Travelers (17 page)

Some time after Gopi had received Asha's letter from Benares, he and Raymond went on a weekend trip to visit one of Raymond's favorite Moghul tombs. To get there meant driving through the congested streets of an unattractive north Indian town and then crossing a bridge over the river and getting stuck in a noisy traffic jam of cycle rickshaws and bullock carts. But once the tomb was reached, there were the usual quiet green gardens and the old trees to sit under and no noise except birds singing. Inside the tomb it was cool and dark. A brass lamp cast a dim light over the catafalque from which there also smoldered rose-scented joss sticks.

Raymond peered lovingly at the paintings set in the dark niches of the outer chambers. There was a fish on a plate, fruits on a tree: somehow it was everything that was sensuous, beautiful, and desirable in the world. He called to Gopi to come near and share his enjoyment. Gopi wasn't interested, but he obligingly stepped closer. Raymond turned from the paintings to explain something to him and now, as he looked into Gopi's
sweet young face, he realized that it filled him with the same sensations as the paintings so that he felt himself brimming over like a glass into which too much wine has been poured.

At that moment Gopi said, “My family want me to get married.”

Raymond's mood was so calm and esthetic that this information merely served to arouse a pleasing vision: he saw Gopi dressed up in turban and garlands riding on a white horse to the house of his bride. Bandsmen surrounded him, piping a rousing tune, and young men danced.

“They have found a bride for me,” Gopi said.

Raymond saw this bride—fully veiled, tinkling with ornaments; she stepped forward to receive Gopi as he crossed the threshold of her home. She garlanded him.

“Do you want to get married?”

“No . . .” Gopi said but in an unsure way so that Raymond laughed.

Raymond walked round the rest of the tomb, and when he had seen enough, he went out into the gardens. Here there were those real trees and real birds that he had seen distilled on the walls inside, and how much more they sparkled now that he had seen them in their essence. And Gopi was still with him, walking by his side. Together they went and sat on the outer wall, which overlooked the river.

“Just now it's so difficult for me at home,” Gopi said. He explained about his sister and the way she looked at him and they all looked at him so that he felt guilty and terrible. When he found Raymond sympathetic, he added, “I want to go away for a while. I think I will go and stay with my uncle in Benares.” He glanced from under his lashes to see how Raymond was taking this news.

Raymond took it well; he said, “I'll come too.”

Gopi swung his legs and drummed his heels against the wall. He was silent. Raymond said, more stubbornly, “I want to come.”

“It's so dull there. You wouldn't like it at all.”

“Then why are you going?”

“I told you. . . . It's not good for me at home now—with all that—you know. . . .”

Raymond knew that Gopi was concealing something. Raymond's pleasure in the day went, and with it his good mood. He looked out over the river, which was sluggish with bits of refuse on it and a few broken-down barges. When he looked back into Gopi's face, he saw that it had become guarded and shrewd.

Gopi said, “There are some family affairs to be settled. I have to be there.”

He sounded anxious to please and nervous of being asked too many questions. Raymond wanted to ask them but he knew that, if he did so, he would compel Gopi to lie to him.

Banubai Gives Counsel

A family in deep trouble had come to see Banubai. There were several women, several men, one or two children. All sat on the floor of Banubai's little room and looked up at her where she squatted cross-legged on her bed. The expression on their faces was one that Asha had frequently remarked in Banubai's visitors: a deep, ingrained despair lightened, as they gazed at her, by flickers of hope.

They had come with a bizarre story—but then, so many people who came to Banubai had such stories. Again and again Asha was amazed at the manifold byways of human affliction. This family had lost one of their members a few months ago. He had lain down to sleep as usual at night and next morning he was gone: simply gone. They searched and inquired everywhere but no trace of him could be found. He had taken nothing with him—he was in the nightclothes in which he had gone to sleep—all his money, all his possessions were left intact at home. Where was he? Had he lost his memory, got up in the night and walked away, and no longer knew where he was or who he was?
There was no question of his having run away—all had been normal that night—he had had a good supper of spinach and maize bread and then as usual he had drunk two glasses of water and lain down to sleep. He had talked about buying tickets for a weekend show at the circus which had recently come to town. Had he been murdered? But then how could anyone come into his house, into his bedroom, drag him away—and not a single member of that large family to hear a sound, not even the wife who slept by his side?

“Ah, you poor people!” cried out Banubai.

Silently they joined their hands and raised them to her in supplication.

“What do you want me to do?” she replied. “What can I do? I'm just an ordinary person like everyone else.” She spread out her arms so that they could look at her and judge for themselves how ordinary she was: though she did not look so at all, with her strange clothing and the bright glow on her face.

They hung their heads. They were weary—it was so difficult to keep on hoping. They had been to many places already; for weeks they had been doing nothing but wander round to astrologers, fakirs, and others with reputed powers.

“Come here,” Banubai said to the woman who was his wife. She grasped her hand, she opened and shut it, turned it over this way and that in great concentration. Everyone watched with renewed hope: perhaps there would be a revelation after all. But when Banubai had done this for some time, she pushed the hand away and motioned the woman to go and sit again on the floor among the others.

“I can't see anything. I can't tell you anything. Only this I know: that you are suffering. Day and night you are on thorns. You think this way, you think that way, and there is no relief in anything. You think of him wandering no one knows where, perhaps in some jungle, perhaps in a strange city, you think of him solitary and alone with no money and no clothes and perhaps not even knowing his own name.”

A great sigh rose from them. It was as if they were begging Banubai to desist from tormenting them in this way. But she went on without mercy, and Asha knew that her cruelty was part of the cure she was offering them.

“Perhaps he is dead,” said Banubai. “Then he is a corpse, but you don't even know in what condition: whether he is buried or unburied, burned or unburned, perhaps wild animals are eating him—no, you must listen! Because this is what you are listening to all the time, not from me, but from within yourselves. These are the thoughts and visions that trouble you without cease whether you are waking or sleeping. If you want to have peace of mind, then you must cleanse yourselves of these thoughts as of a sickness or evil. You must join your hands not to me and not to the astrologers and the policemen and the swamis and the babas and the matajis and God knows who else you are running to and perhaps paying out money to, not to them but to the One who has willed that it should happen so. If He wills it, He will bring him back; if not, then not—whichever way it turns out, you must submit within your hearts and know it is for the best. Now go,” she ended, for suddenly she was utterly exhausted.

They got up and touched her feet and went out. Asha noticed that they looked somewhat lightened, that perhaps she had penetrated them with her words and done them good. It did not always happen—some people went away as unhappy as they had come—but Banubai did not care one way or the other. She gave what she could and was indifferent as to the outcome of her efforts. Now she lay on her bed, spent for the moment, a shriveled little old woman.

Asha bent over her soothingly. She massaged her feet and ankles. She said, “You give too much.”

Banubai made a gesture of resignation that said what else was she there for but to give.

“People should spare you,” Asha said.

Then Banubai opened her eyes. She said,
“You
should spare
me. . . . Don't stop, I like it,” for Asha had left off massaging in shock. She started again and Banubai shut her eyes and relaxed. When she continued to speak, it was with her eyes shut and in a gentle voice. “Your restless thoughts are like pinpricks to me.”

“I'm not restless, Banubai.”

“Who are you thinking of at this very moment?”

Asha groaned. Then she said, “It's true.”

“Does he know where you are? Have you written to him?” When Asha could not speak for shame, she said, “You see, I knew it. How can you try and hide yourself from me?”

“I wrote to him, ‘I have gone away—I shall never see you again in this life—good-bye.'”

“And now all the time you are waiting for him to come.”

Gopi in the Holy City

Gopi always liked staying with his uncle in Benares. This uncle was far more prosperous than the rest of the family. He was in business and had done well and built himself a brand-new house to a modern design. Here he lived with his family in great comfort. The main preoccupation of the family was food, and as soon as Gopi's aunt got up in the morning, her first thought was always what to cook. Besides the day's meals, provision had also to be made for snacks in between, and all the glass jars in the cupboards kept stuffed with homemade delicacies. Then there was a lot of cleaning to be done, for they were all very proud of the new house and every door handle had to shine and every colored stone in the terrazzo flooring to gleam like a freshly washed pebble.

Besides Gopi's uncle, there were also a son-in-law, an elder son, and a younger son, all of whom were employed in the family electrical business. However, it did not take up too much of their time and they were left free to spend many hours at home reclining in the most comfortable room in the house. They were frequently joined by other male relatives and
friends and neighbors who came to share in the unending stream of refreshments that were carried in by the women. There was much laughter and jokes and nice songs from the radio. Although some of the jokes were hearty and male, everything was kept very respectable, for they were a decent Hindu middle-class family with no drinking or smoking or other bad habits. Sometimes there were family outings—picnics to a nearby beauty spot, or a visit to the cinema if some new picture had come to town.

Gopi joined in all these activities with pleasure. He was very friendly with his cousin Babloo, a boy just a year or two younger than himself and with the same interests. Babloo looked up to Gopi and was sincerely anxious to learn from him. Babloo and his friends had the reputation of being the most advanced group in town. They spent a good deal of their time in a new discotheque, which had been opened on the former site of a disreputable hotel. They were very proud of this place, which played not only the latest Hindi film songs but also well-known Western hits. Gopi joined them there and pretended to be impressed by the music, the bright colors, and the groovy slogans on the walls. He also pretended interest in Babloo's friends and their outdated conversation. They admired him for his Delhi sophistication and his superior knowledge of girls, clothes, restaurants, films, and film people. Often their mouths dropped open in wonder as they listened to him and he leaned back in the chair and talked in a casual, throw-away manner while flicking ash off a cigarette.

The main topic of interest was always girls, and here Gopi had a lot to say with which to astonish them. Babloo nudged his friends on either side of him with his elbows and said, “Did you hear that?” He also threw out tantalizing hints that at night, in the privacy of the bedroom they shared, his cousin let him into many more secrets and told him things that, if his friends could but get an inkling of them, would make each hair on their bodies stand up in wonder. But actually Gopi was in this respect
a disappointment to his cousin. In the past, as soon as they had turned off the light, Babloo would say “Now tell” and Gopi would begin to tell—all in the greatest detail and getting more and more extravagant as the hours wore on. But this time it was not like that. Gopi fell asleep as soon as the light went off, and though Babloo called his name several times, he continued sleeping. Then Babloo turned over in disappointment and went to sleep himself, taking solace in whatever dreams came to him.

But Gopi was not really asleep. He lay in the dark, thinking. He thought mostly about Asha. It was for her sake that he had come to Benares, but he had not yet been to see her. Every night he said “tomorrow,” but when morning came there was always something else to do, and he was partly sad and partly relieved not to have to see her that day either. He could not account for this behavior in himself. He also could not account for his reluctance to reveal even her name to his cousin. When he had had nothing to tell, he had made such a lot of it. Now that he really had something—and what a tale! if Babloo could but guess at some small part of it!—now he kept quiet and pretended to be asleep. He could not understand himself. However, as he was not much used to self-analysis, he turned over on his side and was soon really asleep.

Plans for Departure

The mission was closed. There was a lot to do—the house to be sold off and all their affairs wound up—and Miss Charlotte was so busy that she had no time to indulge in regrets. But she was worried about the servants—Solomon the cook, Joseph the bearer, a couple of ancient ayahs called Rosie and Salome—who had all been with the mission for many years. They lived at the back of the house in a row of brick quarters and had multiplied and proliferated with children and grandchildren. Now they would need new jobs and new homes. Miss Charlotte spoke to Raymond about this problem. She especially tried to engage his
interest on behalf of Solomon the cook who, she said, made excellent roast potatoes. She wondered whether there might not be a job for him in the High Commission. She looked at Raymond hopefully. Of course, she said, the meals in the mission had always been rather simple but still . . . “Once you're a good cook, you're a good cook, don't you think so?”