House of the Sun (21 page)

‘Already she is eighteen,’ Mrs Hathiramani remarked, turning her head in scrutiny of Rani.

‘Such things are in God’s hands.’ Mrs Murjani was non-commital.

‘I will not marry yet,’ Rani screamed, struggling against the mounds of flesh pressing about her. ‘I am going to study. I shall be a doctor or do social work. I shall—’

Mrs Hathiramani clicked her tongue. ‘Who will marry you if you do these things? You wish to repay the love of your parents by being a burden for life upon them?’

‘If they had not married her like that, Lakshmi would still be alive,’ Rani replied, pushing herself free of the women and sitting forward on the seat.

‘Her case is different. For you a nice boy will be found,’ Mrs Bhagwandas chuckled.

‘I shall study,’ Rani insisted. Mrs Hathiramani laughed, and looked at Mrs Murjani.

‘Sister, you will allow her to do these things?’ She chucked Rani’s cheek affectionately. ‘In Lakshmi’s family the karma is bad. For you there is nothing to worry.’

Mrs Murjani turned in panic on the front seat,
glaring
at the women over Rani’s bowed head; all she needed was their ignorance at this vital point. Mrs Hathiramani misinterpreted her expression for one of conspiracy.

‘Oh ho. So, already you have found her a boy? Is his skin colour fair, is his father rich? We too can find good boys for her. Mr Hathiramani knows many fine families from Rohri and Sukkur, even from Hyderabad, Sind.’

Rani raised her head in fury. Mrs Murjani put a hand on her arm to calm her. ‘If she wishes to study we will think about it. Times are different now,’ she said. Rani looked at her in surprise, Mrs Murjani smiled defiantly at the women.

‘Oh ho. So, you will let her get even to twenty-five
without a husband? What times indeed we live in now,’ Mrs Hathiramani exclaimed. ‘Who will marry her at twenty-five?’

Mrs Murjani turned away. Rani must not suspect her aims were in harmony with Mrs Bhagwandas and Mrs Hathiramani. It would need all her skill to meet Mrs Premchand as arranged, the timing was so wrong. It would take Rani weeks to get over the shock of Lakshmi’s death. And the inquest had been reported in the press, for all Bombay to see. She prayed this publicity would have no adverse effect on all that was planned for Rani.

*

On the pyre in the crematorium, oil was poured
liberally
over Lakshmi, and the flame was lighted. They left her then to burn, returning again to the Samtanis’ home.

From the kitchen Mrs Samtani had produced a large, greasy, green and yellow tin that had once contained cooking oil. It waited in the hallway in a plastic carrier bag, stamped with the name of a sari shop.

‘I will not put her ashes in this,’ Sham choked. Beside him Hari shrugged.

‘What does it matter?’ he asked.

‘This too is not good enough for her, I suppose?’ Mrs Samtani replied.

‘No, it is not good enough.’ Sham turned upon them both. The living room was orderly, the furniture returned to its place after the sweeper had washed the floors. The smell of carbolic was strong, but did not eradicate the odour of death, still lingering in the room.

‘Most people use such tins. Size is right. Why waste money? It is only to be thrown in the sea,’ Mrs Samtani sniffed coldly.

‘I will not have it,’ Sham whispered.

‘We have no money to waste on expensive
containers
,’ Mrs Samtani replied.

‘I will buy one.’ Sham turned to the front door again. Mrs Samtani raised her eyebrows.

‘Aluminium will do,’ she advised, seeing he was determined. ‘Four or five kilo capacity is best. Do not waste money on stainless steel.’

‘I will buy what I want,’ he replied, and slammed the door upon her. On the steps he faced again the kitchen window, within which he had last glimpsed Lakshmi alive.

He walked through narrow streets, clogged with people and cupboard-like shops selling saris or
saucepans
, buttons and thread. A barrow of glassware, another of pegs and plastic cups. A stall of cow pats and one of funeral articles he recognized from the morning’s experience, children’s clothes, religious images. At last he was directed to the right street, shop after hardware shop ran before him. He demanded stainless steel.
Containers
of every size were shown him for the storage of wheat and rice, at enormous prices. He shook his head and turned away, reduced miserably to Mrs Samtani’s recommendations. In a shop piled with red buckets, frying pans and colanders, an aluminium bin was found and a jute shopping bag to put it in. He returned to the Samtanis’ house.

Later the next day the tin weighed heavily, filled with Lakshmi’s ashes. To his horror other tins had also been needed; the wood ash of the pyre added bulk. Hari, with a smirk, had produced the cooking oil tin and several more besides. They had filled them with their own hands, after separating the splinters of bone, and deposits of calcium that remained. They took the ashes to the sea. Sham walked ahead with his portion of Lakshmi. He carried the tin in the jute shopping bag, and had heaped rose petals and marigolds upon it. Hari and his father followed behind, struggling with their load of tins in bulging plastic carrier bags, bright with the logos of shoe and sari shops. At the end of a
quiet cul-de-sac, the tide washed at the base of a low sea wall. Sham walked on towards it.

He would have liked to have done it properly, to have taken some part of Lakshmi to Nasik, Hardwar or Varanasi, so that the sacred waters of the Ganges might touch her with their light. But it was not possible; the sea of Mahim was the best he could do. A bleached jute bag, a new aluminium tin, hidden almost beneath a mound of flower petals; he clung fiercely to these tangibilities. Before him now was the sea, stretching out, unfettered, its salt sting in his nostrils. He took a deep breath of it.

Hari and his father prised open the lids of their various tins, and flung their loads quickly over the wall, into the sea. The plastic bags hit the water with a splash, sinking with their weight, lost immediately from view. Hari wiped his hands on his trousers as he turned away. Mr Samtani spat into the gutter.

Sham knelt on the wall and leaned forward,
sprinkling
the ashes from his container carefully upon the water. They spread out over the surface, and mixed and swam with the movement of the sea. The rose and marigold petals floated freely upon the tide. The empty tin and the jute bag bobbed, and sank slowly. He watched the water close upon them and their descent below the surface, growing gradually fainter, sucked away from the shore to the shapelessness of the sea, until he could see them no more. Behind him Hari and Mr Samtani lit cigarettes. He turned and walked quickly away, not pausing to look at them.

‘So very sorry,’ Akbar Ali said softly to Sham, sitting behind his desk in his warped green room. Malik too looked up from his work, and added his sympathy for the death of Lakshmi.

‘I know of sadness,’ Akbar continued. ‘My son died some years ago. He was a smart boy like you. I got him a smart-boy education in America. He became so educated he was ashamed of his father. In this shame he stayed on in America, and there he was killed in a car crash.’ Akbar took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. Sham looked down at his hands; he had become fond of Akbar. He clenched his teeth to control his own emotions, at this talk of Lakshmi.

‘Such things must not happen to other sisters,’ Akbar continued, pushing his handkerchief back into a pocket. ‘You must give them good dowries, and find them good husbands. This new idea of yours I like, and in the project I will give you some share. Now, put this
sadness
behind you, still there are others depending upon you. Go today and ask these Watumals if they are willing to discuss our proposition.’ Akbar placed a fleshy hand upon Sham’s shoulder.

*

Lata looked at him in surprise as she opened the door. ‘Mohan is out, but Father is in,’ she said at his inquiry and gave him a wide, clear smile.

A dreary, bandaged landscape enveloped him as he stepped inside. The grubby pink of Elastoplast spotted the room in a manic way. Sunita stared sulkily from the couch where she lay, with a magazine propped up on her stomach, and a box of sweetmeats beside her.
The smell of frying spices hung thickly in the air. On a narrow balcony beyond the kitchen, Mrs Watumal could be seen crouched on a stool before a kerosene stove, stirring the contents of a large pot; leakage from the Murjanis’ bathroom still corroded the walls of the Watumals’ kitchen. Seeing Sham she heaved herself up, waddled into the room and sank into the nearest chair, bringing with her a strong recharge of spicy aroma. Above a dirty housecoat, diamond studs
glittered
in her ears, another diamond swelled like a crystal wart on a nostril; nothing else in the room seemed as bright. She looked at him assessingly from small eyes, skin glistening from the heat of cooking.

‘Nowadays, children are only causing headaches to their parents,’ Mrs Watumal announced and wiped sweat from her neck with a towel; turmeric powder stained her hands. ‘What must the state of your poor mother be now? Why did you not pay full dowry for Lakshmi?’ She sat forward, her legs wide apart beneath the flowered housecoat, her face full of blunt,
disapproving
inquiry.

‘Mummy,’ Lata exclaimed in a desperate tone.

Sham was grateful for Lata’s indignation. He explained about Japan, and the urgent need of money for his father’s medicines and treatment that had
pressured
him so much. He explained about the Samtanis’ deviousness in a low, emotional voice. Mrs Watumal listened, shaking her head, and at the end wiped her eyes on her sari, smearing turmeric on to her chin. Lata bit her lips in silence. Only Sunita remained unemotional, staring at them from the sofa, sweetmeat crumbs around her mouth.

‘Too much, too much,’ Mrs Watumal moaned softly. ‘But I understand now; you are not really a thief. One day I will take you to our Burmawalla. She will explain; these things are not normal happenings.’

Mr Watumal appeared from an inner room. He
clasped Sham to him in an embrace of damp sympathy, shaking his head sadly in commiseration. ‘Who can tell what destiny has in store for us? Still my own children are waiting to marry. Times are bad.’ Mr Watumal blew his nose emotionally into a large, checked handkerchief.

‘Without money we are nowhere. I hear now you have a good job; for other sisters you will provide dowries. You understand your responsibilities, unlike our Mohan,’ Mr Watumal sighed. ‘He thinks he has only to put out his hand to pluck money from thin air. He has advised me to say “hands up”, with my
business
. He does not think of his sisters, and the effect this shame will have upon their lives. Who will marry them when it is known we are bankrupt?’

Mrs Watumal gave a wail of pain at her husband’s remark. ‘Are you stirring the vegetable?’ she screamed into the kitchen to the servant, to vent her agitation.

‘Why must you always worry about us?’ Lata soothed. ‘I am working now. I can run the factory as well as Mohan. I will never marry.’

Mrs Watumal gave another wail. ‘What words are these from the lips of a girl? Oh God.’

‘Why tempt fate with such talk, daughter?’ Mr Watumal cautioned.

‘She wishes me also to stay unmarried.’ Sunita sat up angrily on the couch, the magazine tumbled off her stomach. ‘She thinks I should also work, I can hear it in her voice.’

Mrs Watumal moaned again in agitation. ‘The usefulness of women is in the bearing of children, and the duties of wife. Add salt now to the
dal,’
she
screamed
again into the kitchen.

She observed Sunita stretched out upon the sofa, and wished she was not so fat; modern boys preferred slim girls. She stared bitterly at both daughters. That
morning
Mrs Bhagwandas had offered to approach, on the
Watumals’ behalf, an eligible widower brought recently to her notice as a prospective husband for Sunita. Mrs Watumal had been cast into deep despair. It was the offer she had known must eventually come. The day appeared a landmark; one age had passed and another had begun.

‘He is a good man,’ Mrs Bhagwandas had said softly. For the first time the word ‘man’, and not ‘boy’ was used. Mrs Watumal had waited in dread.

‘He has his own business, own car, own house,’ Mrs Bhagwandas continued. ‘And children are not so young, only the smallest she will have to care for. He is willing to put the elder two in boarding school, she will have to see them only in holidays. He was a good husband to his first wife, he keeps her picture
everywhere
. He wishes to marry again because of his
children
.’ Mrs Watumal collapsed in tears.

‘It is better now to consider such a marriage,’ Mrs Bhagwandas comforted. ‘Only these kind of offers will come now for Sunita; already she is thirty-one.’

‘What age is he?’ Mrs Watumal sobbed.

‘He is still young, forty-five,’ Mrs Bhagwandas replied. Mrs Watumal gave a loud cry.

‘There have been other offers,’ Mrs Bhagwandas continued in a firm tone of voice. ‘I have not brought them to your notice for they were unsuitable, one was even seventy-five years old. There is still Lata to think of. You must be practical now. There is no other way,’ Mrs Bhagwandas advised. ‘Of course no dowry is needed in such a match,’ she added, averting her eyes.

This conversation revolved again now in Mrs
Watumal’s
head. ‘Put the tamarind to soak,’ she screamed to the servant, and then turned upon Lata. ‘Who has put these strange thoughts of work into your head?’ she demanded.

‘They are my own thoughts,’ Lata replied, pushing up her chin.

‘She thinks she will be a career woman,’ Sunita smirked, biting into a pistachio sweetmeat. ‘She dreams of being Prime Minister one day.’

‘You are doing well, daughter,’ Mr Watumal assured Lata in an effort to calm the atmosphere. ‘But the full responsibilities of work are only for men. A woman is not fit for such a job.’

‘Why not?’ Lata argued.

‘If she can do it, why not?’ Sham agreed, speaking up suddenly, surprised at himself. Lata turned her clear smile upon him. ‘She has done more than Mohan,’ he ventured. The leg of the chair was loose, and wobbled dangerously beneath him.

Mr Watumal nodded in sad agreement. ‘Mohan is without interest in the business, I cannot force him to it. But Lata cannot run it alone. Soon our condition will be known in the market.’ Mr Watumal’s face folded mournfully, his wife groaned.

‘It is about the business that I want to talk,’ Sham announced.

Mr Watumal listened in silence as Sham spread out Akbar’s plan. Sunita yawned, and settled to her
magazine
. Mrs Watumal twisted her sari round her fingers and returned to anxious thoughts: a man with three children might want no more; motherhood would be denied Sunita, grandchildren would be denied Mrs Watumal. Only Lata sat forward beside her father, in a concentrated manner. Above her the fronds of the devil’s-tongue plant stretched in a net over walls and ceiling, pinioned by snippets of Mohan’s Elastoplast. Meeting her eyes as he talked, Sham saw their
intensity
, and realized that the success of the project was as important to Lata as to him. A common desperation seemed to bind them together.

‘Why should a man like Akbar Ali be interested in our business?’ Lata asked.

‘I know of his past reputation,’ Mr Watumal said. ‘Why should we trust such a man?’

‘Now he is in legitimate business. You know what he has done with Rebotco Mills,’ Sham persuaded. Mr Watumal nodded. ‘Soon Rebotco will show a profit,’ Sham added.

‘Profit,’ Mr Watumal sighed. ‘That is a word I had forgotten.’ He looked up at a loud ring on the doorbell. ‘Ah, here at last is Mohan. Let us talk with him.’

Mohan entered, and scowled at the sight of Sham. ‘I told you I was not interested,’ he said angrily to Sham, when Akbar’s offer was explained to him. ‘If you want to help, think about those villas.’

‘His idea is good. The terms of the partnership sound fair,’ Lata insisted. She could see the possibilities, a growth she would be part of.

Mohan sat down and gritted his teeth. ‘So you won’t help with my project?’ he asked. Sham shook his head.

‘Even Homi and Ranjit want to shelve it,’ Mohan burst out. ‘What am I to do?’

‘Meet with Akbar. We have nothing to lose,’ Lata replied. Her father nodded. Mohan looked up and scowled again, but Sham felt the strength of Lata’s decision and noticed the brightness of her eyes.

Mrs Watumal gave a deep sigh, immersed in her thoughts, deaf to the talk of business about her,
wrestling
with decisions of her own. There seemed no choice. She must tell Mrs Bhagwandas she would
consider
the widower, and ask her to find another for Lata. She would consult Burmawallah on the
appropriateness
of the matter, and ask for some help in breaking the news to Mr Watumal. It would not be easy to persuade him to what point their daughters’ fortunes had sunk.

Lata returned with Sham to the seventh floor, sent in concern by Mrs Watumal with a bowl of thick, nourishing lentils and spinach made by her that
morning
.
The Pumnanis’ rooms were dim, and full of the lingering odours of pickle, incense and antiseptic. Lata embraced Rekha, took Padma’s hand, and put her arm about Veena. The two girls clung to her as she sat upon the bed between them. From the far end of the room, behind the screen, old Kishin Pumnani moaned.

‘He has understood, although we have told him nothing,’ whispered Rekha, looking towards her
husband
. ‘All day he calls Lakshmi’s name.’

There was, in these sad circumstances, no need to refresh a guest, but Veena got up on an order from Rekha and went to make some tea. Lata followed her to the kitchen with Padma, ignoring all protests, and carried in the tray herself. She knelt before Rekha who crouched on a stool, swollen with tears at new
sympathy
, and pressed a cup into her hands.

‘Drink,’ she encouraged. ‘Your strength is needed for them all.’

Rekha’s lips trembled, but she took the tea. Lata placed a cup beside Chachi, drawing up a small table beside the string bed. Chachi raised herself with a sigh and wiped her eyes on her veil, squinting up at Lata. Before she handed Sham his cup, Lata stirred it carefully.

He noticed the deftness of her movements, and the gentleness of her touch. She helped Chachi to a sitting position on the string bed, and tipped the tea into the saucer for the old woman to slurp as she wished. The room seemed to gather about her. Her solidness was a comfort, its effect visible upon them all.

He was aware of these same qualities when he saw her again in the factory; the quiet issue of orders, the quick appraisals and decisions. Her hands moved, as he had imagined, with sureness amongst the sheaves of paper. This efficiency seemed incongruous in the sluggish factory.

He had brought Akbar to see the place, to make a
first assessment, but suddenly Sham was unsure of his own judgement. Dust and heat stifled, workers were few and machines stiff with disuse. Rusting metal, stacked parts and drums of chemicals stood desolate. Looking down from the window of a small office at the top of a flight of stairs, the factory shed seemed a wasteland, spread out below, filthy and obsolete. Sham wondered if he had been right to present it as a
proposition
to Akbar. The state of the place was nothing like Rebotco Mills, which had been in functioning order even at its lowest ebb, and easy to resuscitate.

But behind him in the small office where Lata had established herself, there was arrangement and
briskness
and the cool of air-conditioning. Mohan sat glumly sprawled in a chair; it was Lata who explained things to Akbar. Mr Watumal, like his son, seemed almost unaware of what was happening. Lata opened books and pointed to lists, explained the complexities of entries, and a past of bitter mistakes. Her father looked down at his feet at this frankness.

Akbar joined Sham at the window, and stared for a moment at the desolation below, before turning again to the room. ‘This is a very great mess,’ he reported to Mr Watumal. ‘This is not what I expected,’ he announced to Sham.

‘It is not as bad as it seems,’ Lata argued, stepping forward. Akbar took no notice of her. Mr Watumal and Mohan said nothing.

‘In Rebotco only management was needed to make money. Here, much money must be put in to start up again. These machines are very old,’ Akbar replied, addressing Mohan, who looked away in
embarrassment
.

‘I have it all worked out,’ answered Lata. She held out diagrams and papers to Akbar. ‘It will not take so much to get the place working again. And the same
machines, with small adaptations, could also be turned to other uses, to produce a greater variety of things.’