should be a Muslim, Purushottam breathed deeply, and warned himself, half-heartedly, not to expect too much; but so much had been lavished already that he found it difficult not to feel encouraged. Instead of the orthodox, narrow Hindu family he had feared, all the more insistent on the proper procedures because they were not rich, adamant about suitabilities of caste and background, here was this cheerful, exuberant, free-thinking tribe with a door wide open to friends of all creeds, and professing not merely Christianity – which after all might have been a disadvantage rather than otherwise in some of its manifestations – but the most down-to-earth, hearty and extrovert brand of Christianity possible. Exotics themselves in this conformist India, they were surely capable of assimilating even such an exotic as Purushottam Narayanan, half-westernised, a non-believer in caste, and about to beggar himself – comparatively speaking – by turning his lands into a co-operative farm, if the state authorities did not block his plans out of spite towards the central government, which was always a possibility. He had not admitted to himself until then how much he valued and wanted Priya, with all her quietness and her dignity, her courage and self-respect, the occasional spark of demure mischief in her eyes, and in particular, and most daunting of all, her sturdy ability to stand on her own feet and be independent even of him, in a world heavily weighted against feminine independence. Now he had qualms on only one score, that as yet he did not know whether she felt the same way about him. But one fence at a time!
‘My middle son plays the trumpet in the Army band,’ said Mr Madhavan, confirming with every word the good impression he had already made. ‘My eldest son – he will probably come in for coffee afterwards if he can get away from the shop where he works – has on the other hand reverted to his great-grandfather’s Vaishnovite persuasion. It is a change without a difference, don’t you think so? Largely a matter of what label one uses. But if a man feels more at home and more suited with one than with another, and finds the kind of help he needs, that is what matters. We get on very well together.’
Faced with so interesting a set-up, Larry came out of his shell and began to ask question after question, none apparently being barred, and none that he was likely to frame resented. It was not often he had such an opportunity, with someone at once as articulate and as artless as Mr Madhavan. And the children gazed and listened in fascination until the women reappeared in procession from some outhouse kitchen, and shooed them out again to play.
The fifteen-year-old spread the table with a cotton cloth, and the seventeen-year-old brought in four huge, glossy green banana leaves, delicately holding two, folded edge-to-edge, between thumb and forefinger of either hand, and laid them for plates. They were newly washed, and drops of water sparkled in the veins that ran down into the stems. Then Priya and her mother brought in the dishes, and stood and served as the men ate. There was rice, spiced and tinted with saffron, a variety of vegetables, and a chicken curry; and afterwards, some of the ultra- sweet Indian sweets made with coconut, which treacherously soak you with a fountain of syrup unless you know how to eat them. Forks had been thoughtfully provided for the foreign guests, but both of them chose to eat with the fingers, like the rest of the party. The two teenage daughters went off to feed the gaggle of hungry children in the kitchen, and the feast overflowed into the yard and into the street.
When everyone else was taken care of, Mrs Madhavan and Priya also helped themselves and sat down with the menfolk. And by the time the younger girls brought coffee Mr Achmed the silversmith had arrived, and the eldest son with his wife, and the married daughter with her husband, to meet the visitors and to reclaim their various children. The walls of the little house bulged.
Out in the centre of the open square the Land-Rover stood all this time, a magnet for the interest of the whole district. Word went round from one to another, and half the neighbourhood came to see.
Priya emerged from the kitchen with a new pot of coffee, and crossed to the steps of the house. The Land- Rover had nearly disappeared beneath a cloud of gaily-coloured children; but they were in pride and awe of it, more concerned with being seen to belong to it than anything else, and there seemed no need to call them away. It was because she was looking in their direction, however, that as she passed she looked beyond them, to where the solitary tree stood rooted in the baked earth, sheltering its little mat of grass.
There was a man in a yellow robe sitting cross-legged in the shade there, dappled with the sunlight filtering through the leaves over him. She saw the coils of wooden beads and coloured cords round his neck, the tangle of black hair, and the ash-smeared forehead with the cult mark of Siva. He was motionless, his body facing the street, but his head turned towards her father’s house.
For one instant she had checked at sight of him; and though she resumed her purposeful walk at once, she could not be sure that he had not noticed and understood. She went on into the house, and poured fresh coffee; and then, without a word to anyone, and hardly missed among so many, she darted out again, down the steps and straight across towards the tree. For he could not be a coincidence, and she knew he was no illusion. She had no idea what she was going to say to him, or how he would answer her; but she must confront him, challenge him, and at least get a close look at him, face to face, so that in future she would be able to identify him wherever they met, and through whatever disguise he might put on. Here on the public street, among so many people, what could happen to her?
The grass-plot under the tree was empty, the scintillation of leaves quivered over the place where he had sat only a minute ago. The sadhu was gone.
She went on into the street, and searched in both directions for the flutter of saffron cloth, or a glimpse of the tangled, oily black hair; but he had vanished utterly.
She walked back slowly to the house. Now, she thought, I know that it was Purushottam they wanted, and not Patti, and having failed, they will try again. However he did it, this spy, he has found us. He is not wasting his time watching Lakshman from a distance at Malaikuppam; he is here, hard on our heels. And now, what are we to do?
He knows that I’ve seen him, this man. He went away because he didn’t want me to see him more closely. So he knows we’re warned. Would it be best to stay here, in a town, surrounded by people, where nothing can happen without instant detection, where action would be suicide? But no, we’ve seen already that they will contemplate suicide without a qualm, if they must. Death does not frighten them, not even their own. No, hundreds of innocent people passing by would be no protection, they would still toss a bomb in at the door and kill as many as need be, just to kill one…
A private part of her mind said, and she heard it and did not try to pretend deafness: ‘…
She had a family, parents, all those younger brothers and sisters and nephews and nieces…
No, she thought, we must go. Get out of here as soon as we can. The departure of the Land-Rover will be sign enough. If we can whip it away unobserved, now, while he is keeping out of my way for his own ends, I can guide it by a roundabout route, and not pass where we should pass on the direct road to the Cape. We may be able to lose them completely, and yet the fact that the Land-Rover is gone should leave my family undisturbed. All will be quiet here. The visitors gone – any neighbour will tell them. But not where! I must warn my father not to tell anyone where we are going.
All along, of course, it had been ‘we’. She knew that she had never meant to remain here, and let him go on without her, still under that shadow. Not even before she had sighted the pursuit, much less now. Not until the
