, the austere meal revived him and improved his ragged temper.

  Tilak could hear the nightwatchman doing his first round, stumping his staff on the ground to warn thieves, snakes and scorpions of his coming. He went back to sit on the windowsill. The chatter of students returning from their evening walks subsided, and a later wave, returning from the cinemas, was also swallowed up by the great hostel, and still Tilak sat grappling with his problem – Anasuyabehn.