had acquired… he had five more years of service to do, because then he would be fifty-five, and the family-raising, grhast, portion of his life in the fourfold scheme, prescribed by religion, finished, he hoped to retire to his home town Jullunder, where his father still ran the confectioner’s shop off the Mall Road.
“And what did Acton Sahib have to say to you, Mr. Sharma?” asked Miss violet Dixon, the plain snub-nosed Anglo Indian typist in her singsong voice.
Being an old family man of fifty, who had grayed prematurely, she considered herself safe enough with this ‘gentleman’ and freely conversed with him, specially during the lunch hour, while she considered almost everyone else as having only one goal in life — to sleep with her.
‘Han’, he said, ‘He has brought something for me from England’, Srijut Sharma answered.
“There are such pretty things in U.K.” she said.
‘My! I wish, I could go there! My sister is there, you know! Married!…’
She had told Sharma all these things before. So he was not interested. Specially today, because all his thoughts were concentrated on the inner meaning of Mr. Acton’s sudden visitation and the ambivalent smile.
‘Well, half day today, I am off;, said Violet and moved away with the peculiar snobbish agility of the Mem Sahib she affected to be.
Srijut Sharma stared at her blankly, though taking in her regular form into his subconscious with more than the old uncle’s interest he had always pretended to take in her. It was only her snub nose, like that of surpnaka, the sister of the demon king Ravana, that stood in the way of her being married, he felt sure, for otherwise she had a tolerable figure. But he lowered his eyes as soon as the thought of Miss Dixon’s body began to simmer in the cauldron of his inner life; because, as a good Hindu, every woman, apart from the wife, was to him a mother or a sister. And his obsession about the meaning of Acton Sahib’s words returned, from the pent up curiosity, with greater force now that he realised the vastness of the space of time during which he would have to wait in suspense before knowing what the boss had brought for him and why.
He took up his faded sola topee, which was, apart from the bush shirt and trousers, one of the few concessions to modernity which he had made throughout his life as a good Brahmin, got up from his chair, beckoned Dugdu sepoy from the verandah on his way out and asked.
“Has Acton Sahib gone, you know?”
“Abhi Sahib in lift going down,” Dugdu said.
Srijut Sharma made quickly for the stairs and, throwing all caution about slipping on the polished marble steps to the winds, hurtled down. There were three floors below him and he began to sweat, both through fear of missing the Sahib and the heat of mid-April.
As he got to the ground floor, he saw Acton Sahib already going out of the door.
It was now or never.
Srijut Sharma rushed out. But he was conscious that quite a few employers of the firm would be coming out of the two lifts and he might be seen talking to the Sahib. And that was not done — outside the office. The Sahibs belonged to their private worlds, where no intrusion was tolerated, for they refuse to listen to pleas of advancement through improper channels.
Mr. Acton’s uniformed driver opened the door of the polished Buick and the Sahib sat down, spreading the shadow of grimness all around him.
Srijut Sharma hesitated, for the demeanour of the
Goanese chauffeur was frightening.
By now the driver had smartly shut the back door of the car and was proceeding to his seat.
That was his only chance.
Taking off his hat, he rushed up to the window of the car, and rudely thrust his head into the presence of Mr. Acton.
Luckily for him, the Sahib did not brush him aside, but smiled a broader smile than that of a few minutes ago and said: ‘You want to know, what I have brought for you -— well, it is a gold watch with an inscription in it… See me
“And what did Acton Sahib have to say to you, Mr. Sharma?” asked Miss violet Dixon, the plain snub-nosed Anglo Indian typist in her singsong voice.
Being an old family man of fifty, who had grayed prematurely, she considered herself safe enough with this ‘gentleman’ and freely conversed with him, specially during the lunch hour, while she considered almost everyone else as having only one goal in life — to sleep with her.
‘Han’, he said, ‘He has brought something for me from England’, Srijut Sharma answered.
“There are such pretty things in U.K.” she said.
‘My! I wish, I could go there! My sister is there, you know! Married!…’
She had told Sharma all these things before. So he was not interested. Specially today, because all his thoughts were concentrated on the inner meaning of Mr. Acton’s sudden visitation and the ambivalent smile.
‘Well, half day today, I am off;, said Violet and moved away with the peculiar snobbish agility of the Mem Sahib she affected to be.
Srijut Sharma stared at her blankly, though taking in her regular form into his subconscious with more than the old uncle’s interest he had always pretended to take in her. It was only her snub nose, like that of surpnaka, the sister of the demon king Ravana, that stood in the way of her being married, he felt sure, for otherwise she had a tolerable figure. But he lowered his eyes as soon as the thought of Miss Dixon’s body began to simmer in the cauldron of his inner life; because, as a good Hindu, every woman, apart from the wife, was to him a mother or a sister. And his obsession about the meaning of Acton Sahib’s words returned, from the pent up curiosity, with greater force now that he realised the vastness of the space of time during which he would have to wait in suspense before knowing what the boss had brought for him and why.
He took up his faded sola topee, which was, apart from the bush shirt and trousers, one of the few concessions to modernity which he had made throughout his life as a good Brahmin, got up from his chair, beckoned Dugdu sepoy from the verandah on his way out and asked.
“Has Acton Sahib gone, you know?”
“Abhi Sahib in lift going down,” Dugdu said.
Srijut Sharma made quickly for the stairs and, throwing all caution about slipping on the polished marble steps to the winds, hurtled down. There were three floors below him and he began to sweat, both through fear of missing the Sahib and the heat of mid-April.
As he got to the ground floor, he saw Acton Sahib already going out of the door.
It was now or never.
Srijut Sharma rushed out. But he was conscious that quite a few employers of the firm would be coming out of the two lifts and he might be seen talking to the Sahib. And that was not done — outside the office. The Sahibs belonged to their private worlds, where no intrusion was tolerated, for they refuse to listen to pleas of advancement through improper channels.
Mr. Acton’s uniformed driver opened the door of the polished Buick and the Sahib sat down, spreading the shadow of grimness all around him.
Srijut Sharma hesitated, for the demeanour of the
Goanese chauffeur was frightening.
By now the driver had smartly shut the back door of the car and was proceeding to his seat.
That was his only chance.
Taking off his hat, he rushed up to the window of the car, and rudely thrust his head into the presence of Mr. Acton.
Luckily for him, the Sahib did not brush him aside, but smiled a broader smile than that of a few minutes ago and said: ‘You want to know, what I have brought for you -— well, it is a gold watch with an inscription in it… See me
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