A Journal of Mahatma Gandhi Antarrashtriya Hindi Vishwavidyalaya

“No, none-none that I know of. Saheb,
now only prospective buyers call on them.
People like you. Some more may call in
the evening. This has been going on for
the past many years. but who can say
when the sale will come through? Well,
I must make a move. I have to sweep
and clean the drawing room. Whenever
a visitor is expected Memsahebs remind
me about it half a dozen times. Saheb,
I’m getting late. The cigarette that you
are smoking must be an expensive one.
My mistresses have stopped smoking. It’s
an expensive habit, they say .. They scrape
and scrounge and it’s only then ... well,
what’s there to say? The only thing that
I have learnt from the white sahebs is
to mind one’s own business ...
“So, Saheb, if you want to meet them
come in the role of a buyer.
They don’t trust others. Jot down your
name and address on a piece of paper
and I’ll take it in to them. They will call
you in if they are so inclined or ask you
to come some other time. ‘We are very
busy just now. Some urgent work,’ they
will put forward the plea.”
“What kind of urgent work, Nurie? They
can’t be upto much in this old age, anyway.”
“So you want to know what kind of
urgent work? They darn holes in socks,
stitch hooks on brassiers, open old boxes
and taking out old clothes from them,
fold and unfold them. They unlock and
re-lock fifty doors of the house, discuss
women’s fashions from fifty year old English
magazines. If an electric fuse blows up
out goes a petition to the Minister of
electricity and if an old handkerchief is
lost they address a report to the senior
most police officer. When there is no
response they end up by abusing the
country and its useless government.”
Suddenly Nurie gets up and goes in.
Perhaps it is in response to a signal from
her mistress. She returns with a pen and
piece of paper on which I am asked to
jot down my name and address. She goes
in again and keeps me waiting for about
ten minutes before putting in another
appearance. This time she looks very formal
as if it was someone else who had been
talking to me. “Come tomorrow morning,”
she says. “Sharp at ten. My Memsahebs
will meet you in ‘Morning Glory’-that is
in the morning room. You may go now.”
It is the beginning of December.
‘Morning Glory’ is in the eastern part of
Sunny Cradle. Rising like late latif, the
sun coming through the many windows
caresses everything in the room. Miss Grace
is bending over a map spread on a table.
She almost jumps in her chair as she spots
the names of some cities on the map and
circles a name with a long slim pencil.
“Ruby, come here. Be quick!” Ruby
goes up to her. “What’s it?” she asks. “Won’t
you let me sit in peace? Can’t you see
the swelling in my knees? What a terrible
winter! I don’t know when ...’’ She takes
January-March 2012 :: 111