The Moneylenders of Shahpur. Helen Forrester

grimly, that it was just as well that she had few opportunities to meet young men alone. Savitri herself had haughtily repelled her father’s offers to find her a husband and yet she craved for a man of her own.

      She sighed, and watched without interest as a tonga loaded with luggage rumbled down the lane beneath her.

      A thin, sharp shriek of ‘Niece!’ up the stairs broke into their conversation and reminded them suddenly that a caustic-tongued old lady awaited Anasuyabehn’s ministrations.

      The girls grimaced at each other.

      ‘I wish I were married,’ they said in chorus and then dissolved into laughter. They were still laughing and joking when two gentlemen walked down the lane.

       CHAPTER TWO

      John Bennett had found the peace he sought in a high-ceilinged, stone-floored room in the house of a retired teacher, a few doors away from Dr Mehta’s home. The room was light and airy and austerely furnished with a wooden couch for sitting and sleeping, a big desk and a chair, and a table from which to eat; there was also a large cupboard for his books and other possessions. On a veranda behind the room, Ranjit camped contentedly among the cooking pots; and on another veranda, to the front of the room, were comfortable basket chairs.

      Since his arrival, John had immersed himself in his new history and was almost happy. Though he could not trace any of his former English friends, he had met some Indian ones again and found that none of them held any rancour against him for being English. He had visited his old friend, Dr Ferozeshah, at his surgery, where he was introduced to his head nurse, an English lady of quiet, professional demeanour, Miss Armstrong; Ferozeshah told him that she had previously served in a medical mission north of Shahpur.

      As time went by, he was able to discard one of his walking sticks, though his legs still caused him pain occasionally.

      While Savitri and Anasuyabehn chatted on the roof of Dean Mehta’s bungalow, John took the record of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony off his record player and dusted it carefully.

      He opened the cupboard and laid the record on the top shelf, put the record player on a lower shelf, and closed and locked the door.

      ‘Ranjit,’ he called, as he began to unbutton his shirt, preparatory to changing.

      ‘Ji?’ responded his servant. He put down the tray of wheat he had been cleaning and creaked slowly to his feet. Though elderly, he was a powerful-looking peasant. He had come to Shahpur from United Provinces forty years before, when only a boy. Except when the Bennett family was on leave in England, he had never left them. He had made a close study of Shahpur and was well known for his profound knowledge of exactly where to place a bribe to hurry officialdom or obtain a favour.

      ‘Put those papers into my briefcase, while I change my shirt. I’ve an appointment with Dean Mehta.’

      Ranjit wiped his seamed face with the dish towel draped over his shoulder and, with surprisingly deft movements, he packed the briefcase. He turned a toothless smile upon John. ‘Will you be in for lunch?’ he asked.

      John buckled his belt, and, balancing himself by holding on to various pieces of furniture, he went to the bathroom in search of a comb.

      ‘Yes,’ he decided, as he combed vigorously at his hair, which never would lie down properly. ‘I won’t go to look at the temple until tomorrow.’

      When he was ready to leave, Ranjit preceded him through the shady compound, in order to open the gate for him.

      ‘Sahib, there’s a tonga here.’

      John presumed that the occupants of the carriage had come to visit his landlord. He viewed with interest, however, the tall, slim man who sprang down into the dusty lane. An elderly woman and a thin young girl still in the carriage peeped at him from behind their veiling saris.

      ‘Excuse me,’ said the man in good English. ‘Can you tell me where to find Dr Mehta, the Dean?’

      ‘Certainly. His house is the eighth one from here, down that way,’ replied John, indicating the way the tonga had come.

      ‘I’m really looking for his office.’

      John looked thoughtfully at the man. Definitely not a student, he decided.

      ‘I’m going to his office now,’ he said. ‘Would you like to come with me?’

      The young man glanced up at the two ladies, who were whispering to each other, and seemed undecided. The tongawallah, on his high perch, started to fidget and began to mutter about people who made him wait forever and lose business. It was apparent that, at any moment, he would demand an increase in the agreed fare.

      ‘I don’t know what arrangements have been made for us. Mother is tired after our long journey.’

      John’s perplexity must have shown on his face, because he added, ‘I’m Tilak from Bombay. I’m to teach Zoology here. In which department do you teach?’

      ‘I’m not a member of the University staff,’ John replied. ‘But Dr Mehta mentioned that you were coming. I hope you’ll like it here.’ He extended his hand to the newcomer.

      Though Tilak’s fingers looked slim and delicate, his grip on John’s hand was firm. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

      ‘Perhaps the ladies would like to rest in my room,’ John suggested. ‘My servant would look after them, while we go to see the Dean.’

      The offer was accepted with alacrity. With Ranjit’s help and with much puffing and blowing, Mrs Tilak and her daughter were installed in John’s room. John left to Ranjit the task of offering refreshments to the ladies. He had no idea of their caste or orthodoxy. If they were very orthodox, they would refuse all refreshment, in spite of the fact that Ranjit was himself a Brahmin.

      Dr Tilak and he walked down the line of flat-roofed houses and bungalows before turning into the path which led to the Arts and Science Building. Tilak looked about him in a brisk, almost military manner which proclaimed his Maratha forebears, in marked contrast to the stolid, slower movements of Gujeratis. He seemed excitable and full of life, and remarked enthusiastically upon the green lawns and little flowerbeds which had been conjured up out of near desert.

      Tilak had the beauty of face and form, thought John, which had made Indians famous for their looks, though he was gaunt and very dark-skinned. Though he did not know who John was, he was respectful to him, and he soon drew from him some details of his writings, in particular, about his new book on the history of the Marwari Gate temple and the surrounding district.

      But Tilak’s expression lost some of its exuberance, as they chatted. Finally, he said, ‘I wonder what these Jains will think of my subject?’

      ‘Why? I expect there is a demand for Zoology courses here. Otherwise, it would not have occurred to the University to appoint you.’

      ‘There’s a demand – probably from Hindus. However, it may not have occurred to anyone that I’ll require small mammals to dissect for the benefit of my students – and fish to dissect for my own research.’ He turned to John, his face very earnest, ‘One can never be sure with Jains.’

      John smiled at the ominous tone in which he pronounced his last sentence. His eyes twinkled, as he replied, ‘The Vice-Chancellor is a graduate of Harvard – I’m sure he’ll understand the requirements of modern research. We have some old diehards here. A few staff fought against the establishment of a Science Faculty. Dean Mehta is, himself, quite orthodox in his personal life – but I’ve never noticed his trying to impose his views on anyone else.’

      Tilak relaxed a little and was about to make some further remark, when his attention was caught by a flutter of pink on the roof of the Dean’s bungalow, which they were approaching.

      John, also, had noticed Anasuyabehn on the roof, her pink sari almost obscured by