الفصل الفصل 34 · Chapter XXXIV

. Chapter XXXIV

Dr. Aziz left the palace at the same time. As he returned to his

house—which stood in a pleasant garden further up the main street

of the town—he could see his old patron paddling and capering in

the slush ahead. “Hullo!” he called, and it was the wrong remark,

for the devotee indicated by circular gestures of his arms that he

did not desire to be disturbed. He added, “Sorry,” which was right,

for Godbole twisted his head till it didn’t belong to his body,

and said in a strained voice that had no connection with his mind:

“He arrived at the European Guest House perhaps—at least possibly.”

“Did he? Since when?”

But time was too definite. He waved his arm more dimly and

disappeared. Aziz knew who “he” was—Fielding—but he refused to

think about him, because it disturbed his life, and he still

trusted the floods to prevent him from arriving. A fine little

river issued from his garden gate and gave him much hope. It was

impossible that anyone could get across from Deora in such weather

as this. Fielding’s visit was official. He had been transferred

from Chandrapore, and sent on a tour through Central India to see

what the remoter states were doing with regard to English education.

He had married, he had done the expected with Miss Quested, and

Aziz had no wish to see him again.

“Dear old Godbole,” he thought, and smiled. He had no religious

curiosity, and had never discovered the meaning of this annual

antic, but he was well assured that Godbole was a dear old man. He

had come to Mau through him and remained on his account. Without

him he could never have grasped problems so totally different from

those of Chandrapore. For here the cleavage was between Brahman

and non-Brahman; Moslems and English were quite out of the running,

and sometimes not mentioned for days. Since Godbole was a Brahman,

Aziz was one also for purposes of intrigue: they would often joke

about it together. The fissures in the Indian soil are infinite:

Hinduism, so solid from a distance, is riven into sects and clans,

which radiate and join, and change their names according to the

aspect from which they are approached. Study it for years with the

best teachers, and when you raise your head, nothing they have told

you quite fits. Aziz, the day of his inauguration, had remarked:

“I study nothing, I respect”—making an excellent impression. There

was now a minimum of prejudice against him. Nominally under a Hindu

doctor, he was really chief medicine man to the court. He had to

drop inoculation and such Western whims, but even at Chandrapore

his profession had been a game, centring round the operating table,

and here in the backwoods he let his instruments rust, ran his

little hospital at half steam, and caused no undue alarm.

His impulse to escape from the English was sound. They had

frightened him permanently, and there are only two reactions

against fright: to kick and scream on committees, or to retreat to

a remote jungle, where the sahib seldom comes. His old lawyer

friends wanted him to stop in British India and help agitate, and

might have prevailed, but for the treachery of Fielding. The news

had not surprised him in the least. A rift had opened between them

after the trial when Cyril had not joined in his procession; those

advocacies of the girl had increased it; then came the post-cards

from Venice, so cold, so unfriendly that all agreed that something

was wrong; and finally, after a silence, the expected letter from

Hampstead. Mahmoud Ali was with him at the time. “Some news that

will surprise you. I am to marry someone whom you know. . .” He

did not read further. “Here it comes, answer for me——” and he threw

it to Mahmoud Ali. Subsequent letters he destroyed unopened. It

was the end of a foolish experiment. And though sometimes at the

back of his mind he felt that Fielding had made sacrifices for him,

it was now all confused with his genuine hatred of the English. “I

am an Indian at last,” he thought, standing motionless in the rain.

Life passed pleasantly, the climate was healthy so that the children

could be with him all the year round, and he had married again—not

exactly a marriage, but he liked to regard it as one—and he read

his Persian, wrote his poetry, had his horse, and sometimes got

some shikar while the good Hindus looked the other way. His poems

were all on one topic—Oriental womanhood. “The purdah must go,”

was their burden, “otherwise we shall never be free.” And he

declared (fantastically) that India would not have been conquered

if women as well as men had fought at Plassy. “But we do not show

our women to the foreigner”—not explaining how this was to be

managed, for he was writing a poem. Bulbuls and roses would still

persist, the pathos of defeated Islam remained in his blood and

could not be expelled by modernities. Illogical poems—like their

writer. Yet they struck a true note: there cannot be a mother-land

without new homes. In one poem—the only one funny old Godbole

liked—he had skipped over the mother-land (whom he did not truly

love) and gone straight to internationality. “Ah, that is bhakti;

ah, my young friend, that is different and very good. Ah, India,

who seems not to move, will go straight there while the other

nations waste their time. May I translate this particular one into

Hindi? In fact, it might be rendered into Sanskrit almost, it is

so enlightened. Yes, of course, all your other poems are very good

too. His Highness was saying to Colonel Maggs last time he came

that we are proud of you”—simpering slightly.

Colonel Maggs was the Political Agent for the neighbourhood and

Aziz’ dejected opponent. The Criminal Investigation Department kept

an eye on Aziz ever since the trial—they had nothing actionable

against him, but Indians who have been unfortunate must be watched,

and to the end of his life he remained under observation, thanks

to Miss Quested’s mistake. Colonel Maggs learnt with concern that

a suspect was coming to Mau, and, adopting a playful manner,

rallied the old Rajah for permitting a Moslem doctor to approach

his sacred person. A few years ago, the Rajah would have taken the

hint, for the Political Agent then had been a formidable figure,

descending with all the thunders of Empire when it was most

inconvenient, turning the polity inside out, requiring motor-cars

and tiger-hunts, trees cut down that impeded the view from the

Guest House, cows milked in his presence, and generally arrogating

the control of internal affairs. But there had been a change of

policy in high quarters. Local thunders were no longer endorsed,

and the group of little states that composed the agency discovered

this and began comparing notes with fruitful result. To see how

much, or how little, Colonel Maggs would stand, became an agreeable

game at Mau, which was played by all the departments of State. He

had to stand the appointment of Dr. Aziz. The Rajah did not take

the hint, but replied that Hindus were less exclusive than formerly,

thanks to the enlightened commands of the Viceroy, and he felt it

his duty to move with the times.

Yes, all had gone well hitherto, but now, when the rest of the

state was plunged in its festival, he had a crisis of a very

different sort. A note awaited him at his house. There was no doubt

that Fielding had arrived overnight, nor much doubt that Godbole

knew of his arrival, for the note was addressed to him, and he had

read it before sending it on to Aziz, and had written in the

margin, “Is not this delightful news, but unfortunately my religious

duties prevent me from taking any action.” Fielding announced that

he had inspected Mudkul (Miss Derek’s former preserve), that he

had nearly been drowned at Deora, that he had reached Mau according

to time-table, and hoped to remain there two days, studying the

various educational innovations of his old friend. Nor had he come

alone. His wife and her brother accompanied him. And then the note

turned into the sort of note that always did arrive from the State

Guest House. Wanting something. No eggs. Mosquito nets torn. When

would they pay their respects to His Highness? Was it correct that

a torchlight procession would take place? If so, might they view

it? They didn’t want to give trouble, but if they might stand in

a balcony, or if they might go out in a boat. . . . Aziz tore the

note up. He had had enough of showing Miss Quested native life.

Treacherous hideous harridan! Bad people altogether. He hoped to

avoid them, though this might be difficult, for they would certainly

be held up for several days at Mau. Down country, the floods were

even worse, and the pale grey faces of lakes had appeared in the

direction of the Asirgarh railway station.