The Moneylenders of Shahpur. Helen Forrester

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СКАЧАТЬ he went to retrieve the child, he shouted a warning to the driver. He pulled the youngster to its feet and, with a pat on its behind, sent it back through the gate. He paused himself, because the awkward bending had hurt his legs. The mangy horse drew up by him, and its owner leaned down from beside the driver.

      Mahadev Desai smiled and bowed. ‘Good evening, John. Can I give you a lift anywhere? Nice to see you.’

      John surveyed the plump speaker through the dust engendered by the carriage. He had known Mahadev casually for most of his life. He was the son of a powerful moneylender and jeweller; but today he wore, like any fairly prosperous businessman, a plain white cotton shirt, jacket and trousers. A white Gandhi cap surmounted a moonlike, though not unhandsome, face. Shrewd eyes stared unblinkingly, while he awaited John’s answer. Behind him, sat his younger brother and sister-in-law, who murmured ‘Namuste’ in greeting.

      ‘No, thanks,’ replied John. ‘I called to you, because I wasn’t sure if your driver had seen my landlord’s grandchild – the little tike had strayed into the lane.’

      ‘I saw him, Sahib,’ the driver interjected hastily, lest he be blamed for carelessness.

      John nodded, and inquired after Mahadev and his family. The cadences of the man’s voice, he thought, had not changed over the years. He knew the nervous respect with which Mahadev was treated in the city. The Desai Society in which he lived was nearly in the centre of the old town, and from it, financial tentacles stretched out into the mills and homes of half the city, even as far as Delhi and out to Europe, it was said. Nobody held more mortgages and family jewellery in pledge. Nobody could put pressure on a hapless debtor faster than the Desais, or produce a bigger bribe when needed. Their knowledge of invective, that priceless asset of any Indian moneylender, had not been lost as their business became enormously expanded. John had heard Mahadev himself, before he had taken charge of their business in France, screaming in the bazaar at some unfortunate businessman, while a crowd gathered to see the fun, and the police vanished.

      Desai was speaking to him.

      ‘I am going to catch the Delhi Mail, after calling on Dean Mehta,’ he confided in a slightly pompous whisper.

      ‘Indeed,’ said John absent-mindedly, his thoughts already wandering back to his book. ‘A pleasant journey.’

      ‘Thank you,’ replied Desai graciously. ‘A-jo.’

      ‘Goodbye,’ said John, stepping back as the driver, in response to a gesture from Desai, whipped up the horse.

      John went slowly back into the bungalow. The children had gone in for their evening meal. The wind still whined its threat of a dust storm.

      He went back to his desk and looked again at his sketches of the Dreams of Trisala, so often meditated upon by Jain women. He saw instead the ivory-coloured face of Mahadev.

      The wife of one of his father’s old friends on campus had told him that the well-known moneylender was considering remarriage; as one of the richer men in Shaphur he was of interest. His first wife, she said, had died in childbirth and, soon after her death, he had been sent by his father to Paris, presumably in connection with their business in fine jewellery. Rumour had it that he had opened an elegant jewellery shop there, where they sold silver filigree and other Indian-designed ornaments. By all accounts, this venture had thrived well.

      Now Mahadev was home again and, perhaps because of his hairstyle, looked rather Westernized. He was not so influenced, however, that he had lost the ancient instinct of a moneylender to hide his wealth; he was still dressed quite humbly and drove a half-starved horse.

      John smiled to himself, as he remembered Ranjit’s description of why Mahadev Desai was being encouraged to look for another wife.

      ‘It is well known, Sahib,’ Ranjit had said, ‘that the older Desais fear greatly that Mahadev may take a French woman to wife – France is next to England, isn’t it, Sahib? And there has already been enough trouble in the Desai Society.

      ‘The Society was quite happy when ruled by Mahadev’s mother and father, and his little daughter blossomed in spite of the lack of a mother. But when the old lady died and that shrew of a younger sister-in-law became the eldest lady, then, Sahib, trouble seemed to spread from house to house inside their compound. The cousin brothers went away because their wives would no longer stand the ceaseless nagging. Then the wretched woman complained to all the neighbours that she was worked to death, because there was no other woman in the house – though they do have a number of servants, Sahib.’

      Ranjit had stopped to blow his nose into a corner of his handkerchief which was not knotted round the housekeeping money, and had then gone on disparagingly, ‘Trust them to think of the most economical thing to do – they are persuading Mahadev that he must marry again.’

       CHAPTER FIVE

      As Mahadev continued on his way to visit Dean Mehta, he mused on the charms of his possible future wife.

      He wished to marry for reasons other than economy. He had discovered, to his cost, that a well-to-do Indian jeweller, alone in Paris, could be quite popular amongst women; and their bare legs and tight dresses had been a constant temptation, to which he had, too often, succumbed.

      He thought that an educated Indian wife might keep him out of further mischief; he could take her on his travels. He also passionately desired a son. He was fond of his little daughter, but, all too soon, she would grow to marriageable age and leave him, whereas a son would be a joy to him all his life.

      For different reasons, the older Desais were of the same mind. Mahadev had hardly distributed the gifts he had brought from France several weeks before, when, with sly hints, the matter was broached. Girls of suitable caste and orthodoxy were suggested; Mahadev found fault with all of them.

      ‘It looks as if our French investment will flourish,’ he reminded his father, ‘so it is important that I should have a wife able to mix with French ladies.’

      ‘French women!’ exclaimed his father. ‘She’ll live in this house. She doesn’t have to go with you to Paris.’

      Mahadev felt the perspiration trickling down his back. He did not know how to explain to his father the witchery of the women he had seen in France. The amount of sin he had accumulated during his visit appalled him; somewhere, sometime, it would have to be expiated.

      ‘It’s the custom in France to travel with one’s wife,’ he lied in desperation. ‘It’s expected of one.’

      His father digested this information in silence. He was aware of the pitfalls of travel. There was the temptation to eat meat, for example.

      As if reading his thoughts, Mahadev said, with a burst of inspiration, ‘It’s extremely difficult to eat properly without someone to cook for me.’

      ‘Ah,’ exclaimed his father, satisfied at last. ‘Most of the girls whom your uncles mentioned can read and write. They’d be docile enough and do whatever you asked.’

      Mahadev mentally dismissed the whole solemn, dull collection of them. He had seen a woman walking, with her boy servant, near the University. He had known her for years by sight. He remembered her long plait of hair swinging softly over pretty, rounded shoulders, her delicate ivory skin, her demurely lowered eyelids. СКАЧАТЬ