The Moneylenders of Shahpur. Helen Forrester

distributed the gifts he had brought from France several weeks before, when, with sly hints, the matter was broached. Girls of suitable caste and orthodoxy were suggested; Mahadev found fault with all of them.

      ‘It looks as if our French investment will flourish,’ he reminded his father, ‘so it is important that I should have a wife able to mix with French ladies.’

      ‘French women!’ exclaimed his father. ‘She’ll live in this house. She doesn’t have to go with you to Paris.’

      Mahadev felt the perspiration trickling down his back. He did not know how to explain to his father the witchery of the women he had seen in France. The amount of sin he had accumulated during his visit appalled him; somewhere, sometime, it would have to be expiated.

      ‘It’s the custom in France to travel with one’s wife,’ he lied in desperation. ‘It’s expected of one.’

      His father digested this information in silence. He was aware of the pitfalls of travel. There was the temptation to eat meat, for example.

      As if reading his thoughts, Mahadev said, with a burst of inspiration, ‘It’s extremely difficult to eat properly without someone to cook for me.’

      ‘Ah,’ exclaimed his father, satisfied at last. ‘Most of the girls whom your uncles mentioned can read and write. They’d be docile enough and do whatever you asked.’

      Mahadev mentally dismissed the whole solemn, dull collection of them. He had seen a woman walking, with her boy servant, near the University. He had known her for years by sight. He remembered her long plait of hair swinging softly over pretty, rounded shoulders, her delicate ivory skin, her demurely lowered eyelids. Swallowing hard, he inquired of his father, ‘Did Dean Mehta’s daughter ever get married? Her father’s with the University – you may remember him.’

      Old Desai looked at him. ‘She’s not one of our people.’

      ‘I know,’ replied his son, rather crestfallen. ‘But she is a Jain.’

      Desai Senior pursed his thin lips, and considered the merits of the match. Finally, he said uneasily, ‘She’s not a lucky woman – she’s been bereaved even before being married – and her horoscope may not be correct.’

      Mahadev dared not show the irritation that he felt, neither could he describe the subtle seductiveness of Anasuyabehn or say that he had thought her beautiful long ago, when he was a young man and she was a quiet school girl travelling to and from her lessons. He had never questioned his father’s choice of his first wife, who had been a good, obedient girl, but now Mahadev was no longer young – he was a rich, experienced man who hungered for a woman of his own choosing. He wanted Anasuyabehn, the sight of whom made him tremble. And of what use was being rich if one could not buy what one wanted?

      The elder Desai listed a multitude of reasons regarding Anasuyabehn’s unsuitability as a wife, but they only hardened Mahadev’s determination to wed her.

      ‘Perhaps eldest aunt from Baroda could inquire discreetly about the horoscope,’ he said, trying to keep his face impassive.

      His father looked at him penetratingly. Mahadev seemed set upon this woman, and he himself was very anxious to see him safely married. Mahadev was his favourite son; in comparison, his younger son was a dunderhead – and the boy’s wife was an avaricious shrew. He wondered what kind of a temperament Anasuyabehn had; something about her evidently pleased his son.

      ‘Have you spoken to this girl?’

      ‘No, father.’

      ‘Have you seen her?’

      ‘Yes, father. Many times since childhood. She used to go to a school near the Red Gate and I would see her getting off the bus at the flower bazaar with the other girls.’

      ‘Hm,’ murmured his father, thinking that young men did not change much from generation to generation. ‘I’ll consult your uncles.’

      The elder man waved his hand in dismissal, and Mahadev knew intuitively that he had won. He got up from the mattress on which he had been sitting, bowed and made for the door.

      ‘Wait,’ said his father, and Mahadev turned apprehensively.

      ‘You realize that a man in your position can choose almost any girl in our caste – parents would happily approve of you.’ He paused, and then went on, ‘You should consider this carefully, for I do not know whether the Mehtas will be so happy. Dean Mehta presumably has had other offers for his daughter.’

      Mahadev, secure in his family’s financial empire, had never thought of being snubbed by Dean Mehta and he was nonplussed for a moment, and then said, ‘Would Baroda aunt cause inquiry to be made on this point first?’

      He is quite determined, thought his father fretfully. I should be firmer about it – and yet the other boy is very unhappy with his witch of a wife.

      ‘Very well,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Here, take these photographs and have another look at them – you might change your mind about one of them – Baroda aunt’s young sister-in-law looks quite nice.’

      Mahadev reluctantly took from him the half dozen or so studio portraits of prospective wives, promised to consider them and made his escape.

      A man of thirty-four, who had seen the world, he fumed, should surely be allowed to choose a wife; and yet, beneath his resentment at his marriage being arranged for him, lay the knowledge that his father was being extremely patient.

      He wandered into the compound, round which were ranged dwellings dating back a hundred years or more. How crowded and dirty it looked! Its smoke-blackened stone verandas with their steps hollowed out by generations of feet, its rotting woodwork, its lack of paint, depressed him. Later on – he would not admit to himself that he meant when his father and his Partner Uncle died – he would build a new Society in a more salubrious neighbourhood, and leave this compound to his brother.

      Now that India had settled down after the horrors of 1947, others, less rich than he was, had moved out; he would, too. He sighed, and looked at his watch. Time to go into the office and relieve his brother.

      In the gloomy, dusty office, his brother was haggling superbly with a rather cowed local landowner about a loan against his next crop. Mahadev went to stand quietly by him.

      His father might consider Younger Brother dull and commonplace, but Mahadev was fond of him and felt he would make an excellent junior partner, completely reliable in all routine matters, and, as far as the family was concerned, painstakingly honest. It was a pity that his father was so hard on him.

      Gradually, Mahadev was drawn into the argument, and in a very short time he was engrossed in squeezing a higher interest rate out of their client.

      The would-be brides soon had an account book banged down upon their neatly photographed features – and were forgotten.

       CHAPTER SIX

      Anasuyabehn’s widowed aunt had made her home with her brother and his daughter because she had no sons and disliked the idea of living with one of her brothers-in-law. She had constantly berated the old scholar about his neglect of his daughter in respect of finding a husband for her. The only reply she had been able to obtain from him had been, ‘We should wait a full two years from the time of her betrothed’s death – it is not judicious to hurry the girl.’

      As a result of this, Aunt had almost given up hope of ever seeing her niece married, since the older a girl became the harder it was to marry her off. Aunt felt that her own abilities as a matchmaker were simply withering away.

      She had, therefore, been delighted when, by devious routes, it was made known to her that the Desais would make an offer for Anasuyabehn, if they could be sure of not being snubbed. This was an opportunity which could not be ignored, a real test of her matchmaking skills, which would benefit dear Anasuyabehn immeasurably.