House of the Sun (8 page)

‘You wait and see. I’m also going to have a career,’ insisted the girl with the plait. ‘I shall refuse to marry.’

Sham recognized her now. Rani Murjani had grown up in the three years he had been away; she must be eighteen. He tried to remember what she had looked
like before, but could recall only an insignificant child in a short skirt and ankle socks. Now foreign men looked at her, passing her table. She turned suddenly, catching Sham’s eye, and recognized him.

‘Come and join us,’ she called. Sham picked up his coffee and made his way towards her.

‘Pinky and I are with such boringly juvenile
company
– except, of course, for Kamal,’ Rani announced to provoke the younger boys, and grinned at Pinky and Kamal. ‘Oh, this is Iqbal Shah, Girish Jain and my friend, Pinky Lalwani. And this is Kamal, Pinky’s cousin, who is visiting from the States. He lives there; he’s just finished at Harvard Law School.’ Kamal shook hands with Sham.

Sham could feel the younger boys trying to place him; they glanced at his Seiko watch for clues as to his social status. Rani offered them no help, only saying he lived in Sadhbela and had worked in Japan. Kamal sat forward and asked intelligent questions about Japan. Sham felt new confidence in himself. He was good with words and had always known how to put them across, and the hard edge of experience only protected him the better as he spoke to them about life in Japan.

‘Are you going straight home?’ Rani asked, when they got up to go. ‘I can drop you. The car and driver are waiting outside.’ Sham hesitated, wondering what Mr Murjani would think of this plan. He was hardly in a good position with Rani’s father at the moment.

‘Oh come on,’ Rani said impatiently, as if she guessed his thoughts. She walked ahead of him into the lobby. Sham followed, and saw again Akbar Ali, surrounded now by a crowd of dark, rough-looking men, dressed like him in loose white garments. Sham turned his back quickly and, pushing open a glass door for Rani, faced again the livid heat and ripe smells of Bombay.

The car was imported, its seats soft and deep. It slid along without the rattle or lumbering tread of Indian cars. They sat in silence, the head of the driver erect before them.

‘Didn’t you hear why I came back to Bombay?’ Sham asked, suddenly wanting it straight with her.

‘Of course,’ Rani replied, not turning her gaze from the view of the bay along Marine Drive.

‘Why didn’t you ignore me in the Taj? That’s what you should have done,’ he persisted.

‘How do I know you’re as bad as they say?’ Rani shrugged. ‘I’m sick of doing what everyone tells me. You don’t look like a thief,’ she said, turning to
scrutinize
him. He blushed and was silent, he hated to hear the word.

Gopal the liftman gave them a sullen look as they entered the lift in Sadhbela. They rose up level with the fourth floor, where the Hathiramanis’ front door stood open as usual. At the end of a corridor, upon a king-sized bed of battered teak, Mr Hathiramani could be seen lolling like an impassive animal, scanning the world beyond his burrow for some passing life. He was reading a newspaper and peered at first casually over the top of his glasses, as the lift came into view. His expression changed as he saw Sham, and changed again as he recognized Rani. With a sudden movement he put down his paper, and picked up a large, shabby ledger before they were swallowed by the fifth floor. Rani gave a giggle. They parted on the seventh floor while Gopal waited, pretending to have trouble with the controls. Rani rang her front door bell, but then turned, staring intensely at Sham.

‘Can we meet again?’ she said suddenly. ‘I know I could talk to you. You wouldn’t mind if we were friends, would you?’ Her voice was small and rushed, as if the words had overtaken her.

He was surprised at her unexpected boldness. He
remembered again the child in ankle socks, and looked at the woman before him now, who filled him already with uncomfortable feelings. He was lost for a reply, and mumbled incoherently beneath his breath.

‘I’ll see you soon then.’ Rani smiled and turned into her home.

Sham saw the front door open then shut upon Rani, releasing a dazzle of light into the dim corridor where he stood. Beyond were the reflections of chandeliers and the Maharajah’s crystal chairs.

He did not turn towards his own front door behind the lift shaft, but went to the stairs, running lightly up to the roof above. The terrace was a mass of pipes, tarred patches and water tanks. A group of servants squatted chatting in a corner. He lit a cigarette; the smoke was sucked away in the breeze as he exhaled.

The wind blew against him like a board, tunnelling into his nostrils and ears. As a child he had often escaped up here, to fly kites and absorb the view of the sea. It was as if his fixation with the horizon had given him a horizon of his own. He drew a deep breath. Up here he might be able to do as his mother advised. Think of God, she had said when he returned, and everything will be all right. Up here it seemed possible, this thinking of God, but in the dark depths of the building beneath him, there was nothing and no one to help him. It was another world up here.

And beyond, in the city, there were yet other worlds, meeting but never mixing. His head ached with
confusion
, his mind was a jumble of images that would not fall into place. He could make no sense of the day that converged within him now. He saw his father’s weak hands and yellow teeth, the marble cavern of the Taj, the dying horse and the baby, an old crone on a pile of rubbish. He saw Rani’s nubile body and the
chandeliers
behind her closing door, and his own home,
denied sunlight and fresh paint. Where was the God in all that, he thought fiercely?

The sea was darkening before him now; the rocks had blackened. The night was tumbling from the sky, as if pushed inadvertently off a cloud. The sun sped towards the horizon and was sucked under, like a coin down a drain. The crows settled and the bats began their silent flapping. In their quarters behind the government bungalows, servants sat upon string beds to gossip and play with their children. Sounds carried up from below – the clink of a metal pail, the rush of water from a tap, the crying of a baby. And in the lighted windows of the buildings about him, each room revealed a scene: a servant laid a dinner table, an ayah ironed clothes upon a balcony, two women settled themselves upon a bolstered swing, and rocked gently as they talked.

He was reluctant to go down into the grip of the building. Looking out now into the night, he thought of the city suddenly as a great, bottomless vat, containing stratum after stratum of humanity. A ribbon of
privileged
people, who never looked back at the drop behind, lived upon the rim as their right. Behind them others struggled up the sides, always falling back.

He shook himself at the blackness of this vision – his imagination was running away with him. He would not spend his life in obscurity.

He thought again of the light behind Rani’s closing door. There was always a way. Always. He breathed in the salt air, and fixed his gaze on the shadowy horizon.

Mrs Hathiramani squinted out of the taxi window. The road she drove along was the one Mrs Watumal had recently taken to Burmawalla, but Mrs Hathiramani ordered the taxi to turn off the main road at Dadar, some distance before Sion, where Burmawalla lived.

The road was narrow and unpaved, and ran between rows of low, barrack-like buildings. At the last of these Mrs Hathiramani ordered the taxi to stop. It was immediately surrounded by curious children and
black-skinned
pigs. A deep-throated order from Mrs
Hathiramani
soon scattered the children, but the pigs pressed closer, rooting and snuffling. They gathered about her, snouts to the ground, breathing upon her bare toes. Mrs Hathiramani kicked out at them and waved her handbag threateningly. They began to back away. She walked towards a crumbling gap in the wall and stepped into a yard. A brood of chickens advanced, clucking and pecking. Mrs Hathiramani used her
handbag
again, and eventually reached a splintered green door with a broken hinge. A young girl emerged, biting the end of one of her plaits.

‘Is your mother home?’ Mrs Hathiramani inquired. The girl nodded and held open the door.

Mrs Hathiramani called out as she entered, ‘O, Mataji. I am here.’ A chicken, accompanying her inside, gave an encouraging cluck. Mrs Hathiramani turned to shoo it away.

Mataji appeared from a back room and greeted her. ‘Again there is trouble?’ she inquired.

‘You know it already?’ Mrs Hathiramani exclaimed, sitting down upon the stone floor. Mataji gave a throaty
laugh. Mrs Hathiramani began to explain about Saturn in the House of the Sun, and Tunda Maharaj’s
pronouncement
of the evil eye.

‘I am frightened,’ Mrs Hathiramani said. ‘There is only you to care for me, Mataji.’ Mrs Hathiramani dabbed her eyes with the end of her sari in sudden unhappiness.

Mataji nodded. She was a small-boned, middle-aged woman with a thin face and wide hips. Her hair was unoiled; broken wisps escaped a loose knot to stand up wildly all over her head. She gave a loud sniff and closed her eyes, pulling her sari over her head. Mrs Hathiramani settled herself to wait. Mataji’s daughter squatted down in a corner against the wall and began to bite her fingernails. A chicken crossed the threshold, stopped and looked and then departed of its own accord.

Mataji sat immobile. Mrs Hathiramani waited,
holding
her breath until she felt faint, as if to assist Mataji’s concentration. At last Mataji slowly began to rock; deep gasps and groans escaped her. Her sari slipped from her face and Mrs Hathiramani drew back in fear. Mataji’s eyes were open, but had rolled so far back within her head that the pupils had disappeared. Her eyes were white and blank and inhuman. Her head swung about as if her neck was broken, she trembled as she swayed. Mrs Hathiramani grew cold with terror. At times she was sure Mataji faded before her, at times the room seemed to darken. Sweat appeared upon Mrs Hathiramani’s brow, and she was not sure if minutes or hours passed, as Mataji rocked and groaned.

Suddenly, Mataji pulled her sari over her head again, the groans ceased and she was still. Her eyes rolled back into place, bloodshot now and red-rimmed. She sniffed and hawked, and spat into an empty pickle tin her daughter pushed across the floor. Mrs Hathiramani wiped her own damp brow with the end of her sari.

‘All are speaking true,’ Mataji said at last, her voice hoarse and dry.

‘But who would do this thing?’ Mrs Hathiramani asked, trembling with distress. Mataji shrugged and, holding her nostrils between her fingers, blew her nose into the pickle tin. She turned and said a word to her daughter, who vanished into the back room, and returned with three small newspaper bundles. Mataji loosened their wrappings and explained their uses. Mrs Hathiramani nodded, gathered them up, and pressed them into her handbag. She took from her purse a wad of two-rupee notes, stapled together at the spine, and gave them to Mataji.

‘Go now,’ said Mataji. ‘I am tired. All will soon be well.’

*

Mrs Hathiramani and Mrs Bhagwandas sat side by side upon the bed. Cross-legged on the floor before them, Rekha sighed. She had gone herself to ask the women to find a match for Lakshmi, who was already eighteen. She had not expected an answer so quickly.

‘The boy is educated. B. A. Commerce passed, M. A. twice failed. He is an only son,’ Mrs Bhagwandas explained.

‘Education is not important,’ Mrs Hathiramani said in the tone of experience. ‘Only what he is earning is important. The family has a shop in Mahim. They want to expand the premises after their son is married. They are selling suitcases.’

Rekha’s stomach tightened with responsibility. ‘If he is an only son, then it will be very difficult for Lakshmi. She will have to do everything for the parents.’ Beside her Chachi chewed toothless gums, eyes bright with the morning’s unexpected stimulation.

‘What is his colour?’ she demanded, adjusting the chiffon scarf about her shoulders. Mrs Bhagwandas and Mrs Hathiramani exchanged a look.

‘Colour is dark,’ Mrs Bhagwandas admitted. ‘But he is originally an
Amil
Sindhi, although now of course
Bhaibund.
’

‘What is his colour when family is good?’ Mrs
Hathiramani
argued, and explained his lineage in some detail.

‘Our girl is beautiful, her colour is fair. Why should we give her to a dark boy?’ Chachi demanded, pulling her stool closer to the women. She could see Rekha was too worried about Lakshmi’s security to argue these finer points that would add up to bargaining power when it came to a question of dowry. It was her duty, as an elder, to take note of these things.

‘Our girl is also educated, she completed twelfth standard in school. She knows cooking and sewing and how to give respect to elders. And full of love for
everyone
. Such a girl is not easy to find. They want only money nowadays, and to be taken to the cinema and to eat in restaurants.’ Chachi spoke authoritatively. Mrs Hathiramani sat forward at once.

‘Also, it is not easy to find good boys. Nowadays, they have studied in Foreign. They know only about drinking, beef-eating and bad women. This boy is not like that,’ Mrs Hathiramani pointed out.

‘The parents have their own house in Mahim. The boy will inherit when his father dies,’ Mrs Bhagwandas added.

‘I have heard the boy’s mother is very strong-willed. She quarrels with everyone; that is her reputation. How will my Lakshmi please such a mother-in-law? And if she cannot, you know what her life will be?’ Rekha said.

‘Where have you heard these things?’ Mrs
Hathiramani
demanded.

‘I’m afraid for my Lakshmi with such a
mother-in-law
,’ Rekha repeated in a low voice. ‘I wish her to be happy.’

‘Everything is there to make her happy; a good boy, good family, own house, own business. And the
mother-in-law
she will learn to please; that is the job of a daughter-in-law. She has only to give enough respect. It will not be easy to find such a boy for her again,’ Mrs Hathiramani said, in her most persuasive tone.

‘Any defects in body?’ Chachi interrupted. Mrs Hathiramani and Mrs Bhagwandas exchanged another look.

‘In one eye he is not seeing clearly,’ Mrs Bhagwandas admitted at last.

‘He is dark
and
defective?’ Chachi screamed and threw up her hands. ‘And such a boy you are offering us? How can we give our girl to such a boy?’

‘The defect is not so noticeable. It is from an accident in his childhood. He was not born with the defect; he will not pass it on to his children,’ Mrs Bhagwandas hurriedly explained.

‘We are not interested in such a boy.’ Chachi shook her head and pursed her lips.

‘Without this defect, he could get any rich girl,’ Mrs Hathiramani intervened in a soft tone.

‘You mean, without his defect we are not good enough for him?’ Chachi shouted.

‘We are only doing this for Lakshmi. She is like our own daughter,’ Mrs Bhagwandas pacified.

‘Without this defect such a boy, from such a family, would expect a good offer of dowry,’ Mrs Hathiramani persisted. ‘Because of his defect they will be satisfied with less.’

‘Black and blind and still must offer?’ Chachi
screamed
. ‘What people are these?’ Rekha put a hand upon her knee to calm her.

‘What can we offer? You know how it is with us,’ she said.

‘If you do not offer, Lakshmi will lose this chance. Tell Sham to borrow from somewhere. This much he
can do for his sister. It is his duty as her brother,’ Mrs Bhagwandas suggested.

Eventually, a first viewing was arranged. They formally met the Samtani family for tea one Sunday afternoon, in the home of Mr and Mrs Hathiramani. The real reason for the occasion was not explained to Lakshmi, for fear of unnerving her. But there was such detailed discussion between her mother and Mrs Bhagwandas on how she should dress, and so many pessimistic remarks by Chachi, that she soon guessed. She wore her hair loose, with a smudge of lipstick, and kohl about her eyes. At the last minute Mrs Bhagwandas hurried in with a blue chiffon sari for her to wear, instead of her worn cottons. They had ushered her proudly into the Hathiramanis’ sitting room.

Mr Hathiramani had agreed to shut the front door
and leave his look-out post upon his bed, to sit with them. On the orders of his wife he directed no sarcastic remarks at Sham, nor divulged the reason for his return from Japan. Mr and Mrs Bhagwandas were also
present
. Padma and Veena handed about the plates of savoury fritters, sweetmeats, biscuits and fruit Mrs Hathiramani had prepared; Lakshmi poured the tea.

Mrs Samtani stopped in mid-bite to judge Lakshmi’s dexterity in the matter. Lakshmi did not slop liquid into the saucer, nor let it dribble down the teapot spout. She tested the temperature of the milk and asked Raju to reheat it. She poured it last into the tea, and was careful no skin escaped the strainer. Mrs Samtani found no fault and even smiled when Lakshmi served her cup, placing it delicately on the table beside her. It was obvious Lakshmi was no modern young woman with red finger-nails, who could only instruct the
servants
. She was pretty, too, and graceful. Mrs Samtani looked on with restrained approval. She was a tall woman with a hard, square face and uncompromising eyes. Her greying hair was worn in a tight, high
chignon
. Lakshmi felt a pang of fear each time she looked at her.

Mrs Samtani was taller by several inches than her husband, a thin, mild man with a balding head and soft loose lips. He spoke little, but nodded frequently in agreement at his wife’s remarks about their home in Mahim, their relatives in Bangalore, and a film star who had once, before he became famous, been their immediate neighbour. Lakshmi allowed herself
surreptitious
glances at Hari. She found him agreeable. He had the mild manner of his father and the same loose soft lips, but in the square face of his mother. He seemed neither too fat nor too thin and smiled often, showing wide, white teeth. The one eye that was blind was slightly opaque, and reminded Lakshmi of
watered
-down milk, but she did not find it offensive. There
seemed suddenly more to him than this one eye that had worried her so much.

Chachi had gone straight to sleep when they returned from the Hathiramanis’, winding her scarf like a
bandage
over her eyes. ‘Black and defective and still we must offer,’ she muttered beneath her breath, as she settled upon her string bed. ‘Father cannot speak before the mother. The woman will be like a devil for our Lakshmi.’

But Rekha and Padma and Veena had been bright with excitement, and a glow suffused Lakshmi, who blushed and giggled at any pretext, although nothing had been openly said.

Lakshmi pulled Sham into a conspiratorial huddle, sitting cross-legged on one end of the bed. ‘That was
him
,
wasn’t it? I know you are arranging for me. Why should I not know? What is the harm?’ she whispered. Sham nodded confirmation and Lakshmi sighed.

She looked nervously at Chachi, dozing on the string bed. ‘I overheard them talking when I came home one day last week. The front door was not quite shut and their voices carried, especially Mrs Hathiramani’s. I only listened for a little while,’ she assured Sham when he frowned. Her eyes were full of questions he could not answer, she looked a child to him still. It upset him to think she must soon marry.

‘When I heard he was blind,’ Lakshmi continued in a whisper, ‘I wanted to cry. But after seeing him I do not feel so bad. He had a nice smile; he looks kind. That is the most important thing; a kind husband,’ Lakshmi decided. ‘I think I liked him.’

Sham nodded, but did not add that he thought Hari Samtani’s smile was weak, and might at times be a way of escaping responsibility. Yet, in spite of
reservations
, he was anxious for Lakshmi to secure Hari as a husband. They might not find such a match for her again. It depended upon him, Sham thought in despair.

As if she read his thoughts, Lakshmi whispered, ‘Mrs Bhagwandas told Ama we must offer. How can we do that, it is not possible?’

‘These things are not for you to worry about. Leave it to me,’ he assured her. But even as he spoke the hopelessness of it all welled up again within him.