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.
