strength for the harvest.
For at least twenty-four days we shall eat, I thought. At the end of that time -- well, we are in God's hands. He will not fail us. Sometimes I thought that, and at other times I was seized with trembling and was frightened, not knowing where to turn.
The nights were always the worst, and not for me alone. Peace then seemed to forsake our hut and I could hear my husband and children moving restlessly in their sleep and muttering, whether from hunger or fear I do not know. Once Nathan cried out loudly and sprang up in his sleep. I went to him, and he woke then and clung to me.
"Only a dream," I said. "Sleep, my dear one."
"A nightmare," he said sweating. "I saw the paddy turned to straw, the grain lost. . . . Oh God, all was lost."
His voice was stark, bereft of the power of dissembling which full consciousness brings.
"Never fear," I said with a false courage lest panic should swoop down on us. "All will be well."
He composed himself for sleep again.
"You are a good wife," he murmured. "I would not have any other."
I drifted at last into uneasy sleep, and dreamt many evil dreams, and in one I saw a shadowy figure with no face creeping into our hut and bearing away the ten ollocks of rice. I knew it was but the result of an overburdened spirit, but the following night I had the same dream. As the days passed I found myself growing increasingly suspicious. Except for my family, I trusted no one. Only at night when there were no passers-by, did I feel completely safe. Then I would bring out the rice, and measure it, and run the grain through my fingers for sheer love of it, fondling it like a simpleton. When I had taken out the allotted portion for the next day I would bury the remainder: one half, tied in a white cloth, in a hole I dug some distance from our hut, the other half in our granary.
Several times I thought of going to Kenny, and twice I did go. He would have helped us, of that I am sure, but each time I was told he had gone away. . . the townsfolk had not seen him for many weeks. I would have gone again and again, but I had not my full strength; it was no longer easy to walk to the town and back. We might have borrowed from Biswas, but there was nothing left to pledge; in any event, we would not have been able even to pay the interest he demanded.
Seven days went by and seven precious portions of rice were eaten. On the eighth day Kunthi came as I was cooking the rice water.
I had not set eyes on her for a considerable time -- not since the day I had seen her in her nakedness; and she had changed so much I scarcely recognised her. I gazed at her hardly believing. The skin of her face was stiff and shiny as if from overstretching, elsewhere it showed folds and wrinkles. Under her faded sari her breasts hung loose; gone was the tense suppleness that had been her pride and her power. Of her former beauty not a vestige remained. Well, I thought. All women come to it sooner or later: she has come off perhaps worse than most.
"Sit and rest awhile," I said. "What brings you hither?"
She made no answer, but walked to the pot on the fire and looked in.
"You eat well," she said. "Better than most."
"Not well. We eat, that is all."
"You still have your husband?"
"Why, yes," I said staring at her, not quite taking her meaning. "Why do you ask?"
She shrugged. "I have lost mine. I wondered how you had fared."
Poor thing, I thought. She has suffered. I looked at her pityingly.
"I do not want your pity," she said savagely, "nor does my husband. He is alive and well -- he is living with another."
I thought of her husband, slow, sturdy, dependable, rather like an ox, and I could not believe it of him; then I thought of Kunthi as I had once seen her, with painted mouth and scented thighs that had held so many men, and I wondered if after all these years he had not at last found out about her. Perhaps the truth has been forced upon him, I thought, looking at her with suspicion, and I gazed
For at least twenty-four days we shall eat, I thought. At the end of that time -- well, we are in God's hands. He will not fail us. Sometimes I thought that, and at other times I was seized with trembling and was frightened, not knowing where to turn.
The nights were always the worst, and not for me alone. Peace then seemed to forsake our hut and I could hear my husband and children moving restlessly in their sleep and muttering, whether from hunger or fear I do not know. Once Nathan cried out loudly and sprang up in his sleep. I went to him, and he woke then and clung to me.
"Only a dream," I said. "Sleep, my dear one."
"A nightmare," he said sweating. "I saw the paddy turned to straw, the grain lost. . . . Oh God, all was lost."
His voice was stark, bereft of the power of dissembling which full consciousness brings.
"Never fear," I said with a false courage lest panic should swoop down on us. "All will be well."
He composed himself for sleep again.
"You are a good wife," he murmured. "I would not have any other."
I drifted at last into uneasy sleep, and dreamt many evil dreams, and in one I saw a shadowy figure with no face creeping into our hut and bearing away the ten ollocks of rice. I knew it was but the result of an overburdened spirit, but the following night I had the same dream. As the days passed I found myself growing increasingly suspicious. Except for my family, I trusted no one. Only at night when there were no passers-by, did I feel completely safe. Then I would bring out the rice, and measure it, and run the grain through my fingers for sheer love of it, fondling it like a simpleton. When I had taken out the allotted portion for the next day I would bury the remainder: one half, tied in a white cloth, in a hole I dug some distance from our hut, the other half in our granary.
Several times I thought of going to Kenny, and twice I did go. He would have helped us, of that I am sure, but each time I was told he had gone away. . . the townsfolk had not seen him for many weeks. I would have gone again and again, but I had not my full strength; it was no longer easy to walk to the town and back. We might have borrowed from Biswas, but there was nothing left to pledge; in any event, we would not have been able even to pay the interest he demanded.
Seven days went by and seven precious portions of rice were eaten. On the eighth day Kunthi came as I was cooking the rice water.
I had not set eyes on her for a considerable time -- not since the day I had seen her in her nakedness; and she had changed so much I scarcely recognised her. I gazed at her hardly believing. The skin of her face was stiff and shiny as if from overstretching, elsewhere it showed folds and wrinkles. Under her faded sari her breasts hung loose; gone was the tense suppleness that had been her pride and her power. Of her former beauty not a vestige remained. Well, I thought. All women come to it sooner or later: she has come off perhaps worse than most.
"Sit and rest awhile," I said. "What brings you hither?"
She made no answer, but walked to the pot on the fire and looked in.
"You eat well," she said. "Better than most."
"Not well. We eat, that is all."
"You still have your husband?"
"Why, yes," I said staring at her, not quite taking her meaning. "Why do you ask?"
She shrugged. "I have lost mine. I wondered how you had fared."
Poor thing, I thought. She has suffered. I looked at her pityingly.
"I do not want your pity," she said savagely, "nor does my husband. He is alive and well -- he is living with another."
I thought of her husband, slow, sturdy, dependable, rather like an ox, and I could not believe it of him; then I thought of Kunthi as I had once seen her, with painted mouth and scented thighs that had held so many men, and I wondered if after all these years he had not at last found out about her. Perhaps the truth has been forced upon him, I thought, looking at her with suspicion, and I gazed
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