Nectar in a Sieve Page 16

  He smiled wryly. "After the horse has bolted?"

  But I could not smile, and the ease with which he accepted the misfortune irritated me. Now I shall be wholly indebted to my daughter-in-law, I thought. I go to her without even a cooking vessel, like any beggar off the streets; and straightaway I determined to spend one or two of the coins I felt digging into my flesh at the nearest bazaar, for I would not go to her destitute. Soothed a little by the thought I drifted into sleep, broken often by bells ringing and the low rat-tat of drums for the prayers which went on at intervals throughout the night. Once in my half-sleep it seemed to me someone was tugging at my arm, but when I woke it was only Nathan clutching at me in his sleep. I dozed off again, and after a while I felt a soft fumbling about my face, noiseless, like fingers on spindle cotton. I strove to wake, to brush aside those pathetic flutterings, but strive as I would I could not . . . at last I sat up, sleep and dream alike banished, wide awake now. And whether from the fact of sleeping in new surroundings, or from the loss we had sustained, I was unable to sleep again.

  I leant against that same wall by which we had laid ourselves down, watching the wind play with the yellow flare on top of the temple, looking into the darkness which varied its pitch from point to point. Gradually I was able to make out the forms of the carven Gods and Goddesses on the sides of the temple, on the colonnades, and in the niches of the walls, and as I gazed they seemed almost to live, their stone breasts gently breathing, their limbs lightly moving. Nearly -- nearly could I believe what I saw, sitting there in the darkness by the temple wall. Until dawn, when the stars went out one by one, and the grey light changed the sculptured figures back into immobility.

  CHAPTER XXV

  AS always Nathan stirred with the first light; when he saw I was awake he sat up quickly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  "You slept well," I said, a little envious because I had not, yet glad since he looked so much better for it.

  "Yes, I was tired. But you look as if you had been up all night."

  "Almost . . . I could not sleep."

  "You were worried no doubt," he said gravely, and the concern in his voice made me slightly ashamed of myself. "Still, we shall soon be with our son and you will be able to rest. Come, we may as well start now -- the sooner the better."

  We went to wash at the tap, threading our way among the heaps of rags under which men and women lay huddled in sleep, their crutches or staffs and begging bowls beside them, and when we had done we went out the way we had come in.

  Early though it was, many of the shops were open. From the food stalls came the spluttering of ghee and oil as bread and pancakes were fried, ready for the early worshippers who would soon be coming. As we passed,

  Nathan hesitated and I saw him eyeing the crisp golden pancakes laid out upon a platter.

  "Let us buy a few," he said cheerfully. "I am hungry enough and you must be too."

  I for my part hesitated, although the food was tempting enough, for the silver coins we had were few and precious and there was no telling what our needs might be; still I could not very well deny him when I had already made up my mind to spend some of the money on cooking vessels, and so I put my hand in my waistband to take out the money I had tied there.

  The coins were gone. I felt in my bodice and again in my waistband. I shook out the folds of my sari, but there was no doubt the money was gone.

  "It may have slipped out in the night," Nathan said, and we went back, unhopeful, to where we had slept but the ground was bare and innocent. And those who saw us entering again laughed and said free meals were only given in the evening, not in the morning, their laughter changing to concern when we explained what had befallen us: but their concern was only perfunctory since they were after all lookers-on and not partakers, and I noticed one or two glances exchanged, pitying yet scornful, which said as plainly as words, These are simple careless country folk. Lost and bewildered though I was I could contain myself no longer and I said sharply there was not too little care but too many thieves, and saw them nodding in facile agreement. Yes, thieves and pickpockets were very skilful; one needed to exercise the utmost care.

  Well, we had not, and so we went our way with nothing to call our own save what we wore, past the food stall with set steadfast face, past the bazaar with never a glance, pressing on to reach the shelter of our son's house before worse should overtake us.

  Through the streets of the terrifying city, amid the unaccustomed traffic and crowds, screwing up our courage each time we asked our way, we went slowly along. Some we questioned would not stop to answer, others did not know, many in trying to be helpful directed us wrongly. Without exception they were confusing -- or we were dull. There were so many turnings we were to take, so many not to, that by the time we had followed the instruction to about the third turning, we were completely lost and had to stop and ask again. . . .

  "I am a little slow," Nathan said humbly. "They speak so fast I can hardly follow, and I cannot remember all they say."

  "If you are, so am I," I said stoutly, "for I also find it difficult."

  It being nearly midday we sat down to rest by the roadside. A dozen or more children were playing there, dodging in and out of the traffic with a skill and indifference which I could not help admiring. For all their play they looked as if they had never eaten a full meal in their lives, with their ribs thrust out and bellies fullblown like drums with wind and emptiness; and they were also extremely dirty with the dust of the roadside and the filth deposited upon it; and the running sores many of them had upon their bodies were clogged with mud where blood or pus had exuded. But they them selves were forgetful of their pains -- or patient with them as the bullock had been -- and played naked and merry in the sun. Merry, that is, until a crust of bread fell on the road or a sweetmeat toppled from an overambitious pyramid when, all childishness lost, all play forgotten, they fought ferociously in the dust for the food . . . my children had fought thus too, I remembered, but time had mellowed the memory or dimmed it, for it did not seem to me that they had struggled like these: teeth bared, nails clawing, ready, predatory like animals. But when a man of wealth passed they were as tender and pitiful as fledglings, beseeching with soft open mouths and limpid eyes, their begging bowls meekly held before them and altogether changed with an artfulness which surely my children had not at their command. And however much they played and were children, still their faces were scored with the knowledge and cares that children should not have, their eyes were knowing and guileful beyond their years.

  "We may yet be forced to that," said Nathan, pointing to their begging bowls, "if we do not find our son --" "Never," I protested, a little frightened by his dejection. "Come, we must be on our way."

  "Let us ask these children," he said. "They seem quick enough."

  He clicked his fingers and called, and they came with bright curious eyes, twittering like sparrows.

  "Tell me, my son, do you know where Koil Street is?"

  "Koil Street? There are three or four. Which one do you seek?"

  "Three or four!" exclaimed Nathan. "No wonder we have been chasing our tails!"

  "If you will tell me the name of the people," a boy said, "there are few I do not know."

  "That I can well believe. We are looking for my son who is named Murugan, and he works with one Birla, who is a doctor."

  "I do not know of Murugan," the boy said frankly, "but everyone knows Birla. For a small sum," he added, "I will take you there myself."

  "I have less than you," Nathan sighed. "I can give you nothing."

  "Oh," the boy said, disappointed, his voice falling away. Then an idea seemed to strike him and he said shrewdly: "Yet I will myself take you there, and if you prosper you can pay me."

  "And how shall I know you?"

  "I am called Puli after the king of animals, and I am leader of our pack. I am as well known as Birla."

  "Then I shall certainly know where to find you," Nathan said smiling, for there was an
impudence in the boy which was somehow attractive, "Lead on, my young friend!"

  The boy turned and said something to his companions, and there was no doubt that he was their leader, for they dispersed at once; then he beckoned to us. "Follow closely," he said firmly -- this child who might easily have been our grandson, "or you will be lost!" and he motioned us forward. And as he did so I saw that he had no fingers but only stumps. The disease which was rotting his body had eaten away nail and flesh to the first knuckle.

  Prudently we took his advice to follow closely, although he went at a pace which we found difficult to match, and presently he brought us to a small whitewashed house set in a street on the corner of which stood a church.

  "This is the street -- this is the church -- this is the house," he said rapidly pointing, and at once turned and made off, his head down and his shoulders moving as he ran.

  We stood and looked at the house, arrived but uncertain how to proceed, and it looked back at us neither inviting nor forbidding. There was a wooden paling around it, broken by a small wooden gate, and at length -- there being nobody in sight to ask -- we walked through to the garden and so to the house. The doors and windows in it were wide open as if the occupant needed all the fresh air there was, and we could see right to the back of the house where two or three men were sitting wearing the white tunics of servants, and one of them at length saw us and came forward, saying mechanically as if he had used the same words many times before, "Beggars are not allowed here, only those who need --"

  Then seeing we neither carried begging bowls nor held out our hands for alms he stopped short. "What have you come for?"

  "Our son works here," Nathan said. "His name is Murugan."

  " Murugan? No one of that name works here."

  "Doesn't work here! Are you sure?"

  "Of course I am sure. There are only three servants employed, and Murugan is not one of them."

  "There must be some mistake," Nathan muttered. He pulled out the slip of paper on which the address was written and handed it to the man, looking anxiously at him as he read -- or perhaps pretended to read, for he handed it back quickly saying:

  "Yes, yes; no doubt it is written there -- but you must take my word, he is not here now."

  Why did we not write? I thought miserably. We should have written. But we had been so sure he would be here, we had relied on it, it had never struck us that he would leave without telling us.

  Just then we heard a car driving up, and from it stepped a figure wearing shirt and trousers, carrying a small black bag.

  "The doctor is here," the manservant said hurriedly. "You must go now."

  But we had come too far, hoped too high, endured too much, to turn back now.

  "I will stay and ask him," Nathan said stubbornly. "Maybe he will know," and he stood firmly.

  The doctor meanwhile was approaching. Under the thin shirt I saw the figure of a woman and I whispered hastily to my husband: "Be careful -- it is a woman." Nathan turned bewildered eyes on me. "The trousers --" he began, but there was no time to say more and he stopped short confused and stammering.

  "Who are you? What do you want?" A woman's voice, unmistakably.

  "Our son came here to work some years ago," I said. "We have come to seek shelter with him."

  "His name?"

  " Murugan."

  "Oh yes, he came through Kennington, did he not?"

  "Yes," I said eagerly. " Kenny gave him the recommendation. He has been very good to me and mine."

  "How is he?" she asked, forgetting we thirsted for news. "I have not seen him for a very long time."

  "Well," I said, "and happy, since he is building this new hospital. My son works for him."

  She looked at me thoughtfully and I could see she wanted to know more about the hospital, but she only said: "Of course, you are anxious about your son. I am afraid I cannot help you, he left here nearly two years ago."

  Left two years ago. Where could he go? Why go with no word to us? We stood mute and miserable. At last I felt I must know. "Has anything happened -- I mean had he done some wrong --?"

  "No; nothing like that. He was a very good servant and he went after higher wages."

  Well, I thought. This at least is better hearing, and I licked my dry lips and said, "If you would tell us where he went -- we must go to him, there is no one else. . . ."

  "I am not sure," she said with a hint of pity in her eyes, "but I have heard that he works for the Collector.

  He lives on Chamundi Hill," she added. "Anyone will show you the house: it is big enough."

  We were at the gate when she came after us. "You look faint -- have you not eaten?"

  "We were fed at the temple," I said, not meeting those shrewd eyes.

  "It is a long time since," she said. "You had better have a meal here before you go." She called to the servant and spoke to him rapidly, and he came, looking none too pleased, to lead us to where we had to go.

  The servants' quarters lay behind the house and some distance away. They consisted of three godowns standing in a row, square rooms with brick walls and stone floors, each with a separate low doorway. At the first one the manservant, Das, stopped and beckoned us to enter. Inside it was half-dark, for there was only one window high up on the wall and a thick blue smoke was rising from a corner where a young woman was busy cooking.

  "These people are to eat with us," Das said. "They are the parents of one Murugan who was before me."

  The young woman rose and came to us cheerful and smiling, nursing a round, chubby baby. "You are more than welcome -- you seem very tired. . . ."

  Her friendliness, her smile, were warming like the sun on old limbs, gentle as the rain on parched earth. I felt the stiffness that had collected in me departing, felt a new upsurge of hope. Nathan was visibly relaxed. "The rice is nearly cooked," the young woman was saying. "Perhaps you would like to wash before we eat -- the tap is outside, my husband will show you." Das was on his feet. "Ah yes, I had forgotten. Certainly a wash will do you good." He sounded more friendly.

  We followed him out to the tap, which was about a furlong away. A cement floor had been built around the base of the tap, but the water which dripped constantly from the pipe ran off the cement so that the ground for some distance around was wet and muddy with scores of footprints leading to and from it.

  Beyond it was the latrine. I had not used one before, and I entered with misgiving. There was no door, merely four walls built of tin which did not meet at one corner, thus leaving enough space for one person at a time. No roof; along one side a shallow trench from which rose a most foul stench; no covers; no kindly earth to hide what lay there open to the blue offended skies; no water to wash it away. I went out and stepped through the mud to the clear running water and when I had washed I felt better.

  "You will have to get used to these things," Nathan said. "This is how life is lived in the city."

  When we went back the young woman, still with the child at her hip, was straining the rice. Besides the baby there were now three other children in the room.

  "Oh yes," she said in reply to my question. "All mine, and you can always find my brats here at mealtimes! I don't see them the rest of the day."

  The children giggled delightedly, wriggling with pleasure. Their mother was peering into one of the pots on the fire, stirring and tasting. "Ready now," she said with satisfaction, wiping her streaming eyes with a corner of her sari. The smoke must have entered the baby's eyes too, for he began screaming.

  "Let me hold him," I said. "You will be able to work better."

  "It's a girl. She very seldom cries," she said, handing the baby to me, and as if to earn the compliment it immediately quietened down.

  The young woman had several pieces of plantain leaf cut and ready. She laid these out and began serving the rice and dhal, generous portions such as we ate at harvest times and ours larger than theirs.

  "You are very kind to feed us so well," I said.

  "We are fed
free," she replied. "The doctor is very good to us and gives us rice and dhal. Today she sent extra for you."

  So we ate with easy conscience, for I would not like to have taken from the store of a family who were for all their kindness only strangers to us, and who moreover had enough mouths of their own to feed.

  As evening wore on the mother brought out a striped mat, for she had persuaded us to stay the night, on which to sleep. And sleep we did, the deep sleep of those who being tired have fed well and rested well.

  The next morning early we departed, after thanking the doctor who was a woman, and Das and his wife who had cared so well for us, and she came to see us go with her curious-eyed children about her, sunny and smiling as when we had first seen her and to this day I see her as she was then, young and kind, with a warm smile ever ready on her lips.