The Grammarian (15 page)

“And Anjali killed it?”

Kanakadurga smiled deeply, her eyes bright, “No, no. She took it in her hands and took it outside. She did not kill it. She was brave. She took it outside to the garden and released it. She let it live.” The old woman laughed. “Imagine it! A little girl repatriating a spider!” And then she smiled deeply, sadly. “I hope she can find some happiness in the comfort her Shiva’s wealth will afford her.”

Prithu stood silently at Kanakadurga’s door, holding a small, red box. “Ah, yes, the gloves!” Alexandre smiled at Prithu, who stared back at him, wide-eyed and emotionless. Taking the box, Alexandre opened it and smiled at the crisp white gloves within. He slid them on and stretched his hand out in the fine cotton. “Kanakadurga Amma Garu, I’ve been invited to the Waltair Club next week,” he said, speaking of one of the British social clubs in town. He’d ordered the gloves from an English tailor in town. He showed his hands to Prithu, playfully. “Just the thing, eh Prithu?” But the child remained stoic in the doorway and Alexandre offered him an awkward “Thank-you.”

O
N A CRISP
Cambridge evening, over drinks at the Eagle, one of Alexandre’s Cambridge colleagues, Dr. Robertson, had given him the name of a friend in Waltair. “Please, when you are in Waltair, make arrangements to see my friend Anthony Davidson. He’s an old friend
of mine from Harrow, and he’d love to meet you. It’s always good to have a contact with home in these parts, Alexandre. I’ve sent Tony a letter notifying him that you will be arriving soon. He would love to meet you.”

A long lawn unrolled before Alexandre like a red carpet, leading from the road to the club’s main building. Outside on the verandah, under the swinging white punkahs, English soldiers in their dress uniforms were drinking and smoking, sending up spirals of smoke in the early evening sun.

As Alexandre approached the building, an Indian waiter stopped him. “Sir, can I help you?”

“I am a guest of Dr. Davidson’s. Eh . . . I have not met him before—would you please point me in his direction?”

“Certainly.”

Alexandre was led in the direction of a rumpled Englishman smoking a cigar. He wore a dark red rose in his lapel. Dr. Davidson stood on the verandah of the Waltair Club; his hair was disheveled and his shirt wrinkled, but a little light of the aristocratic shined through nevertheless.

He smiled deeply as Alexandre approached, stretching out his hand. “You must be Dr. Lautens.” Davidson puffed on his cigar, shaking Alexandre’s hand. He laughed and, pinching Alexandre’s cheek like an affectionate grandmother, said, “My goodness you are a handsome bugger.” And slapping Alexandre on the back, Davidson led him into a large oak-paneled barroom. Indian barmen in white kurtas wove through the tables of Englishmen in suits with trays of scotch and whiskey. A waiter led them to an empty table by the large doors opening onto the back of the club grounds. Looking outside, Alexandre saw the
palm trees swaying in the breeze around the bandstand, where a brass section was tuning its instruments.

Davidson waved off the menus offered by the waiter. “Two gin and tonics,” he said.

“Yes Sir, Dr. Davidson.”

Davidson took Alexandre by the shoulder, “So! Dr. Lautens, what brings you to Waltair?”

Alexandre smiled. He liked Davidson immediately. Alexandre told Davidson about his work and the book of Telugu grammar. Davidson asked Alexandre how he liked India.

“It is wonderful. It is nice, in a way, to know so few people. It is very peaceful. I’ve been getting a lot of work done.”

“Oh, how bloody dreadful!” Davidson laughed.

When the drinks were brought, Davidson took his and raised his highball glass. “Well I’m sure as hell not toasting to work,” he said, smiling. Outside, the sun was setting, painting the sky in reds and oranges. Davidson smiled, nodding toward the skyline: “To India.”

“To India,” Alexandre repeated, smiling. He looked at the dazzling sunset. He was beginning to feel at home. They spoke of Davidson’s work for the Royal Botanical Survey.

An Indian horsekeep was pulling two chestnut Arabians, braying into their muzzles, from the stables as a friendly polo match was getting under way on the far lawn. The British boys in their riding kits assembled in front of a restless black gelding, weighing their mallets in their hands and strapping on their helmets, as a child behind them brushed the horse’s mane. Davidson lingered on the scene before leaning back in his chair and taking in the view of the bar. “My goodness, I hate this place,” he said, smiling.

A
NJALI WAITED IN
her room for her sister. She felt Mohini moving away from her and wanted dispel her fears that she was losing her. Anjali had sent out for Mohini’s favorite chocolates and arranged them on a plate. Anjali was afraid her jealousy would strangle her alive.

Mohini had become more and more foreign to Anjali since the announcement of the engagement; Mohini had become that strangest of creatures—a girl betrothed. It seemed to Anjali that her little sister had become an expert in a dance she had never before performed. Mohini, as if by magic, had begun to adopt a wifely manner—helping Lalita run the household. Even her disposition had changed from childish to womanly; a new grace was evident in Mohini, and a secretive smile that spoke of membership to a private sorority. Her interest in the world of ideas and that space beyond the gates of the home had never been great but now was nonexistent.

Today, Anjali was prepared to play the part of the giddy and coquettish sister. Today she was prepared to gush about her future brother-in-law’s dimpled smile and thick hair, and ready to admire the bridal trousseau, the saris and jewelry. In short, she was ready to attempt to play the part of a girl. But Mohini was nowhere to be seen, and after waiting for half an hour, the coffee cold, Anjali picked up her cane and thought to go in search of her sister, but then thought the better of it. When they were children, before the polio had withered her leg, she and Mohini, barefoot upon the often-toiled earth of Lalita’s parents’ home, would hide among the trees, the long white home of stucco and stone behind them in the distance. At night in search of their granddaughters, Lalita’s parents made black shadows against the big house, shouting over the endless, blooming grove for the girls to come in for dinner, or settle into bed. The girls would run back to the
house. In the air were perfume and fireflies, and on nights when their grandmother had energy and felt indulgent she would teach them how to embroider flowers and birds on their handkerchiefs.

As she waited for Mohini, Anjali looked in the mirror at herself and saw nearly incomprehensible hideousness; she shuddered in disgust at the image before her. She thought, “My God. How irredeemably ugly.” She thought of that look of repulsion she so often caught in her father’s eyes, how her mother’s gaze would often escape her own, and she understood now why that was so. “I disgust them,” she thought.

She sat waiting today in her room, hearing female voices echoing through the marble corridors, and didn’t get up to look for her sister for half an hour more.

A
S
A
LEXANDRE SPOKE
to Kanakadurga, he could see Anjali walk from her bedroom into the lavishly furnished receiving room. Her mother and sister were already there, as were other women from the village who were friends with Lalita. Anjali entered, unnoticed, watching them as they made the wedding arrangements, her dark face stoic.

“I should be there too, celebrating, but it holds no more appeal to me than attending a funeral,” Kanakadurga sighed.

Anjali watched the life she could not have as closely as anyone could without actually living it. The week after the announcement of Mohini’s engagement, merchants brought their best silks to the home for Lalita and the bride-to-be to choose matrimonial saris for the girl’s nuptials. Kanakadurga continued, “The thing I worry about most for her, Dr. Lautens, is that she will not have love in her life . . . not the kind that comes from family, of course, but of goodwill, and affection . . . I am afraid she will remain ignorant of courtship, and of romance,
of the kindness of the world . . . a girl needs those things.” Kanakadurga was wrong. Anjali knew love in all its dimensions: with her mother the love that was wanting, with her father that which was unrequited, with Mohini that which had come and gone and lingered like a ghost, a moribund attachment, and with Kanakadurga, that type of love that was perfect in its equality, great in its tenderness, endless in its generosity, not to be dimmed by death. Of her love Anjali was assured. Of romance, all she knew was from books and poems, the ones she loved, by Currer Bell and Baudelaire.

The red fabrics were the most beautiful Alexandre had ever seen, and all were adorned in a full border embroidered with thread made of real gold. “Such a beautiful girl should have the most beautiful sari, Madam,” one vendor said to Lalita. “Somewhat costly, yes,” he continued, throwing the sari open, “but for marriage one shouldn’t skimp, isn’t it?”

Tears came to Lalita’s eyes as she clasped Mohini in her arms.

“What a beautiful bride you will make, my darling!” Lalita exclaimed, wiping her eyes.

Each merchant spoke of his house’s skills for weaving the best silks, his atelier’s fame for designing the best border work. How beautiful his saris would look with Mohini’s fair coloring, her perfect features.

Each merchant was right, of course, for how could anything look unbecoming on Mohini’s perfect form, her lovely face, that thick rope of hair? Alexandre and Kanakadurga sat and watched from Kanakadurga’s sitting room, from which a view of the receiving room was offered. Alexandre thought that Mohini, modeling her bridal saris and trying on jewelry, looked as beautiful as a temple dancer. Anjali was with the other women too and was occasionally asked to offer an
opinion, or to call the servant to bring more food, tea or cool water. Lautens saw in her face her heart tightening when a merchant lifted up to the sound of a collective sigh a blood-red miracle of brushed silk and gold with a maroon border and blouse.

“Mummy, I think we should perhaps put aside some of the money for the wedding to serve a meal to the peasants—the ones we see each morning at the gate,” said Anjali, her face tight and mean.

Lalita and Mohini looked at Anjali, incredulous.

“Anjali,” Lalita sighed, “Anjali, please! Don’t be so wicked! We are in a time of celebration. Don’t make such a show of your charity.”

“Mummy, all this money to celebrate one day! There are starving people right at our own gates!”

Mohini, for a moment, lost her characteristic grace and her coquettish charm. “Mummy what is this!? Why are you trying to destroy my wedding, Anjali?” Mohini narrowed her large eyes at her sister. “You are jealous! Now you want to destroy my wedding? Suddenly you care about beggars and peasants?” She wrung a silk sari in her hands.

Lalita put her hand up and shouted, “We are a generous family, but we are not inviting beggars and untouchables to your sister’s wedding. It is inauspicious. Is that the kind of wedding you would want? Then why should you want that for your sister?”

K
ANAKADURGA CLEARED HER
throat as she saw out the doorway her son approaching her and Alexandre. Alexandre turned and saw Adivi and stood.

“Please, Doctor, do not get up . . . in our caste, girls get married in their parents’ home. I am sorry for the disruption to your studies Dr. Lautens, but it will be over in two weeks,” said Adivi.

The servants, in hurried, distracted motions, moved about Alexandre and the Adivis with baskets full of flowers, lining up tiny clay pots with oil and wicks along the home’s corridors and hallways. The kitchen servants had gone into town to buy extra oil burners and butter, raisins, cashews, saffron and basmati rice and extra-large dishes in which to cook for all the wedding guests.

“It is quite alright, Mr. Adivi. It is a privilege to be party to your daughter’s wedding. It looks like it is going to be quite the event.”

Adivi smiled and looked over Alexandre’s shoulder at his mother. “Amma, we still cannot find your jewelry,” he said in a soft but serious voice.

“I’m sorry Shiva . . . ” she replied, looking down. “It must be in one of the armoires . . . ”

Adivi turned and left, irritated with his mother’s seeming lack of concern. Alexandre turned back to her and was met with a stern, hard look.

Anjali returned to her room, where her sister’s favorite chocolates were melting on a plate and a steel urn of coffee was sitting cold on a table.

A
NJALI TENSED AS
she stood behind Alexandre. She cleared her throat, announcing herself. He turned and saw her, placing down a cup of coffee. He began to stand.

“No, no, please, Dr. Lautens, don’t get up.” She squeezed the book in her hand and lowered herself into the seat next to Alexandre. She sat with her back too straight. She looked up and said, too flatly, “I find the sympathy I have for Madame Bovary is clouded by the feeling I have that she is, somehow, pathetic.” She felt glad with herself for
managing to get out a sentence she had been contemplating since the day before.

Alexandre leaned back, resting his fingertips on his chin. “
Madame Bovary
?” he asked, smiling. “You’ve been reading Flaubert?” His eyes danced with amusement.

“Yes, and I . . . well, I feel it is rather pathetic, isn’t it? This grown woman reading romance novels all day and then expecting life to live up to the plotlines of books . . . what do you think?” She had thought so much about what she meant to say, but now it came out too quickly. It did not sound right.