Scenes From Early Life by Philip Hensher Page B

lungis wrapped about their middle and their legs. They were people who did not even think of putting on shoes other than sandals or chappals. Their disputes and feuds were endless, and a steady source of income for my father. They were not, in fact, as I thought of them, poor. When the time came to pay, they would delve meditatively into the depths of their lungis, brightly eyeing the clerk as he turned, with his invoice before him, for the cashbox; what they produced was a fist solid with banknotes, held by a rubber band or a bulldog clip, as thick as a cream roll. Somehow all this money had been concealed in their lungis’ waistband, in some miracle of knotting known only to country landlords. They knew what they were about, those landlords and rentiers and farmers from the country, wearing their dusty sandals to their lawyer’s chambers. They respected my father, who had no snobbery about the clients he would take. He respected them too, treating them with an honour that might have been due to zamindars, and not just for the thick roll of banknotes they brought out to pay his fees.
    The waiting room was quite full, and three clients were standing in the doorway of the chambers. The boy had brought round cups of tea on a tray, several times. ‘How long now?’ one man with a huge dyed-red beard called out to the clerk, sitting behind his desk, cowering a little at his typewriter. By this time of the day, the room was dense with smoke – the waiting clients and, between invoices and briefs, the clerk smoked steadily through the day their strong-smelling K2 and Captain’s cigarettes.
    ‘Advocate-sahib is busy,’ the clerk said. ‘But he will see everybody today. It may take a little longer than usual, gentlemen. But a little patience, a little patience.’
    Somewhere outside the room, in the domestic parts of the flat, a noise: a door slamming, a child shouting, another child calling for its mother, quickly silenced.
    ‘We have been waiting for over two hours,’ a client said.
    ‘Three hours, three and a half,’ another put in.
    ‘I would prefer to return tomorrow rather than wait a further two hours,’ the first said. ‘I could return tomorrow at first light.’
    ‘I am sorry,’ the clerk said. He was a small, slight man with uneven dark patches on his cheeks and neck, and broken stained teeth from his habit of smoking and of chewing paan. ‘I am truly sorry. But Advocate-sahib leaves town very early tomorrow for a family holiday, for some weeks. He leaves Dacca for the country, and will not return soon. He undertakes to see every one of you today, however long it takes. You will not be turned away dissatisfied. All I ask in return is a little patience from you, gentlemen.’
    In the corridor, somewhat closer, the same child’s voice was raised in complaint. ‘But he always—’ the always in Bengali a sibilant, carrying objection. A low woman’s voice, urgent and silencing; again the girl, louder now, saying, ‘Always—’ and then the noise of tears, a foot stamping, the girl’s voice almost screaming with rage. The Advocate-sahib’s door opened, and my father came out. With his glasses in hand, he walked straight through the waiting room and past the clients at the door; they shrank back respectfully.
    ‘That’s quite enough,’ he could be heard saying. ‘Go back to your room immediately, Sunchita. I don’t expect to hear these noises during office hours. Go back straight away.’
    ‘But, Daddy, he always—’
    ‘That’s quite enough,’ my father said. ‘I have very many important clients to see this afternoon. Tomorrow we go to the village, and everything can be play and noise in the fields, if you choose. Today has to be business, and I expect you to be quiet in the flat. Is that clear?’
    My sister agreed. My father returned to his office; Sunchita, her eyes red with frustrated tears, came back to her room, where I was sitting on her bed, her possessions cast on to the floor. In the