Out of India. Ruth Prawer Jhabvala

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СКАЧАТЬ that feeling of dislike against him, that grudge against the useless dead old man. It was eighteen or nineteen years now since they had married her to him: and if he had been capable, wouldn’t she have had a son like Govind now, a strong, healthy, handsome boy with big shoulders and his beard just growing? She smiled at the thought, full of tenderness, and forgetting her husband, thought instead how it would be if Govind were her son. She would not treat him like his mother did—would never reproach him, shout at him down the stairs—but, on the contrary, encourage him in all his pleasures so that, first thing when he came home, he would call to her—“Mama!”—and they would sit together affectionately, more like brother and sister, or even two friends, than like mother and son, while he told her everything that had happened to him during the day.

      She stepped closer to the mirror—her sari lying carelessly where it had fallen around her feet—and looked at herself, drawing her hand over her skin. Yes, she was still soft and smooth and who could see the tiny little lines, no more than shadows, that lay around her eyes and the corners of her mouth? And how fine her eyes still were, how large and black and how they shone. And her hair too—she unwound it from its pins and it dropped down slowly, heavy and black and sleek with oil, and not one gray hair in it.

      As she stood there, looking at herself in nothing but her short blouse and her waist petticoat, with her hair down, suddenly another image appeared behind her in the mirror: an old woman, gray and shabby and squinting and with an ingratiating smile on her face. “I am not disturbing?” Bhuaji said.

      Durga bent down to pick up her sari. She began to fold it, but Bhuaji took it from her and did it far more deftly, the tip of her tongue eagerly protruding from her mouth.

      “Why did you come?” Durga said, watching her. Bhuaji made no reply, but went on folding the sari, and when she had finished, she smoothed it ostentatiously from both sides. Durga lay down on the bed. As a matter of fact, she found she was quite glad that Bhuaji had come to see her.

      She asked, “How long is it since they married me?”

      “Let me see,” Bhuaji said. She squatted by the side of the bed and began to massage Durga’s legs. “It is fifteen years, sixteen . . .”

      “No, eighteen.”

      Bhuaji nodded in agreement, her lips mumbling as she worked something out in her head, her hands still skillfully massaging.

      “Eighteen years,” Durga said reflectively. “I could have been—”

      “Yes, a grandmother by now,” said Bhuaji, smiling widely with all her empty gums.

      Durga suddenly pushed those soothing massaging hands away and sat upright. “Leave me alone! Why do you come here, who called you?”

      Instead of sitting in her courtyard, Durga was now often to be found pacing up and down by the door that led to the staircase. When Govind came down, she always had a word for him. At first he was shy with her and left her as quickly as possible; sometimes he waited for her to go away before he came down or went up. But she was patient with him. She understood and even sympathized with his shyness: he was young, awkward perhaps, like a child, and didn’t know how much good she meant him. But she persevered; she would ask him questions like: “You go often to the cinema?” or “What are you studying?” to prove to him how interested she was in him, interested like a mother or a favorite aunt, and ready to talk on any topic with him.

      And slowly he responded. Instead of dashing away, he began to stand still at the bottom of the steps and to answer her questions; at first in monosyllables but soon, when his interest was stirred, at greater length; and finally at such great length that it seemed pointless to go on standing there in that dark cramped space when he could go into her house and sit there with her and drink almond sherbet. He kept on talking and told her everything: who were his friends, who his favorite film stars, his ambition to go abroad, to become an aircraft engineer. She listened and watched him while he spoke; she watched and watched him, her eyes fixed on his face. She became very familiar with his face, yet always it was new to her. When he smiled, two little creases appeared in his cheeks. His teeth were large and white, his hair sprang from a point on his forehead. Everything about him was young and fresh and strong—even his smell, which was that of a young animal full of sap and sperm.

      She loved to do little things for him. At first only to ply him with almond sherbet and sweetmeats, of which he could take great quantities; later to give him money—beginning with small amounts, a rupee here and there, but then going on to five- and even ten-rupee notes. He wanted money so badly and his parents gave him so little. It was wrong to keep a boy short of money when he needed a lot: for treating his friends, for his surreptitious cigarettes, for T-shirts and jeans such as he saw other boys wearing.

      It became so that he got into the habit of asking her for whatever he wanted. How could she refuse? On the contrary, she was glad and proud to give—if only to see the look of happiness on his face, his eyes shining at the thought of what he was going to buy, his smile, which brought little creases into his cheeks. At such moments she was warm and sick with mother’s love, she longed to cradle his head and stroke his hair. He was her son, her child.

      That was exactly what his mother told her: “He is your son also, your child.” Mrs. Puri was glad to see Durga take such an interest in the boy. She taught him to say thank you for everything that Durga gave him and to call her auntie. She made pickle very often and sent it down in jars. She also came down herself and talked to Durga for hours on end about her family problems. So much was needed, and where was it all to come from? Mr. Puri’s salary was small—175 rupees a month plus dearness allowance—and he spent a lot on betel and cigarettes and other pleasures. And what was to become of her poor children? Such good children they were, as anyone who took an interest in them was bound to find out. They needed a helping hand in life, that was all. Her boy, and her two girls who ought to have been married a year ago. She sent the girls down quite often, but Durga always sent them quickly back up again.

      Toward the beginning of each month, when the rent was due, Govind came down every day with pickle and after a while Mrs. Puri would follow him. Dabbing with her sari in the corner of her eye, she would give an exact account of her monthly expenditure, what were her debts and what she had in hand, so that Durga could see for herself how impossible it was to impose any demand for rent on such an overburdened budget. And though Durga at first tried to ignore these plaints, this became more and more difficult, and in the end she always had to say that she would not mind waiting a few days longer. After which Mrs. Puri dried her eyes and the subject of rent was not mentioned again between them till the first week of the following month, when the whole procedure was repeated. In this way several months’ rent accumulated—a fact that, had it been brought to their notice, would have surprised Durga’s previous tenants, who had not found her by any means so lenient a landlady.

      The relatives were much alarmed at this growing friendship with the Puris, which seemed to them both ominous and unnatural. What need had Durga to befriend strangers when there were all her own relatives, to whom she was bound in blood and duty? They became very indignant with her, but had to keep a check on their tongues; for Durga was short-tempered with them these days and, if they touched on subjects or showed moods not to her liking, was quicker than ever to show them the door. But something obviously had to be said and it was Bhuaji who took it upon herself to say it.

      She began by praising Govind. A good boy, she said, that she could see at a glance, respectful and well mannered, just the sort of boy whom one ought to encourage and help on in life. She had nothing at all against Govind. But his mother now, and his sisters—Bhuaji, looking sideways at Durga, sadly shook her head. Alas, she knew women like that only too well, she had come across too many of them to be taken in by their soft speech. Greedy and shameless, that was what they were, self-seeking and unscrupulous, with their one aim to fasten upon СКАЧАТЬ