English Lessons and Other Stories (14 page)

“Yes. He would sit in that chair and tell me how the British Raj brought so many good things to India. Railroads and the telegraph, for instance. We would argue for hours.”

“Who won?”

“I did, I suppose. I was raised on history books written by Indians, and I knew all those railroads led nowhere we Indians wanted to go. Later, when he was gone and the arguments lay in the past, I saw educated people agree to dictatorship, censorship and propaganda so the trains he so admired would run on time.”

“Aren't you glad you protested then?” She'd told his protest story to women friends at work, basking in their admiration of his heroism.

“It was not enough,” he said.

“Enough that you had to leave the country.”

“My father had enough money to make it possible. There were others for whom it was not possible.”

“Does this house make you want to move back to India?” A question asked in hope of denial; Anyu's voice saying, “This marriage will not work if you have to live in his country.”

“Of course it does — but today, there are roadblocks all the way home for us Sikhs. And,” he gestured at the remains of the apple orchard, “there's little of our old way of life that I'd want to continue. Can you imagine yourself living here or living with Papaji and all in Delhi?”

Her expression told him no.

“Then I wouldn't be able to move back here.” Options that close need no further exploration.

“We could live somewhere.” Now she was prepared to be generous, to explore possibilities as long as they would not move into the realm of the probable.

“Not unless we were prepared to live without many things.”

“Your family doesn't live without many things,” she noted. “Kaluram, on the other hand…”

“It's no longer a poor country. It's a country of very rich people and very poor people.”

Anyu's voice, “You could never live in India; you are a woman raised in freedom.” Freedom to do what, she sometimes wondered. Freedom to satisfy your curiosity if you have any, perhaps. She remembered the photograph and handed it to Arvind. “That's me with Chaya.” Arvind examined the photograph, looking at himself as though looking at someone he used to know well.

Janet said, “She doesn't like me, I can tell.”

“Chaya? Chaya likes everyone.”

“She seems to like you very much.” A question, a challenge. He laid the photograph down before him, a poker player showing his hand.

“We were engaged for a year.”

“You've never told me that.” She made her voice expressionless. The voice she used at work, discussing exotic peoples' lives, other peoples' exotic history, in other times. Only this was her history, hers and his, and words that should have been said to her years before. Why did she care now, except that Chaya held his arm and smiled only when he was in the room?

“It was not I who engaged us,” he said.

Knollswood sighed at her back. Not his choice, so he can't be held responsible. Not his choice. She, Janet, is. She, Janet alone, is.

“Why were you not married to her, then?” Why come halfway around the world to Janet instead?

He cupped the steaming glass in his brown palms. “I really never found out.”

“Never found out!”

“No. I assumed she and Kamal fell in love. I was away at McGill at the time and I got a letter from Mumji simply telling me Chaya would be marrying Kamal instead.” An engineer's matter-of-fact voice.

“And you never asked why?”

“I thought Kamal should have told me why.”

“And he never did?” Now she was indignant for him.

“Never.”

“And Chaya? You never asked Chaya?”

“No. They were married by the time I received the letter. And,” his hand reached for hers, “I had met you by then.”

She was still adjusting to him. A new picture of him. A new picture of Chaya. She stared at the photograph a long, long moment. The pines unfurled and retreated and unfurled again, bucking the familiar pull of the azure sky.

Slowly, with care, she placed her hand in his. Nothing must spoil this visit.

Arvind gave Kaluram a hundred-rupee tip for a daughter's wedding
and they made their way back to Woodville. He taught her to climb, lifting her weight from one haunch to the other with the bobbing gait of the leathery-skinned Pahari men who stared at her whiteness as they passed.

“The National Museum of Modern Art? I'll come with you, it wouldn't look nice for you to go alone.” Mumji smiled her engaging smile.

Arvind and Janet were back in the furnace of Delhi. There were only a few days left before their return and many relatives to meet. Even the Taj Mahal would have to await their next visit.

Papaji had taken little interest in her thoughts about the trip to Shimla: Did she enjoy it? It was beautiful — mostly beautiful. That's good.

Arvind spent a long time in Papaji's office sanctum the day after they returned to Delhi. That evening, he pulled Janet into their room and closed the door.

“Would you believe it — he wanted to make me a gift of Knolls-wood.” His voice wavered a little; he had been recognized as the eldest son, singled out for a blessing, acknowledged, included. Why had Papaji not spoken to them both together? It probably hadn't occurred to him to acknowledge her presence.

“What did you say?”

Arvind said, “I considered it, of course. And I thanked him.”

“And?”

“And I said no.”

“Because of me?”

“No — or not only because of you. Many reasons. Large presents carry large price tags. I'd have to fit in here again. I'd have to define achievement as Kamal does, by the extent of Papaji's or Mumji's approval. And going to Knollswood made me realize
Anyu is right, there's no return to the past, so you might as well live where you are.

“I'm relieved, you know.”

“I know.”

But Janet's relief was short-lived; Papaji assumed it had been Janet's influence that caused his son to reject his munificent gift.

“How is Miss Janet?” he would say at breakfast.

“Fine, thank you,” Janet would respond.

“And how is Mr. Hen-Pecked Husband today?”

“Fine.” Arvind's matter-of-factness was a match for him. It might even have been funny if Papaji hadn't looked so hurt all the time. Janet decided to ignore it; nothing must spoil this visit.

Kamal avoided everyone as usual. “I have to manage the workmen,” he said. “They're repairing the tenants' hot-water hamam.”

“I can help,” said Arvind the engineer.

“And soil your hands?” said Kamal mockingly.

Not once had Janet managed to talk to Chaya or Mumji alone — always there were people and more people. She had not, she realized, learned to ignore the servants as they did.

Now she had asked to visit the National Museum of Modern Art for the chance to ask Mumji the questions that suspended her in that moment on the veranda at Knollswood. Since Shimla, Janet had watched Chaya closely. Would the Arvind she knew today have been happy with so passive a woman? Never an opinion, never any talk. Spoken at but mostly ignored. Rewarded with jewellery and sweetness for that silent, respectful obedience. And always that beautiful, ephemeral, meaningless smile. Then too, perhaps Arvind would have been different today if he'd married Chaya.

Was it her imagination, or did the rest of the family, especially that drink-guzzling, smiling Doctor-sahib, speak in Punjabi far more than they had when she and Arvind first arrived? Anyu's words about freedom came back — now Janet longed to keep a
door closed, to take a walk by herself without company, to touch Arvind spontaneously in public. He was her lifeline to pleasant, clean, safe, perhaps even boring Canada.

At the National Museum of Modern Art, Mumji followed as Janet asked for a plan at the information desk. Five clerks at the desk launched into oral directions and then one of them thought to ask what she would like to see. Janet said she would like to know what artifacts and paintings were on display. The conversation began to circle the domed red sandstone lobby without hope of resolution till Mumji took off her sunglasses and intervened, “Thank you
so
much,” she said in Hindi, folding her hands with her usual charm.

“Don't ask them, they don't know
any
thing,” she said as Janet followed the click of her tiny high heels through the red sandstone archways.

“Then why are they there?”

“They have to be somewhere,” Mumji said with serene logic.

They wandered through empty rooms of mostly unlabelled artifacts, and Mumji was a useless tour guide. “Very rare. Than-javur, I believe.” She squinted at a group of paintings.

Janet corrected her automatically. “Gujerat. Eighteenth century.”

Mumji frowned. Unaware of any offence, Janet plunged further; air that smells of old secrets should be filtered clean, washed and sanitized.

“How come…” she blurted, voice amplified in the high-ceilinged stillness. “How come Chaya married Kamal when she was engaged to Arvind?”

Mumji put on her reading glasses and peered through a glass case for a while. When she answered, her voice did not echo like Janet's. “She had to marry Kamal. He had compromised her reputation.”

That matter-of-factness, so like Arvind's.

Janet told herself to be delicate, sensitive to her mother-inlaw's culture. “Did they… sleep together?”

“I don't know,” said Mumji. “Of course he said no.”

There were many layers of Mumji's artifice that Janet should have peeled away gently, so gently, but her time in India was running out. “Then what did he
do
to her?”

No answer. Mumji delved into her purse. Janet placed a hand on her arm. No sunglasses, she wanted to see Mumji's eyes.

A look at Janet's set face and Mumji resumed. “After she was engaged to Arvind, she lived with her father, waiting for him to finish his studies in Canada and return. Kamal… Kamal took her for a ride on his motorcycle and they went for a picnic alone…. I have only myself to blame for permitting it.”

“And?” Janet wanted to shout, but that would dismay Mumji further.

Janet could hear the vroom of a motorcycle, with a young Kamal, not a brooding, caged Kamal but a laughing, clowning Kamal lifting a soft-bearded chin to the Shimla wind. And Chaya seated behind him in a salwar kameez, her chunni furling and unfurling like the pines. A Chaya laughing and chattering and dreaming of living with joy.

“And they had a flat tire, he said, somewhere way above Shimla. I believed him, but the damage was done. She had spent the night
alone
with a man she was not promised to,
and it was my younger son
. Now…” Mumji was cloaking herself again in fragile gentility, “do you understand?”

“No.” Janet wanted more. More. She could see Chaya look at Kamal as the motorcycle choked to a stop. She could imagine them beginning the unchaperoned walk to find a village, down past one precipitous khud, then another. Darkness before them turning the peace of the mountains to malevolence. Narrow roads to be hair-pinned up on one side and descended on the other. Chasms where a woman's reputation could free-fall to ruin.

Mumji continued, “Her father had given her to me for my son and I had betrayed their trust. I had to honour our pledge to take her, but…”

Gave her. Took her. As though Chaya were a thing. Janet told herself it was just Mumji's use of English. Oh Lord, now Mumji was in tears… how embarrassing.

“I could not give her to Arvind because…” Mumji's voice sank as though the pictures on the wall might hear, “because what if Kamal had lied?”

“Didn't you believe him?” Janet was aghast.

“I believed him, my love believed him. But my duty to Arvind was clear.”

“So you wrote to Arvind and told him Chaya would marry Kamal.”

“Yes.”

“But Chaya loved Arvind, didn't she? I can still feel it.”

“Love, shove. I gave her to Kamal and she was protected, not ruined nor cast out. She has been treated well, like a daughter. She has been blessed with a son; what more could she ask for? After all, I chose her because I saw from the start she would be an adjustable woman.”

Soon, Mumji recovered her agreeable composure and her sunglasses. Janet followed her in silence through the pale green rooms past somnolent security men.

Mumji asked, her bright, persuasive coaxing brooking no denial, “Wear a sari to please Papaji tonight?”

Janet smiled. It couldn't do any harm. There were only a few days left, and then she would return to her work at the Royal Ontario Museum and resume her contemplation of the exotic at a safe distance.

As they drove past ice cream carts at India Gate, Mumji said, “Please, you mustn't tell Arvind. Don't let anything like this spoil your visit.”

The stands at the Polo Grounds were almost deserted except for relatives of a few polo players, loyal despite the heat. A bugle sounded the final chukker of the exhibition match and the players lined up for the throw-in. Kamal's team wore blue and gold. “Sikh colours,” remarked Arvind. He was impatient today, as though he wanted to be somewhere else.

He would recite poverty statistics tonight, thought Janet. But she wouldn't let him spoil things right now. Because this is it, she thought. This is India. Pageantry and colour. She could say she had been to Arvind's country now, say, His brother plays polo, and watch her women-friends' eyes widen. She brought the camera up to her face.

“You need a telephoto lens,” said Arvind. “You'll just get a lot of the field and a few clouds of dust in place of the players.”

He was probably right, but she felt a little deflated. Always so realistic. Mirages reflected the players in the distance; they were knights in armour, a few of them turbaned instead of helmeted, but knights in armour nevertheless. A whistle from the umpire and Janet glanced at Arvind.