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Mr Aggarwal chuckled. ‘Madrasis, they are speaking such badly pronouncing English.’

‘Yes,’ Mr Singh guffawed. ‘These Yannas, they are saying yex for x, yam for am . . . when they are speaking English, no one is understanding.’

‘How it matters what English they are speaking?’ Mr Srivastava groaned. ‘All I am wanting is good Madrasi tenant for my barsati and only tenants I am getting are from north.’

The three men were relaxing in the Srivastavas’ house on a hot summer day, drinking nimbupani and commiserating over the fact that the Srivastavas’ barsati was still unoccupied, three months after he had bought the house. South Indian tenants seemed to have vanished, sucked into the summer loo. The Srivastavas had specially advertised their barsati on the weekend, specifying that it was available for a nice, simple, decent Madrasi boy. But no South Indians were forthcoming. Instead, Punjabi boys, UP boys, boys from MP, Bihar and Bengal arrived at his doorstep and were turned away.

‘It is the irony of fate,’ Mr Srivastava moaned. ‘Punjabi tenant is never vacating any house, is always demanding and fighting and not agreeing to rent being raised.’

Mr Singh nodded sympathetically. ‘I myself being Punjabi am seeing this. We Punjabis are not taking nonsense from anybody, Srivastavaji. And that is proving great problem for landlords.’

‘As for Biharis,’ Mr Srivastava sighed, ‘they are lazy buggers. Not even having energy to write out cheque for rent.’

‘And Banias,’ roared Mr Aggarwal, slapping his thigh, ‘they are always being stingy.’

‘What about Bengali?’ Mr Singh asked. ‘Bengali boys very nice, very quiet.’

Mr Srivastava shuddered and folded his hands. ‘Bengali boys nice as long as their temper not disturbed. Once these Bengalis get angry, they are setting fire to first thing they see. Always they carry matches for such times. I am not wanting to get on wrong side of Bengali. You see how they are setting fire to football stadium in Calcutta every year? That is why stadium is made of wood. One year one side loses and setting fire to it, and next year other side loses and setting fire to it. Thank you, Singhji, no Bengali tenant.’

‘Bengalis having culture,’ Mr Singh said wistfully.

‘I am not wanting culture,’ Mr Srivastava said firmly. ‘I am wanting down to earth, simple, decent man who pays rent every month and goes when I say go.’

‘Madrasi.’

‘Yes, Madrasi.’

Mr Aggarwal began to chuckle again. ‘Oh these Madrasis are speaking such comical English. Murdering English language. Still, they are most decent tenants. If you raise rent, they are paying; if you are telling them go, they go. Good people, Madrasis.’

‘Very intelligent,’ Mr Singh added. ‘In every school and college Madrasi topping.’

‘Very sharp,’ agreed Mr Aggarwal. ‘Though they are speaking comical English, they are writing top quality English. Now we, we are speaking good English but writing is not so good.’

The electricity went off and the conversation petered off. Soon Mr Aggarwal and Mr Singh took leave of Mr Srivastava, assuring him that they would do all they could to find him a Madrasi tenant.

*  *  *  *  *

In the kitchen, Mrs Srivastava sighed, tied her jooda into a tighter knot, dug the hairpin in and felt the sweat trickle down her back and neck as she stirred the kadhi. God knew how long the power cut would last. She had listened to every word of the conversation between her husband and his friends. All talk, she thought. All these men could do was talk. Three months and still no tenant. Her husband had retired a year ago and they had bought this house with their precious savings and a huge loan. Where were they to get the money to pay off the loan without a tenant? And all he did was talk . . . expound on South Indians and Bengalis and God knows who else. When did she get to retire? Was there ever any retirement from cooking and cleaning?

Ramsaran, their servant of twenty years, chopped the onions, looking sympathetically at Mrs Srivastava as her brow grew darker. He knew all her moods. Sahib was a spiritual man, he told her comfortingly. Why did she force him to think of mundane things like finding a tenant? Sahib was a man of God, look how often he prayed, and at what length. It was below the good sahib’s dignity to turn his mind to such considerations.

Yes, yes, she had heard all that before, Mrs Srivastava snapped, it was convenient being a man of God. She stopped. She hated herself at moments like this when even a servant could bring out her resentment. Like vomit, she thought, it came out like vomit at times like this. There was no stopping it.

Memsahib was also a good woman, Ramsaran went on. Memsahib had been like a mother to him since sahib got him from the village twenty years ago, and he a frightened ten-year-old boy. She had even taught him to read and write. Sahib and memsahib were his Devtas, his Gods. Memsahib should not worry, all would be well.

Mrs Srivastava let out a big sigh. The electricity returned and the table fan began to whirr, and with that, she felt her body cool and her anger suddenly leave. ‘Lunch is ready,’ she called out to her husband.

*  *  *  *  *

Rao arrived with the monsoon, a tall, dark man (just like Lord Krishna, all Mrs Srivastava’s friends whispered excitedly) with a smile that melted her completely. It was, in fact, the first day of the monsoon. What rain rain rain. What thunder, what lightning, what an overflow of children screaming with delight as they soaked themselves in that first deluge, what a fleet of little white boats floating and dancing down the drains and puddles. The koyal sang with abandon and Mr Srivastava’s craving for pakodas could not be contained. As Mrs Srivastava dropped the first pakoda into the kadhai, there was a knock on the door. It was Mr Singh, holding on triumphantly to this tall man with eyelashes that a girl would envy. Both were soaked under their umbrellas.

‘I am bringing you Madrasi tenant, Srivastavaji,’ Mr Singh beamed, and entered.

Yes, that was how it had all begun, Mr Srivastava recalled much later. That was how it had all begun.

Mrs Srivastava gave Mr Singh and Rao clean towels and after they had dried themselves as best as they could, they sat down to tea and pakodas. Rao’s hair was wonderfully dishevelled. Mrs Srivastava approvingly noted that he smelled clean, had long, sensitive fingers and clean fingernails. A button was missing from his shirt. The poor boy.

Rao was working in the same company as Mr Singh, and Mr Singh recommended him strongly. ‘Very decent man.’

‘So,’ said Mr Srivastava, ‘you are Madrasi.’

‘I am from Karnataka.’

‘Same thing, same thing. We are liking Madrasis.’

‘Actually,’ Rao said apologetically, ‘Madrasi isn’t the correct word. South Indian would be more appropriate.’

Mr Srivastava stared at him.

Rao continued. ‘Calling all South Indians Madrasis is like calling all North Indians Punjabis.’

Mr Singh began to chuckle. ‘Rao here has hit nail on head.’

Mr Srivastava said. ‘For you, because you are Madrasi and Madrasis good tenants, we are asking fifteen hundred rupees only for our beautiful barsati.’

‘But your barsati is haunted,’ Rao said.

‘Haunted!’ Mr Srivastava exclaimed. ‘What are you saying?’

‘Don’t you know? Haven’t you heard?’

‘We are hearing nothing.’

Rao told them. Eight years ago, a young, South Indian girl had lived in the barsati. One day, as quietly as she had lived, she had hung herself. A sweet, gentle girl, no one understood it. Since then, her spirit was said to haunt the barsati. A number of people who had lived in the neighbourhood eight years ago were willing to testify that after midnight, strange sounds began . . . anklets tinkling, bangles clinking, sarees sighing and the sound of low weeping . . . sad, so infinitely, infinitely sad. But there was no reason to be afraid, Rao told his bemused audience, no reason at all. For she was a gentle ghost, and harmless, as she had been when she was alive. In fact, she was a distant cousin of his, known for her kind ways, and this was how he knew the whole story. This was why he had been initially reluctant to consider living in the barsati when Mr Singh recommended it to him. He himself wasn’t inclined to believe in ghosts . . . still, at night one tended to get superstitions.

‘I am not believing in these things,’ Mr Srivastava said uncertainly.

Mrs Srivastava, her hands cold with fear, nodded.

‘I too would not like to believe in them,’ Rao replied, ‘but with these things, who can say? Anyway, can I see the barsati?’

They went upstairs. Two small rooms and a smaller kitchenette. One room opened out on to the terrace. ‘Where you can sleep in the summer,’ Mr Srivastava said.

They went down. ‘It’s only this ghost business that bothers me,’ Rao said, shaking his head.

Mrs Srivastava came to the point. ‘How much you are willing to pay?’

‘Seven hundred rupees,’ Rao said, suddenly firm. Mr Singh gasped.

‘What you are saying!’ Mrs Srivastava exclaimed.

‘Srivastavaji, I cannot afford any more, and under the circumstances, I think it is a good sum of money. However, if you are not agreeable, I will look elsewhere.’

Mrs Srivastava took over. ‘We are willing to negotiate. What you say to six hundred rupees?’

‘Fine,’ replied Rao promptly.

Mr Srivastava wanted to ask him if now he had no fear of haunted houses, but decided against it. A low paying tenant was better than no tenant. Instead, he observed. ‘You are speaking Queen’s English. For Madrasi, that is very good.’

‘Rao has been to England,’ Mr Singh said proudly.

Mr Srivastava looked at him with new respect. ‘How that is?’

‘My father was in the foreign service.’

‘You are liking it there?’

‘Well,’ said Rao slowly, ‘not really. The British still believe that the sun hasn’t set on the British Raj.’

‘Kindly repeat. I am not understanding.’

‘He is saying that the British are thinking they are still the greatest,’ Mrs Srivastava said grimly.

Rao smiled. ‘Exactly.’

‘My daughter,’ said Mrs Srivastava, ‘who is working as engineer in Madras, she is saying that these British, they are still writing same old stories about India, same, same old stories.’

‘Your daughter is absolutely right,’ replied Rao.

‘My daughter,’ said Mrs Srivastava, ‘is saying that these English people, they are always writing about killing tigers, or about ruling stupid Indians, or about how India is poor and stinking.’

‘True,’ said Rao. ‘That is all they want to hear, that is all they are willing to read or publish.’

‘My daughter, she is saying that with these British, either they are glorifying India, or they are going to other extreme. Either they are writing of maharajas and tigers and snake charmers or else they are writing of slums and people shitting in the open.’

Mr Singh and Mr Srivastava looked away in shock.

‘Fine speech you are giving,’ Mr Srivastava said, his ears red.

Mrs Srivastava was breathless. She reached out and patted Rao’s cheek. ‘Beta,’ she said, ‘so long it is since I am talking like this with anyone.’

‘You must be very close to your daughter.’

Mrs Srivastava’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. ‘Yes. But she is engineer in Madras and is having no leave to come and see her poor mother. And my son, Nikhil, who is doctor, is coming home even less.’

Mr Srivastava who had been brooding, suddenly said, ‘I am not agreeing with you. When British here, everything was better. British people were being just, fair and honest. Look at corruption and unrest in this country now.’

‘There is unrest in England too,’ Rao said.

‘Yes, yes!’ Mrs Srivastava exclaimed. ‘You are right. And then, was it not corrupt of those white skins to rule us? Wearing their coats and ties in the summer and telling us what to do?’

‘So,’ asked Mr Srivastava belligerently, ‘if they are wearing coats and ties in our summer, how that is making them bad?’

‘That is not making them bad, that is making them foolish. Ruling our country is making them bad. Having separate compartments for whites and Indians in trains is making them bad. Killing Indians when Indians peacefully protesting is making them bad. What you are saying about British fairness!’

Mr Srivastava got up. ‘I am going for my puja. You settle lease and all that. Namaste.’

Rao got up. ‘Namaste, and thank you.’

*  *  *  *  *

Rao settled down nicely. Mrs Srivastava insisted on feeding him for a week till he had his place settled. She tentatively asked him about the spirit. Rao admitted having heard sounds at night but assured her that it was safe. It was, he was sure, a harmless spirit. Wasn’t he ever afraid? Sometimes, Rao confessed, but one had to overcome one’s fears. She asked him if he had ever seen anything. He replied that it was of no consequence, he did not want her to be afraid. He looked so helpless and vulnerable saying this that she gathered eight shirts from his bed and said that she would sew on the missing buttons.

The neighbours loved Rao, especially the women. They called him Krishna Kannhaiyya and when he told them that he occasionally played the flute, they giggled with delight. Did he not have a Radha, they asked coyly. But Rao only smiled.

*  *  *  *  *

It was Ramsaran who made the ghost a reality. A month after Rao’s arrival, he informed Mrs Srivastava that the barsati was indeed haunted. For two nights in succession he had heard the tinkle of anklets and the clinking of bangles in Rao’s barsati. Once he had heard the strange high-pitched sound of the ghost’s laugh. It could not be borne. Ramsaran’s dark face was darker now with fear and resentment as he said that it was only his loyalty to them that was keeping him here. It was only his undying gratitude to sahib for giving him a job, that was preventing him from fleeing. He didn’t have enough work, Mrs Srivastava responded nervously. Since her children had got jobs and left the house, he spent all his time imagining things. No need to dwell on ghosts. Thwarted, Ramsaran retreated to the back door of the kitchen where he furiously smoked a beedi. Then he returned. Why didn’t she believe him? With six small children and one more on the way, did memsahib expect him to work below a haunted house? If the ghost strangled the children at night, what would memsahib and sahib do? If it strangled him, who would look after his wife and children? Would they? Would they?

Quiet, roared Mr Srivastava, emerging from his puja room. Couldn’t a man pray in peace? He had had enough of Ramsaran’s bak-bak. He banged the door to the room shut and stared accusingly at his Gods.

In the kitchen Mrs Srivastava comforted Ramsaran. If he left them, what would they do, she said, lighting the gas as he kneaded the dough for the chappatis. Leave? Ramsaran echoed, affronted and glowering. How could she say such a thing? For twenty years, since he was a child and sahib got him from the village, he had been with them. He had looked after their children, cleaned her son’s bottom, watched them grow up, was waiting to see them married with children of their own. She insulted him by asking him to stay. Where would he go? They were his only family. His own children were secondary, his wife was secondary. She and sahib were his true parents. Ramsaran’s voice shook as he briskly wiped a tear from his right eye and began rolling the chappatis. Memsahib shouldn’t insult him like this. Would a child desert his parents?

Overwhelmed, ridden with guilt, Mrs Srivastava said that, of course, a child would not, and certainly, she was sure of his loyalty.

But, Ramsaran continued, slapping the chappati angrily on the tawa, what if his own children were strangled by the ghost? Did memsahib have no concern for the little ones?

That wouldn’t happen, Mrs Srivastava replied weakly. Ghosts did not exist.

What was she saying? Memsahib knew nothing. He himself had seen a ghost in his village. He was sensitive to spirits and could sense the presence of the one upstairs. Sahib and memsahib were putting his love and loyalty to them through a great test. It was most trying. He feared that he was now falling ill, terribly ill, he could feel it in his bones. He had been shivering all morning, yes, in this heat he had been shivering, he could not possibly come to work the next day, possibly the next few days, even working now was an effort, but he would do it, yes, he would do it for them. He was not the person to let them down.

Mrs Srivastava sighed softly. Yes, it was time for Ramsaran’s annual illness. Every year, in addition to a month’s annual leave, Ramsaran ‘fell ill’ – hibernated, as it were, in his servant’s quarter, and did not emerge for a month or two. He would then send his wife to the house, and she would arrive, small and pretty, anklets tinkling, always giggling and always pregnant. Yes, it was time for his annual hibernation, and he would come out of this smelling of Lifebuoy soap, ready to spring-clean the house, and jealous of the niche his wife had carved for herself. Sita’s mother, as his wife was referred to after her first-born was used to this, and departed, still giggling, payals tinkling, ready to return the following year. And Ramsaran, amidst a clatter of dishes and brooms, would moan how dirty the house had become in his absence. Sita ki amma knew nothing about the house, how she had let it fill with dirt in his absence. Once, Mrs Srivastava replied that his wife was a far more scrupulous cleaner than him and kept the house like a woman should. That night, Ramsaran went to his quarter, got drunk, and soundly thrashed his wife. She came to the Srivastavas’ house that night, weeping loudly, followed by four children, also crying. They had done her a great injustice, she sobbed to the horrified Srivastavas, by praising her to her husband. She held out her bruised arms to them. Look, she told them, this is what their appreciation had got her from her husband. Ramsaran was summoned from his quarter. He stood with his head bowed as Mr Srivastava shouted abuse at him. He could leave right now, Mr Srivastava said. He was no longer needed in the house. Did he understand? Ramsaran burst into loud tears and fell at Mr Srivastava’s feet, Sita ki amma fell at Mrs Srivastava’s feet. If they dismissed her husband, where would they go, who would feed the children? Mr Srivastava flung his hands up in despair. Enough, he had had enough. They had interrupted his puja and he had no time to deal with such fools. He went back to his room, slammed the door and resumed his prayers. Mrs Srivastava comforted them both, lectured Ramsaran and warned him of dire consequences if he did such a thing again. They both touched her feet and departed, followed by the four frightened children, clutching the toffees she had given them.

And now, after dinner, Mrs Srivastava brought up the subject of the errant ghost with her husband. Suppose Rao left? Who then would want to live in a haunted barsati? How would they pay off their loan? Mr Srivastava replied that what would happen would happen. She should trust in God. He would have a puja in the barsati and that would get rid of the spirit if there was one. A sound of great anger emerged from Mrs Srivastava’s throat. Where had all his prayers got them all these years, she burst out. Did his prayers get the seven hundred rupees a month that helped pay for their children’s college? While he prayed, she had tutored the children, managed the house, worked as a schoolteacher, and saved, yes, saved – saved enough to partly pay for this house, this haunted house. The one decision to buy a house she had left to him, and even that he had messed up. His prayers had kept him in ignorance: in ignorance of her suffering, in ignorance of her pain, in ignorance of the injustice of it all. Large tears rolled down Mrs Srivastava’s plump face. Her husband replied that he was tired of her nagging and he was going to his room for his puja. Go, she told him, he could go to his Gods and take refuge with them. And Mr Srivastava went to his Gods and prayed and meditated for two hours.

The next morning, Sita ki amma arrived, all smiles. He was ill, she told Mrs Srivastava, so here she was. Mrs Srivastava clicked her tongue – she was pregnant again? What number was this one? Sita ki amma giggled. Seventh, she whispered and began peeling the garlic. Mrs Srivastava shook her head in exasperation. She should never have let her and her family stay here during the Emergency, she told Sita ki amma. They looked at each other and began to laugh. Ten years ago, during the Emergency, when forced sterilisations were at their peak, a truck arrived at the servant’s quarters, filled with Youth Congress zealots. They chased and picked up all the males in the vicinity, aged fifteen to eighty, bundled them into the truck, and drove them to the Government hospital to be sterilised. Ramsaran, his wife and three girls (still three then) came panting to the Srivastavas. If memsahib and sahib didn’t hide them, it would be the end. The prospect of no sons and lost virility had reduced Ramsaran to near hysteria, while Sita ki amma sobbed and giggled alternately. Mrs Srivastava cleared a room for them in the house where they stayed for a week. By then the Youth Congress had proceeded to the neighbouring colonies and Sita ki amma was pregnant again. When the fifth child was on its way, Mr Srivastava told Ramsaran that he should have let the Youth Congress have its way with him. Why didn’t he get himself operated on now at least? After all, he did have one son. Ramsaran was most indignant. Did sahib want him to become impotent, lose his manhood? Children were God’s gift to him and if he was willing to look after them, then who was sahib to say anything? Mr Srivastava told him to hold his tongue; from whom did he borrow huge sums of money every month to feed his brood of children? Ramsaran promptly fell ill the next day and that was the end of that.

Now, Mrs Srivastava advised Sita ki amma to have herself operated on when the child was born. Sita ki amma agreed but said that she would have to do it without his knowledge. And on no account was memsahib to let him know.

*  *  *  *  *

That very night, their daughter, Namita, arrived, soaked to the skin. She had sent them a telegram announcing her arrival but it hadn’t arrived. (It arrived the next day.) Mr Srivastava bemoaned the fact that he hadn’t been able to meet his child at the station and damned the telegraph service, damned the rain. He began heating milk for her while his wife hugged Namita and cried. She had become thinner, they noted, had dark circles beneath her eyes and her collar-bones showed. But she was here for a month! Bliss. Bliss. Mrs Srivastava said a quick prayer of thanks before her husband’s Gods and Mr Srivastava let the milk boil over as he gazed at his daughter with tenderness. It is only for you that he will boil milk, Mrs Srivastava told Namita as she cleaned the gas range, and even that he won’t do properly. After Namita changed, they sat by her and watched her towelling her hair, listened as she told them about her journey and her work. She had bought two sarees for her mother and two shirts for her father. Mrs Srivastava told her husband that after all these years she was finally getting what he had never given her. Finally, she was being indulged. Mr Srivastava replied that even he was finally being indulged. And who, asked his wife, made pakodas for him every evening? Namita told them both to stop it.

Early next morning Mr Srivastava went to the market to buy chicken, mangoes and jamun. Mrs Srivastava and Sita ki amma cooked in a frenzy. Then they watched, agonised, as Namita picked at her food. Too thin, too thin, Sita ki amma told Mrs Srivastava, no flesh on her checks, on her breasts, on her hips. How would she ever become a mother? Sita ki amma was a fine one to talk, Mrs Srivastava retorted, when she was half Namita’s size and the mother of almost seven. In the evening the neighbours dropped in with home-made gulab jamuns, pedas. dahi vadas and more jamuns and mangoes from their own trees. Eat, child, eat, they urged the laughing, protesting Namita. She was too thin. She needed to fill out. Having no flesh was fashionable, but she looked like she had jaundice. Wasn’t she planning to get married? It was all very well to be an engineer, but marriage was a must. How old was she? Twenty-seven, said Namita. Twenty-four, said her mother simultaneously, but more loudly. Well then? Twenty-four was a good age to get married. They would find another engineer for her. Or would a doctor be preferable? Would she like a doctor in England or America? India was no longer the place to be in. She should go abroad and make money. Abroad she would have true job satisfaction. Too much bureaucracy in India, too much red tape. And if she had a baby, the child would have foreign citizenship and so many more opportunities than in India. Well? Well?

She didn’t want to marry yet. No? No. She was quite happy as she was. She certainly didn’t want to go to England. In fact, marriage wasn’t necessary. Not necessary? Mrs Srivastava, what was the child saying!

One of the neighbours saw Rao outside and hailed him from the window. Rao strolled in and was introduced to Namita. How nice her Nami was looking, Mrs Srivastava thought fondly. The magenta saree brought out the best in her, highlighted her large eyes and long black hair, even if she did look too thin. For a brief moment, Rao’s eyes seemed to reflect what she felt, then he turned his attention to the plate she had filled with snacks. Namita watched him as he happily consumed it all. Such a nice boy, the neighbours told her, and that too, staying in a haunted house! To Namita’s puzzled look, they responded with the story of the sad spirit. Rao, they said, was such a good man, so fond of her mother that he was willing to stay there in spite of this. Mrs Srivastava gave Rao an affectionate look. Namita threw him a sharp glance and saw him looking sheepish.

‘How interesting,’ Namita said. ‘Do tell me more about the ghost.’

Rao smiled and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Nothing to tell, really.’

‘He isn’t wanting to scare your poor mother,’ Mrs Srivastava said indulgently.

Rao looked away.

‘You believe in ghosts?’ Namita persisted.

‘But beti, of course,’ a neighbour said. ‘Even we are hearing sounds of bangles and all that at night. Are you not also hearing, Raoji?’

Rao shrugged again. ‘I’m a sound sleeper.’

‘And an accomplished one,’ Namita said dryly. Her mother looked at her in astonishment. How rude her Nami’s tone was. What was wrong with the girl?

‘Rao here,’ Mrs Srivastava said, trying to make up, ‘is travelling all over the world.’

‘Did you encounter ghosts in your travel abroad too?’

Rao began to smile slowly. ‘Yes, all kinds.’ He got up. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to leave.’ He folded his hands, gave a charming smile and left.

‘He is sweetest boy,’ sighed a neighbour.

After everyone left, Namita lost her temper. Did they realise what a fool he had made of them? Haunted house indeed. She thought her parents were educated people. Did they know how he had taken advantage of them? Fools, fools. Mrs Srivastava told her not to dare call them that. But they were, her daughter said, they were. Giving him that place for much less than it was worth because of some ridiculous story about ghosts. Were they so naive that they didn’t realise the ‘ghosts’ were women? Innocent Madrasi indeed. Didn’t they realise that he was laughing at their expense? Laughing while consuming one gulab jamun, two pedas and one dahi vada? She counted, said Mrs Srivastava, shocked. Yes, she counted, Namita replied.

But of course, her father said, it was all her mother’s fault. She had clinched the deal. He had never trusted the fellow, never believed the story, but then he was an educated man.

He and she, warned Mrs Srivastava, both had their BAs, so he had better watch his words. What was he capable of doing, besides praying? If they were so concerned, let them find another tenant. Besides, men would be men and if he had girlfriends it was none of their business to interfere.

Very modern she had become, her husband said. But Namita spoke at length of the humiliation of it all, then she began to weep and her mother followed and Mr Srivastava retreated to his room to pray.

*  *  *  *  *

The next morning, Mrs Srivastava asked Sita ki amma about the ghost. Sita ki amma buried her head in her hands and shook in a paroxysm of laughter. Finally she said, even you, memsahib. Of course she knew Rao’s ghosts were women all along. She had seen them go up to his room and come down too, and they were always laughing, it was all very funny.

Why then had she not told her hysterical husband?

Because it suited her not to tell him. This way he felt God was punishing him for his sins and he didn’t get drunk or beat her. The longer he believed in the ghost, the better for her. And the Madrasi was quite discreet; his friends only came to visit him late at night.

She was a fine one, Mrs Srivastava said, suppressing a smile.

He was a truly kind man, Sita ki amma said, stirring the vegetables. He always had sweets for her children and once he had got them all exercise books and pencils for school. Besides no one said anything about Lord Krishna and his hundreds of gopis. And this Madrasi had only two or three.

Namita proved to be less amenable. Even you’re charmed by this fraud, she told her mother angrily. He was a grown-up man, her mother said. Double standards, her daughter snapped. If her mother had a female tenant who was visited at night by numerous men, would she be so calm? That wasn’t the same thing, her mother replied, but when Namita asked her why she couldn’t reply. Enough of your arguments, she told her daughter. She was here for a month and the least she could do was be pleasant. And, Namita continued, that wasn’t the point. The point was that her parents were getting seven hundred rupees for a barsati that was worth twice as much. A good tenant was better than no tenant and the subject was closed, her mother said.

A week later Rao came down and told her in Namita’’s presence that he would begin paying twelve hundred rupees a month the following month onwards, since he had just got a promotion and could now afford it. He was looking at Namita as he spoke to her and it looked as though he was trying hard to suppress his laughter.

Mrs Srivastava patted his cheek. After he left she looked enquiringly at Namita. She had told him, Namita said. Mrs Srivastava’s eyes widened. The previous day, Namita said, she had gone up to his room and told him that he had no right to have done what he did. She had gone up to his room, Mrs Srivastava echoed faintly. Namita let out a sound of exasperation. Her mother had her priorities all wrong and the subject was closed.

*  *  *  *  *

A few days later their neighbours, the Singhs, dropped in, elaborately casual, with their son, Surinder. ‘Our son is doctor in England,’ they told the Srivastavas meaningfully. Surinder shrugged his shoulders modestly. He seemed to be having trouble with his tie which he kept fingering, and his Harris tweed coat was making him perspire. ‘All from London,’ Mrs Singh told the Srivastavas meaningfully. ‘Where you get quality coats like this in lndia?’

‘How long you are in England?’ Mrs Srivastava asked him, smiling.

‘Two years I am there,’ Surinder replied. His accent was an interesting mix of Punjabi and British.

‘You are liking it there?’

Surinder looked unhappy. His mother nudged him. ‘Yes, yes,’ he sighed.

Sita ki amma entered with a trayload of tea and snacks. After they were served, Mrs Srivastava said, ‘What English are thinking of Indians? How they are treating Indians?’

Surinder looked sadder. ‘Sometimes it is all right. And sometimes they are discriminating.’

‘My daughter,’ Mrs Srivastava said proudly, ‘she is having many strong opinions about British.’

‘Yes,’ Surinder said, an expression of great gloom descending on his good-natured features. ‘British calling us Indian and Paki pigs.’

There was an awkward silence. Mrs Srivastava called, ‘Nami, beti, guests are here.’

A few minutes later Namita entered the room and greeted them. Her parents looked at her in some consternation. She was looking her worst in a pair of old jeans and a faded pink kurta. The Singhs smiled and introduced her to their son. ‘He is doctor in London,’ Mrs Singh said proudly. Surinder looked shyly at his shoes.

‘Change your clothes, wear a saree,’ Mrs Srivastava whispered to Namita. Namita got up and sat next to her father. ‘How can you bear to live in that country?’ she asked Surinder.

Surinder looked at her as a drowning child might look at its rescuer. ‘You are speaking words of great truth,’ he said simply.

Namita looked taken aback. ‘Are you feeling cold?’ she asked. Mrs Srivastava drew in her breath sharply.

Surinder beamed. ‘No,’ he said and took off his Harris tweed. He then loosened his tie and gazed at Namita adoringly.

‘If you’ll excuse me,’ Namita said, ‘I have to leave. Namaste.’

‘Surinder, you go with her,’ Mrs Singh said, and Surinder rose with alacrity.

‘No, no need,’ Namita said, throwing her parents a look of fury. ‘I’m going to Ramsaran’s quarter to see how he’s feeling.’ Surinder sat down.

After she left Mr Singh said, ‘She is good girl. Who these days is showing concern for servants?’

That night Namita lost her temper again. ‘Don’t matchmake for me,’ she told her parents. ‘It’s humiliating. I’m not on display.’

He was a good boy, her father said, and they knew his parents. They could both work in London. There would be no question of dowry. What more did she want? They were not telling her to give up her career. She should eat another chappati, she was too thin.

And, her mother said, she would be twenty-eight in four months. She should keep an open mind to marriage. The older one got, the harder it was. They were not forcing her to marry, not dragging her to the sacred fire. What was the harm in seeing boys with an open mind? Compatibility was all a question of adjustment, she shouldn’t have any illusions about compatibility. Who would look after her after they were dead and gone? If she had found someone of her own choice they would be the first to agree. But she hadn’t and how much longer could she wait? As she grew older she was becoming increasingly cantankerous. That’s what happened to spinsters. Marriage softened a woman, taught her to adjust, made her aware of what sacrifice meant. She was very selfish and had not an iota of concern for her old, retired parents.

Namita got up. She was going for a walk.

In the kitchen Mrs Srivastava found Sita ki amma convulsed in giggles. Now what was the matter with her?

That man. That man they wanted baby to marry was wearing a coat in this heat. Sita ki amma held her stomach, doubled over with laughter. Hai Ram, he was wearing a coat!

And what, snapped Mrs Srivastava, made her think he was meant for Namita?

Did memsahib take her to be a fool? It was so obvious. But he wasn’t good enough for baby. Why didn’t they marry baby to that nice Madrasi upstairs?

She was mad, Mrs Srivastava said, stirring the boiling milk.

Oh no, she wasn’t, Sita ki amma replied. She knew everything. Right now baby was going for a walk with the Madrasi.

What?

They were well suited, better suited than the Punjabi in the coat. Overcome with giggles, she buried her face in her hands.

If she knew so much about men, Mrs Srivastava retorted, why had she married someone like Ramsaran?

Because, giggled Sita ki amma, scrubbing the dishes, she wasn’t an engineer.

*  *  *  *  *

Namita’s holidays were coming to an end. Just a week for his daughter to leave. Mr Srivastava mourned, slowly taking out the jamuns and mangoes from his shopping basket. Now, when he had brought some colour into her cheeks, she was going.

Mrs Srivastava walked slowly to the veranda and sat down. Now they would have to wait another nine-ten months to see her, and then too, only for as many days. Ten months anticipating her arrival, ten days dreading her departure. She did not feel this way when her son left, dearly though she loved him. No, she did not feel this way. She watched the drizzle. The worst of the monsoon was over and for once there had been no floods. There would be a good crop this year and hopefully the prices wouldn’t rise. Mrs Singh waved to her from the balcony and Mrs Srivastava waved back. Surinder had reluctantly left for Chandigarh to look at some more girls. The Singhs had been so keen on her Nami. She had to make the excuse that Namita didn’t want to live abroad. Mr Singh understood, but Mrs Singh was offended. What was wrong with her son? For some time there was coolness between the two women but soon Mrs Singh’s natural good nature took over and she came over to the Srivastavas with a tiffin-carrier full of dahi vadas for Namita. She knew that Namita loved dahi vadas and the poor child was leaving in a few days. The problem, Mrs Srivastava thought, was that Surinder had fallen quite madly in love with Namita. Besotted, her daughter said, after receiving several poems from him. Well, nothing could be done about that. He would get over it as everyone in love inevitably did. That Sita ki amma had eyes at the back of her head, she thought. She was right. Namita and Rao had been seeing a lot of each other. Well, that wasn’t such a bad thing. Sita ki amma had even informed her that the visiting ghosts had come to a halt. She did not say anything to her daughter, just don’t visit him in his house, she warned her once. It was most unseemly and she didn’t want Namita to get a bad reputation. Besides, men, even the best of them, would take this as a sign of a girl’s willingness. She herself couldn’t gauge the situation. Rao seemed his usual laughing self with Namita and Namita gave no indication of how she felt. Mrs Srivastava noted that Namita always wore her best sarees when she went out with Rao, but her expression was unreadable. Was this just another friend like her male friends in college? How could Rao not love her . . . she had so much love to give, was so fiercely loyal and strong beneath all that temper. Of course, her husband, immersed in his prayers, was oblivious to what was going on. But now Namita was leaving and she didn’t have the courage to ask her what was going on.

That night Mrs Srivastava dreamt strange dreams. Rao was having dinner with the ghost. He was laughing and the spirit – such a pretty one – joined him. Oh, she wasn’t one to he feared. Suddenly Mrs Srivastava awoke. Looking at her watch, she saw that it was 2am am. She looked at her gently snoring husband. What was it that had woken her? Then she heard sounds from upstairs filtering down to her bedroom window like a gentle drizzle . . . anklets tinkling, bangles clinking and low laughter. Her blood froze. So it was true. Poor Rao. Poor, poor Rao. To live with a ghost and live so uncomplainingly. She shivered. It didn’t sound like a sad ghost. They all said it wept, but she could hear it laughing. There. There, she could hear it again, the clink of bangles and soft laughter . . . then Rao’s voice, also laughing softly. Did he then, talk to the ghost?

In the silence that followed, she was suddenly wide awake. Realisation and fear seeped through her like poison. Slowly, she got out of bed. For some time, she stood there, not wanting to know, her heart beating like the heart of a mad woman. She walked to her daughter’s room and opened the door. Namita was not there.

Trembling, she sat on the bed. She would wait. She would not go up – no, not that. She would wait.

Two hours later she heard the front door open softly and footsteps coming towards the room. Namita came to the door and stopped. She stood there, her face in the shadows and they looked at each other. Then she entered and sat next to her mother. For five minutes they sat wordlessly and then Mrs Srivastava said, how long. A few days, Namita replied. Had she, her mother asked, and then stopped. There was a long silence and then Namita said, yes.

A sound of deep pain emerged from Mrs Srivastava’s throat. Over. All over, it was the end.

Namita said, please don’t tell Daddy.

Had she, asked her mother, kept anything from her husband?

Ma, please.

Mrs Srivastava put her hand to her mouth. She would not cry. Did her daughter realise the implications of what she had done?

Namita seemed to have difficulty finding the right words. It could not be explained, she said at last. Her mother would never understand. Never.

What was there to understand, Mrs Srivastava whispered. She had lost control of herself.

She had not, Namita replied, her voice shaking. She knew what she was doing. She had wanted to do it.

Mrs Srivastava thought she would faint.

Namita continued, would her mother react the same way if she were a son? What about her brother, Nikhil? Wasn’t her mother aware of his affairs? Why had she never reprimanded him? Nikhil was younger than her. She was not a child. She was sick of this hypocrisy.

Mrs Srivastava gathered her forces. How difficult it was to fight in whispers, she thought. Logic didn’t solve the problems in the world, she told Namita. Her daughter might win the argument, but lose everything else. In fact, she had. Did she think Rao would marry her now? Did she think he had any respect for her? Did she?

Yes, Rao wanted to marry her, he wanted to marry her, he wanted to marry her. What about her? Did none of them care how the felt? What about her wanting to marry him? What about that?

Mrs Srivastava hit her forehead with her hand. It had come to this.

Yes, her daughter hissed. It should have come to this long ago.

What was wrong with Rao, Mrs Srivastava asked.

He wasn’t a virgin, Namita replied, then, seeing her mother’s expression, said, but that was what was wrong with her, wasn’t it?

Silently, Mrs Srivastava began to cry, her plump shoulders heaving. There was a sound at the door and her husband stood there, a frail figure in a white pyjama-kurta. What was going on, he asked, aggrieved. It was 4am in the morning. And why was Namita still in her saree at this ungodly hour?

Mrs Srivastava turned on him like a fury. Couldn’t a mother talk to her daughter if she wished? If her daughter was leaving in less than a week, was time any consideration? Couldn’t a mother want some time alone with her child? If she chose to talk to her daughter at 4am what business was it of his? Always interfering, he had always interfered in her life. Always, why, why, why? What was the matter with him? Was he blind to the workings of a mother’s heart? He was blind, certainly, to the pain in hers and would he please leave them alone. Mrs Srivastava’s tears flowed unabated and she fiercely blew her nose into her saree palla.

Mr Srivastava folded his hands. He was going, pray forgive him for asking such an innocent question, he was going. She was a hysterical woman, all women were hysterical and yes, certainly he would leave. He loved his daughter too but had less neurotic ways of expressing it. He would certainly leave, and they could talk till the sun rose and the cock crowed and the milkman came if they so pleased. He stormed out, leaving the curtains swishing furiously.

Poor Daddy, Namita said.

Poor Daddy? Poor Daddy! Indeed. Good, Daddy, kind Daddy, Daddy who bought her her favourite jamuns and mangoes and chicken. Daddy who was so busy praying that he never reprimanded her for her arrogant ways, never corrected her. The best father in the world, married to the worst mother. Never, poor Mummy, who bore the brunt of everything, who disciplined, scolded, slogged like a servant, no, never never that. Could she tell poor Daddy what she had done? Would he resolve the situation by praying some more? More likely the shock would send all prayers out of his mind. Yes, what about poor Mummy, forced into silence and confusion while poor Daddy, blissfully ignorant, continued indulging his darling daughter? Did she think he would take it with the equanimity that she had? Did she think he would ever forgive her?

Namita was quiet until her mother’s tears subsided. Then she put her hand on her mother’s. Her hand was wet, her mother observed. Truly, her daughter was a liberated woman. Was she pregnant?

If she was, her daughter snapped, it was too soon to know and she wasn’t a fool and would her mother stop it stop it stop it.

As though to reinforce her words, there was a loud banging on the front door (as though dacoits had come, Mrs Srivastava told her neighbours later). Mr Srivastava came running to the room (thinking God knows what had happened to his only daughter – no concern for her, of course). They ran to the door and heard Ramsaran’s voice, shouting, memsahib, sahib, open, hai Ram, open! Mr Srivastava unbolted the door and Ramsaran entered, wailing loudly. His wife was dying, dying, help him, his wife was dying, dying! He dropped down to the floor, beating his chest, she was dying. Quiet, roared Mr Srivastava, would he stop wailing and talk sense? Yes, Ramsaran said, what could he say, who would look after his six children, how could they live without their mother? Tonight and the night before, even he had heard the ghost, heard her clearly and that was the cause of all his recent troubles, hai Ram, how much more loyalty did they want from him? Would he and his children have to die before sahib felt compelled to leave this cursed house?

As Mr Srivastava roared again, Mrs Srivastava and Namita ran to the servant’s quarters. All the servants had gathered outside Ramsaran’s quarter, from where muffled groans emerged. The baby wasn’t coming out, someone told Mrs Srivastava, and Sita ki amma would die. Outside the room the six children huddled together, crying.

Mrs Srivastava told Namita to get her father to start the car while she stayed with Sita ki amma. Namita ran back to the house where Ramsaran, still wailing, had positioned himself at Mr Srivastava’s feet, his hands firmly around them. With some difficulty they disengaged him and ran to the garage. The car would not start. She would ask Rao to take his car, Namita said, and before her shocked father could protest, ran upstairs and came down with the pyjama-clad Rao (alone to his room at that time, her daughter had no sense of propriety, he told his expressionless wife later). In a matter of minutes, Rao, Sita ki amma and Mrs Srivastava drove off into the pale sunrise.

‘Bloody fool,’ Mr Srivastava muttered.

‘Poor woman,’ Namita murmured.

At lunchtime Rao and Mrs Srivastava returned, the former still in his pyjamas. Sita ki amma had had a baby boy, a Caesarean, after a prolonged and painful labour. Yes, her tubes had been tied up, and she would be discharged in a few days. Already she was giggling faintly. Ramsaran fell first at Mrs Srivastava’s feet, and then at Rao’s. Gods, they were his Gods. He would be indebted to them in every life. Mr Srivastava told him to have a bath – the whole house was smelling. And he had better feed his children, Mrs Srivastava said, filling the tiffin-carrier with dal, vegetables and rice. Overwhelmed, and scowling fiercely, Ramsaran took the food and left. And Mrs Srivastava sat at the dining-table, her head in her hand, looking at Rao.

Rao traced a pattern on the table-cloth. The laughter had gone from his face and he looked tired. He looked up and said, ‘I want to marry Namita. Can you persuade her to agree?’

Mrs Srivastava said nothing. Mr Srivastava in a strangled voice, said, ‘My daughter?’ Rao nodded. Mr Srivastava sat opposite his wife. He gazed at his daughter tenderly. ‘Why do you need persuasion, my child?’

Namita’s face was flushed. ‘I need more time to know him.’

Mrs Srivastava shook her head silently. More time to know him after what she had done!

How much was he earning? Mr Srivastava asked Rao. Rao told him. His daughter earned much more, Mr Srivastava said. Rao didn’t mind. Of course he didn’t mind, Mrs Srivastava said. It was very convenient for him, wasn’t it? Besides, he was a year younger than her daughter. That didn’t matter, Mr Srivastava said, folding his hands and closing his eyes, even Radha was older than Krishna.

Rao got up and sat next to Mrs Srivastava. ‘I am sorry if I have caused you any pain,’ he said gently. ‘Please forgive me.’ Mrs Srivastava looked away.

What pain, Mr Srivastava said, irritated. Every mother had to lose a daughter some time. It was the natural course of things. She should be rejoicing, not sitting around with a swollen face like that. She had better keep her tears for the actual wedding.

She hadn’t said yes, Namita interrupted. They were all being very presumptuous.

‘Could we go for walk?’ Rao asked Namita.

*  *  *  *  *

It was a two-hour walk. They were smiling when they returned, Rao’s fingers touching Namita’s as they walked towards the veranda. Mr Srivastava avoided looking at their brushing hands. Mrs Srivastava rose, and as they stepped on to the veranda, hugged them. She told them to sit outside, then went to the kitchen and emerged, holding a steel plate with some rice and dahi. Stand next to each other, she said. Obediently, they did as she instructed. She dipped a few grains of rice in the dahi and pressed it first, on Rao’s forehead, then Namita’s. God bless them both, she said. Live long, Mr Srivastava said.

Later, they sat around the dining-table, drinking nimbupani, and Rao said, ‘My parents are coming to Delhi in a couple of days. I’ll tell them about Namita and would like them to meet you.’

Shock registered on Mrs Srivastava’s face. Two days? That gave her no time to prepare things, get the house cleaned, buy sweets, what would Namita wear, all her good sarees were in Madras, would she wear her mother’s pink and gold Benarasi saree with the Hyderabadi pearls?

Namita began to laugh. She would wear whatever her mother wanted her to wear.

And, her father said, she would now have to find a job in Delhi.

Oh no, Namita replied. Rao would have to find a job in Madras.

Aghast, Mr Srivastava looked at Rao.

Was that the issue? Mrs Srivastava asked Namita.

That, and a lingering ghost, Namita replied.

Exorcised now, Rao said swiftly.

What was all this? Mr Srivastava asked.

Now onwards, Rao said firmly, he would follow Namita to the ends of the earth. He began to smile.

*  *  *  *  *

That night Ramsaran returned to work and cooked an elaborate meal for the prospective son-in-law. That was the least he could do, he said, for the man who had saved his wife’s life.

They would have to find another decent Madrasi tenant, Mr Srivastava sighed, eating his third chappati.

Any tenant would do, Mrs Srivastava said. He should stop being so communal.

Anklets tinkling and all that, Mr Srivastava said, shaking his head. Who but a decent Madrasi would put up so quietly with it? Rao choked and Namita began to cough.

They were gone, Rao said, gulping down some water. The ghosts were gone for good.

Ramsaran folded his hands. His prayers had been answered, then. With the birth of his seventh child and Namita-baby’s engagement, evil spirits had been exorcised.

It was all God’s will, Mr Srivastava said. The ghost had never bothered him. He had got so much peace by praying. He helped himself to a sixth chappati.

Prayers had certainly given him peace, Mrs Srivastava said, but not for the reasons he thought they had. She began cutting the melon.

Ramsaran gave a rare smile as he collected the dishes. Memsahib was very funny.

Rao reached out for a slice of melon, cut it into small pieces and placed them on Namita’s plate. Eat some more, he said, putting a piece into Namita’s mouth.

Soon Mr Srivastava got up. Time for his puja, he said, rubbing his stomach.

Time for their walk, Namita said, rising with Rao.

Mrs Srivastava walked to the veranda and sat on the chair. What a clear and rain-washed night. She watched her daughter and Rao slowly walking down the road. As they turned the corner Rao put an arm around her daughter. Why, thought Mrs Srivastava, had no one wanted to follow her to the ends of the earth? Silly, she was being silly. She heard her husband cough behind her. He could not concentrate on his puja, wasn‘t that strange? He sighed heavily as he sat behind her. His fledgling was going to fly. His fledgling, Mrs Srivastava replied tartly, had flown years ago. Mr Srivastava gazed unseeingly into the distance. After all these years, he said, some strange man had come and snatched her from them.

The shadow of a smile lit Mrs Srivastava’s face as she gently tapped his arm. Silly man . . . he was a silly, silly man.