SOME THINGS ARE MORE IMPORTANT THAN MONEY
DEEP down was a tiny ember of guilt, perversely alive, which made him hesitate before the gate. A hardened criminal had no business harbouring a conscience, he reminded himself. His future hung in the balance; the choice was between security and long years in jail. He walked in, wondering if he was too early. Without a watch, it was difficult to time things exactly.
The drive was just as he remembered; even the gul-mohors and the jacarandas were in bloom, creating a cool tunnel of shade after the heat of the bare, wide road. In the pillared porch, a servant asked his name and showed him into a long, high-ceilinged room behind the curving staircase. As he sat down, he heard the pendulum clock on the wall chiming the hour.
The room was dim, with curtains draped over the two windows and dark panelling on the walls. There was a faint smell of camphor and furniture polish. Everything was faint, subdued, muted; in character, he thought, spelling out how many genera- tions of affluence? Even the velvet covering on the chairs looked faded, and his cheap yellow shoes were an affront to the Persian carpet. From where he sat, on a straight-backed chair of carved wood, directly under the slowly revolving fan, he could see out of the door and into the garden. The flowers reminded him of the Andamans; lush as cabbages and brightly coloured; violent pinks, yellows and reds: cannas, dahlias, Easter lilies, and others unknown to him.
So this was what Debi-dayal had turned his back on. He had become a revolutionary, knowing that at the end of the road, lay the Cellular Jail and a life sentence which, now that the islands had fallen to the Japanese, would perhaps never end. The important thing to remember was that Debi-dayal would never come back. It was doubtful if he was still alive. If he had managed to make himself hated by Mulligan and his sentries, he would not get very far with the Japanese. The stiff, leaning figure of the big Ramoshi, his guts spilling on the floor and the ants crawling in and out of his belly, his lolling head with the face that had seemed to laugh at him in the night, came back to Gian. That was the Japanese answer to their rules being broken, their routine punishment, the equivalent of Mulligan's kanji-house.
He was confident of success, elated at the way he had played his cards so far. Shiva had strengthened his hand, had become a pawn in his designs; Shiva discovered almost by accident, originally intended to be sold for whatever he would fetch, had been worked into the plan, and had already helped him to get over the first, all-important hurdle.
The minutes passed. The feeling of guilt had now almost wholly evaporated. His elation grew. He waited; resolute, ruthless, braced for any eventuality. His fingers touched the Andaman disk, now under a tie and shirt, almost as a devout man touches a talisman.
There was a scamper of feet on the carpet behind him, and a small, chocolate-coloured dog came and began to sniff at his toes, wagging its tail. Gian was not used to dogs; he was suspicious of them, was secretly afraid of them-perhaps the relationship of the criminal to the watchman, he said to himself. He jerked his foot back, almost involuntarily. They were in opposite camps, dogs and men like himself, hereditary enemies. No wonder the criminal tribes were said to sacrifice dogs to their deity...
The dog backed out and began to growl, the hair on its spine stood up, the tail stood rigidly out. Suddenly it occurred to him that he had seen the dog before, on the day of the picnic; knew its name too: Spindle, Sundari's dog. For a moment he wondered if she too was there, in her father's house. Her presence would certainly complicate things, if she remembered him from the Birchi-bagh picnic. He had gone over his plan with care, and he had been prepared for Tekchand and his business shrewdness. But not for this. He hoped everything would not be ruined by her being there. He did not want to be recognized before he was prepared to disclose his identity. But she was bound to be in Bombay, he reassured himself, with her husband.
There was a sound of footsteps coming down from the stairs and then a woman's voice calling out: 'Spindle! Where are you, Spindle?"
Gian sat up, rigid with apprehension, confronted with the sudden fear of failure. His heart thumped wildly, and sweat broke out all over his body. Was he going to be recognized now, before he could tackle Tekchand and say to him what he had rehearsed a hundred times? The dog, sensing his nervousness, began to bark. He gingerly put a hand to stroke its head. It was useless.
Oh, stop yapping, Spindle!' the girl was saying in mock irritation. Now her footsteps were behind him, on the carpet, coming nearer. It was inevitable, he felt, fate taking a hand, consigning him to a future of misery, sending him back to the jails of India...
She came in almost running, tall and slender and more beautiful than he remembered her. He stood up and folded his hands, not daring to say anything, going through the motions of greeting a lady as practised in civilized Hindu society.
I am sorry, Sundari said in Hindi, stopping abruptly in her stride. 'I didn't know there was anyone here."
No, there was no one in the room, only a runaway convict; he told himself with bitterness, she could not have known about his coming because she had not heard a car drive up... no one came to the house on foot, as he had done. I am waiting for the
Dewan-bahadur,' Gian said. "Oh, yes, you must be the gentleman he is buying the statue from. He was saying something about it at lunch. I do hope Spindle hasn't been worrying you."
No, but he wasn't very friendly, either."
The girl laughed. In spite of himself, Gian stared at her face, went on staring. How many years was it since he had seen a pretty girl laughing? She bent down and picked up the dog and cuddled it in her arms. 'Abaji should be here any minute. Sorry Spindle has been worrying you; he is quite friendly, really.' She walked away towards the staircase and then stopped and turned.. Haven't I seen you before ?' she asked.
His heart fluttered, sensing defeat. And yet, somewhere within him, there was also a glow of gratitude to her for remembering him. Was this the end, he asked himself, or just a beginning beginning of something he had never dared to aspire to?
Oh, yes, now I remember. You came and had tea here, with Debi, and then we all went to Birchi-bagh and...and you swam all the way beyond Aswini rock, to the other bank. Don't you remember?
Did he not remember? There was very little else he remem- bered so vividly, very little else he so much wanted never to forget. Was that all he had meant to her-someone who had gone swimming beyond Aswini rock? Gone swimming to hide the shame of being found wearing a janwa?
The silence hung around them; both went on looking at each other, the man with the convict's work-hardened body, the blunted sensitivity and dead soul, and the girl from the world of fragrance and laughter. Outside on the gravel, wheels crunched and came to a smooth halt, doors opened. There was a sound of footsteps approaching. Gian stood still, waiting for the spell to break, aching for it not to be broken.
"Ah, there you are!' Tekchand said, looking at his watch. 'I hope you haven't had to wait too long. This is Mr. Talwar, he introduced. "My daughter, Mrs. Chandidar." Gian folded his hands and bowed. Sundari acknowledged his greeting and then excused herself and went out, carrying her dog. 'Let's go upstairs, Tekchand said, leading the way, and Gian followed him. Here, too, it was all as he remembered; the wide, curving, carpeted staircase, the long passage with the bronze and brass figures on both sides; the private museum, at the back of the house, with its high, scalloped ceiling and banks of shelves.
And the statues. They were all round them; a parade of gods, standing, stooping, dancing, blessing, killing, eating, embracing, copulating; Shivas and Vishnus and Brahmas and Gokals and Ganpaties and Narasimhas and Lakshmis and Saraswatis and a hundred others. And on a waist-high pedestal painted white, placed in a corner where the light came in a shaft from the skylight, stood Shiva from the Little House. Besides Shiva, looking prim and shining with jewellery, stood Sundari's mother, Radha.
'Mr. Talwar, Tekchand introduced. "My wife."
I have just ordered tea,' Mrs. Tekchand said. "When I heard the car downstairs.' It was so much like that other time: servants in white coats bringing in the trays, plates of cakes, sandwiches and pakoras, the shining silver tea service, the fragile cups and saucers. Mrs. Tekchand sat on the fan-backed sofa, its gilt legs placed on the edge of a blue and green carpet. Both the sofa and the carpet must have been specially made for the room, Gian told himself, for the design of the dragons on the carpet was also repeated in the tapestry that covered the sofa. He sat on the frail, gilded chair, worrying whether he was doing anything wrong, afraid that he would drop his cup. He watched the servants moving about, handing round plates with small pink napkins folded like flowers, and little silver forks.
For the past three years, he had avidly held out his enamel mug for the tepid grey liquid that the Andaman jail served as tea. Now he was sitting in a private museum, on an antique chair, in the aura of the perfume that Sundari's mother wore. And again there was that slight twinge of conscience which he had experi- enced, when standing at the gate. What business had he to break into these people's lives, contaminating them by his presence, like the man with the beard who had been here that other time, Shafi Usman, carrying with him the shadow of evil? For a moment, he felt sorry for them, these people who were being so good to him, permitting him such an intimate glimpse of their lives; he who was planning to feed upon their distress. But he shook the thought away. This was no time to be squeamish He had not shrunk from cutting a dead man's throat for his gold. Now it was the relatively simple matter of playing on the anxiety of a man and his wife. He looked at the wife, who was offering him a slice of cake. She was soft, beautiful, elegantly dressed, and jewelled; she would be much easier to deal with than her husband, he reflected; he could not imagine her being cautious and businesslike, allowing her righteousness to come in the way of sentiment. She gave him a pleasant smile. "Oh, do have another slice-you must."
"Thank you.' Gian held out his plate. The fork rattled slightly with the shaking of his hand.
It was not as though he was going to do them any harm, he consoled himself. At the hand, of their son, they had already
suffered all the harm that was destined for them. If anything, he was going to make it easier for them by giving them hope. A few lies more or less did not matter. Where is Sundar?' Mrs. Tekchand asked. 'Isn't she coming up to tea?"
She must have taken the dog out,' her husband said. 'I saw her downstairs.'
Mohan, go and tell Sundar-miss that we are having tea in here,' she ordered one of the servants.
Now he was calm. The room with the high, scalloped ceiling and the two enormous chandeliers was not there. Suddenly, it had taken on the shape of a beach at midnight, with a moon poised above the coconut palms. The statues blurred and receded and focussed themselves again, dancing round a campfire. The drums had stopped with the crack of the whips, and now they were all turned to stone, holding their postures, until the music would begin again. The spoon slipped off his saucer and fell softly on the carpet.
The dream ended, having reminded him that he had stolen a glimpse of the Jaora dance, a primitive fertility rite. Now he found himself on the brink of another world, surrounded by luxury. He was hungry, excited, braced for whatever challenge the moment held. This was something he was not going to allow to go sour. He would fight, fight with all his seasoned criminal's cunning. Even the girl coming in did not worry him now.
A servant brought him another spoon, placed on a tray. Tekchand rose, picked up a magnifying glass from one of the tables, and walked over to Shiva's pedestal. He began to examine the figure, moving the glass slowly.
Sundari came in, followed by Spindle. Gian got up, balancing the paper-thin cup and saucer with ease. 'Oh, there you are,' her mother said. "This is Mr. Talwar.'"
We have met already,' Sundari said, taking one of the gilt chairs.
"Met? her mother looked up from pouring tea.
"While I was waiting downstairs,' Gian said.
The ritual of afternoon tea went on, polite, unhurried. They talked of the war, of the heat, of the freedom movement. Then the women left and servants began to clear away the tea things.
One offered him cigarettes, fat, exotic-looking cigarettes from a heavy silver box. He took one and lit it, remembering the time when Balbahadur stamped on his hand when he reached for a butt.
The noises ceased. He was still sitting in the chair facing the fan-backed sofa, smoking, aware that a moment of crisis was at hand. And yet, he was almost startled when Tekchand addressed him:
"Well, Mr. Talwar, I have decided to make you an offer. And I think you will find that the price I am offering is fair.' He was still standing close to the statue, still holding the magnifying glass in one hand.
Calmly, Gian drew on the cigarette. He felt supremely confident of success; a man in a position to bargain. Shiva was just a preliminary, as you will soon find out, Dewan-bahadur, he told himself. You are someone I am going to make use of, and nothing is going to stop me from doing that. Shiva is merely a happy coincidence, a handy pawn pressed into service. Whatever I have planned is going to happen; it was inevitable even if Shiva had not been there, for to me it means survival. Shiva has merely paved the way.
'I had the curator from the museum here for lunch and we were both able to have a good look at the piece. It's early sixteenth century. Made by Kumarappa's son, at Tanjore. Not by Kuma- rappa himself, as I had originally thought. That would have made it rather awkward.'
"Awkward, sir?
Because in that case, I might not have been in a position to make an offer. The price would have been beyond me.
'Oh, I am very glad it is not as precious as you originally thought, then.
Tekchand deposited the magnifying glass in its velvet bag and came and sat in the chair that Sundari had occupied.
"That is a somewhat unusual wish, if I may say so, but perhaps you have your reasons. As it turns out, it is by no means a unique piece. Mind you, the sons, both of them, were good craftsmen in their way. But never as good as the father. And they were far more prolific, if that is the word. They sold at least a hundred of these Shivas, which, purely from a collector's point of view, reduces their value. You see what I mean."
'Yes.'
'I myself rate their work high, much higher than Maheswari, even Nityanand. There is a certain vitality, virility, almost, nothing of the romanticism of the Ajanta school, the sexual obsession of Khajuraho. It is starkly primitive... 'Like when man first began to dance,' Gian suggested.
Exactly. They have two of these figures by Kumarappa's sons at the Lahore museum, at least, only two that can be authenti- cated."
'Is this one... er, authentic?"
'Oh, very much so."
"How much would it be worth?' Gian asked. He was not really interested in the price. He would have been very glad if Tekchand would have accepted it as a gift. But he knew that any such suggestion would be repugnant to him. It was Tekchand, not Shiva, who might be of use to him.
'It's rather difficult,' Tekchand was saying. "There is no price, as such. But if I were buying a Shiva made by the younger Kumarappas, say, from the Bhadrapore or Lankadaman galleries, I myself would place a limit of two thousand rupees. I think that was what the museum paid for the second of their figures. Supposing I give you two-five?"
The figure staggered him. He had never thought that Shiva would be worth much more than a couple of hundred rupees. He was also surprised by the other's frankness; his gullibility, almost.
I have a similar figure, made by Maheswari, almost a con- temporary of the Kumarappas. I would like to buy this one, so that I can put both of them at the entrance near the foot of the stairs, side by side-that is, if you are willing to sell."
"That is most generous of you. Of course, I shall sell. I would be quite willing to sell for two thousand."
No, no; that wouldn't do at all.'
"Frankly, I had never thought that the figure would be worth anything like two thousand-that it was anything special." Oh, very special,' Tekchand said. 'Indeed, if it had turned out to be the elder Kumarrappa's work, it would have been worth-well, fifteen thousand, at least-maybe more. Some American paid twenty-five for one of them, two years ago."
"Even if it had been, I would much rather have sold it to you,' Gian said, 'for whatever you were willing to pay."
Tekchand looked at him, a question in his eyes. Then he said:
"Is there anything special you want from me, Mr. Talwar P It was coming, and he was prepared for it. Yes, sir, I want a job,' he said, almost with relief. "What sort of a job?"
I don't mind what it is. As a clerk, or as a supervisor of labourers on one of your construction works; anything. I don't mind even working as a coolie. I am used to manual labour."
For the first time, Tekchand looked uncomfortable, suspicious. Was he one of those desperate young men who were engaged in terrorist activities? What was his reason for wanting to get work on a construction job-even as a coolie? "Anything else?" he asked.
Yes, the job has to be somewhere away from this place, and...
'Oh, I see. There was a moment's silence. Gian waited for the next question, feeling relaxed and confident.
Is there, by any chance... are you trying to hide from something?
'I am trying to rehabilitate myself."
'Is it anything to do with how the statue came into your possession? 'No, sir."
"Can you tell me how it came into your hands?"
"You don't think I have stolen it, do you?' Gian asked with a touch of resentment.
"Well, no. Actually, I have ascertained that it is not stolen-at least not from a museum or a temple; or a private collection. The curator had no knowledge of any such theft. They are always kept informed, whenever an identifiable piece is stolen. But still, there is an air of mystery surrounding all this. "Why is it necessary to clear the mystery?"
For one thing, it is important for a collector to learn details of the pieces he owns. You will find that every one of the figures you see here has a card pasted underneath, giving a brief descrip- tion-who made it, how it was discovered, who were the owners, and so on. It is essential to give each piece an identity, a name, and address and a background, just like a human being. A man has to have a name, a record, a background. Otherwise he's justa nobody.' 'I will tell you all I know about it,' Gian said. 'It is not much. It was discovered by my grandfather, while he was digging in his field. The nick on the shoulder was made by Grandfather's pick.'
"Yes, it intrigued me, that nick. You know, of course, that Kumarappa's main business was to make armour, something thin and light that would yet break a spear on impact. Where is this field?"
"At a place called Piploda, in the Sonarwadi district.'
"That is up north somewhere, isn't it?"
"Yes, in Himachal.'
"That's at least two thousand miles away from where Kuma- rappa lived. Just shows how Hinduism had already unified India, even before the British did so. In what year ?'
*Pardon?"
"When your grandfather came upon the Shiva."
"Nineteen hundred and eight-or nine."
"What else?"
"That is about all. Since then it has been in the family; in the shrine." 'An object of worship?"
'Yes.'
And you are, you said, a non-believer."
'Yes.'
And that is all you can tell-or are prepared to tell?"
"That is all I know about the figure."
For a few moments, Tekchand stared at the figure of Shiva, and then at Gian. 'And it seems that you have brought it to me not so much because you want to sell it for a good price but because you hope to get a job." "That is quite right."
"A job somewhere away from here."
Yes, sir.' "
"Why do you need a job so badly, Mr. Talwar? There are hundreds of jobs going these days. For a young man like you, there should be no difficulty-no need to offer one's services as a coolie."
Gian said, 'You said just now, that a figure like that Shiva has to have an identity, just like a man: a name, a family background, a history. That is what I am seeking. An identity." Tekchand gave him a sharp, searching look. What is wrong with your present identity?" he asked. As Gian Talwar, who comes from a village in the Sonarwadi district, in the Himachal state. You have been to school there, so there should be a record, there; then presumably, you have been to college too. Some- where you have held a job, working with your hands. Why cannot you go before the employment people and offer your services as Gian Talwar? What is wrong with your present identity, Mr. Talwar ?
This is what is wrong with it,' Gian said very evenly. He loosened his tie and opened out his collar, baring his neck. "This is what is wrong.' He held up his Andaman disk.
They were on the private balcony behind their bedroom over- looking the garden and the grove of casuarina trees, with the curve of the river in the distance. Tekchand was pacing up and down, dressed in his kurta and pyjamas, his yellow velvet chaplis making a soft phut-phut sound on the bare tiles of the floor. His wife sat hunched in a rattan chair, her feet drawn up on the seat.
'I don't like it,' Tekchand pronounced. 'Don't like it at all.' He had said the same thing several times before.
'But you must do something,' his wife said, 'since Debi told him to come to you. You cannot let your son down.' She, too, had said the same thing several times before.
"But don't you see? It all seems so-so underhand, for someone in my position."
No one knew more than she how vulnerable his position was. He was a Dewan-bahadur, and had Debi not been involved with the terrorists, he would almost certainly have been knighted before this. Now all that had blown over; his work for the war effort, his civic zeal, his donations to public causes, had overcome that setback. Now he was on the rise again. They could scarcely help giving him a knighthood as soon as the war was over; that was what everyone said, even the officials. Sir Tekchand Kerwad, that was what he was going to be, and she would be Lady Kerwad.
He looked resentfully at her, sitting with a flushed face and
"Those two? In the boat. Landed on the Burma coast; at a place called Tavoy. It was just a week before the Japanese overran Burma, and everything seems to have been in a bit of a mess; otherwise they were bound to have been caught. As it was, the disruption of the administration in Burma seems to have. helped them. They just got mixed up with the refugees streaming out, thousands of them. No check on who was who. That's how they got back-you don't have to look like that!'
Her eyes were wet with tears. 'If only Debi had decided to come with them, he would be here, now."
'But don't you see? That would not have done at all We would have been bound to report him; we could not have.
'Never!' His wife snapped with anger. "I would never have let you do that.' She dabbed her eyes with the end of her sari. They were silent for a while, both aware that they were on the verge of a quarrel. Then she asked: What do you think is happening to Debi now, under the Japanese?"
He breathed freely again. The danger had passed. They had been quarrelling too often lately. 'It's difficult to say," he told her. 'No one seems to know, even in Simla. I expect the Japanese will treat them just as considerately as the British did-no reason why they shouldn't. I have never believed all those atrocity stories myself. Anyway, Mr. Talwar doesn't know. He got away just a few weeks before they took over. Before that, on the whole, the convicts don't seem to have had too bad a time, not like the jails here.'.
We must do something for him, just for Debi's sake. How can we face him when he comes back-if he ever does come back?" She dabbed at her eyes again and blew her nose. Remember how hurt you felt, when he was in Thana, when he refused to let us visit him. How can anything be more important to us than the happiness of our children?"
There was reproach in her tone, mixed with the anguish. He knew what she was thinking about. Not Debi alone, but Sundari too. Sundari had returned from Bombay two months earlier, ostensibly on one of her visits home, and later told them that she was not going back.
At least that part of it had nothing to do with him; no one could put the blame on him. That was something about which he and his wife never quarrelled. They were both partners in this, conspirators almost, because they were aware that neither could be held responsible for whatever had happened, and they were always thinking out ways and means to make her want to go back, to give her marriage another chance. They had both tried so hard to do the right thing by their children. Where had they gone wrong?
He got up from his chair and walked to the balcony, knowing that the question had no answer. The trickle of the river beyond the casuarina grove was thinner than ever; it would remain thin for another month, when the largesse of the flood would make it strong and turbulent again. A cyclist went past the white wall at the back. The heat lay like a blanket, covering everything, and he shut his eyes against it. Sundari had to go back. Her marriage must be saved. How had he managed to spawn two such self-willed children, deter- mined to get their own way even if it led to ruin, he wondered.
His wife was saying something. He opened his eyes and turned back. "What were you saying?" 'Sundari has agreed to go back,' she told him.
It was like a breath of cool air through the oppressive heat, and for a few seconds, he remained where he was, savouring its caress. And then he was overcome by a sudden sense of gratitude to his wife; knowing that he himself would never have been able to speak to Sundari about her estrangement. He sat by his wife and took her hand.
'Does it mean that they are reconciled, that Sundar will try to make a success of her marriage?" he asked.
"I don't know. But she now realizes how much it means to all of us-they will always say that her husband left her because her brother turned out to be a wrong one. Who would go on living with a girl from a family such as ours-who would put up with a daughter from this house? That is what they will say, even if it is Sundar who leaves him."
"What does she mean to do?"
'She is prepared to wait. She will live in his house, not that it means anything."
"Why doesn't it mean anything?" he asked in irritation. 'If they live together as husband and wife."
"Because Gopal is not going to be there. He is with his regiment, and he may be ordered to the front any day. Anyway, he won't be in Bombay.'
What has gone wrong? Won't she say?"
'She is definite on one point; she refuses to live with him any longer.'
Then what is she going back for ?
'Because I told her it was the right thing to do; for the sake of what everyone will say. Who knows, they may yet become reconciled. The important thing was to get her to give her marriage another chance."" 'Why haven't we been able to make either of our children happy? He asked her the question he had left unanswered himself. 'God knows we have both of us tried."
"Who can say? One can only keep doing one's best for them." They were both silent for a time, aware that they were close to each other once again, sharing the glow of a minor victory. Then she said. 'About this man whom Debi sent to you. You must do something. We cannot let Debi down."
How matter of fact could women be? Were their minds divided into watertight compartments, which they could open and shut at will? It was almost as though now that some temporary solution had been found, she had put Sundar's problem aside and was telling him they must now concentrate on the other problem. But this time he detected no suggestion of reproach, and for that reason his sense of guilt increased. She had always been nearer to the children, if only he had always consulted her and yet, how could things have been different? Once he had reported the theft of the explosives the thing was out of their hands.
The feeling of guilt tormented him. The failure was his, for he should have read the danger signs in time. The boy had always been a stranger to him, and he had made no special effort to bring him up to share his own values.
He himself had been a staunch supporter of British rule in India, not by force of circumstances and least of all for personal gain, but from the conviction that there was no alternative. He shuddered to think what the nationalists would make of the country... people who had not a single constructive thought in their heads and were nothing but agitators mouthing slogans. In the chaos that would follow the withdrawal of British authority, Hindus and Muslims would be at each other's throats just as they had always been before the British came and established peace. Men like Churchill were not fools; the alternative to the British quitting India was civil war.
And there were the terrorists who had attracted his son, pitting their puny rage against the might of an empire, wasting them- selves like flies round a roaring fire. Painful as it was to admit it, the British were quite right in putting down the terrorist move- ment ruthlessly. It was for the good of the country, but how many Indians could be found to say so openly? The papers only registered shock at the firmness with which the revolutionaries were dealt with.
How had his son become a revolutionary? Where had he failed him? Why could he not be like millions of other young men in the country? He had never understood him.
But he was conscious that his son had not understood him either; the only person who had been close to him was Sundari; even as children, they had always stuck together, he remembered. He and his wife were both outsiders, however hard they tried. Suddenly he felt sorry for his wife, for she too had failed in spite of all her diligent efforts to keep the children happy. They were partners even in this particular failure, but somehow, her failure was greater. Impulsively, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed the open palm.
'Debi will never forgive us if you do nothing for Mr. Talwar,"
she said. Her mind was like a machine, he thought again, the compart- ment was now open only to the problem of finding Gian Talwar a job. Was it any use worrying about whether Debi would forgive -Debi who might never return, Debi who had so casually plunged them in shame and sorrow? Debi had nothing to forgive them for, it was they who would have to forgive him. He fretted at the twisted logic of her remark, and yet he knew that she was being entirely herself, ready to forgive, prepared to make sacrifices.
"What happened to the other man?" she asked.
He glanced at his wife in hurt surprise; she had been so artlessly captivated by money and all it could buy, that he had always thought of her as Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth. In his mind's eye, she even resembled Lakshmi, as conjured up by Ravi Varma in his famous painting. Now she was telling him that money was nothing. It was as if the goddess of wealth had suddenly turned her back on gold.
