my Queen, I have obtained a post at the new power station at Pandipura, near Shahpur – where Chundabhai lives – and I must start work in two months’ time.’
‘But, darling …’ I expostulated. I got no further, the rest of what I was about to say being smothered in a kiss. It was the first time I had used an endearment when speaking to him, and he was delighted. I had to laugh. He had picked just the right second in which to kiss me – the barmaid had bent down beneath her counter to put away a glass.
‘Darling,’ I protested, fighting my way free, ‘not in public.’ I relieved him of the poker which he had been brandishing in the air.
He immediately let go of me. ‘I am sorry,’ he said, looking very crestfallen.
I slipped my hand into his and said: ‘You are sweet – and don’t be sorry – the kiss meant a great deal to me –’ I stammered and could feel the colour mounting to my cheeks.
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘It was naughty of me – in Bombay I would have been liable to a fine for such behaviour.’
‘It was a little naughty – but very nice,’ I said. ‘Now, tell me about your return home.’
He did not immediately reply to my prompting about his journey home. After a moment or two, he said slowly: ‘I have not yet told my father about my marriage to you.’
‘How could you? You have only today asked me.’
‘I have had the intention for twelve months,’ he said calmly.
I grinned. I could imagine it. Although his ideas erupted suddenly into words, it was obvious that much preparatory thought had been given to them. I was glad that he, at least, had given thought to our marriage; I was still bewildered at the change he had brought into my life and at my temerity in accepting his proposal.
‘Are you going to write to your father now?’
He did not answer the question directly, but said:
‘My father will not wish us to marry. He will wish me to have a bride of his own choice from our own caste. It is possible that he will be most angry.’
I knew that the old customs were dying out in India and I queried his remarks.
‘They are dying,’ he said, ‘but still they linger in families. I love my parents and I do not wish their anger – but I love you more and am determined to marry you.’ His face darkened as he said this and he put his arm round my waist. ‘Peggie,’ he went on, his voice full of urgency, ‘marry me now, quickly. What has been done cannot be undone.’
I had heard of the power of Indian parents, and I asked him what his father was likely to do if he defied him, as he suggested.
‘I am fortunate,’ said Ajit. ‘I have a post and do not have to depend on my family. I do not think Father will use his influence to have me dismissed – he will not wish to ruin me. We shall, therefore, be assured of our income.’ He stirred uneasily and went on, ‘It must be hard for you to understand the tight bonds of an Indian family – here you leave your parents as a matter of course, but in India it is not so. It is the unity of our families which makes life bearable in a country where there is no other protection against catastrophe except the family.’
I thought this over. Then I asked: ‘Why don’t you get a job in this country, where life is easier and a quarrel with your father would not affect you so much?’
‘Peggie, you have often told me of the difficulty of getting employment for coloured people in this city. You know the difficulties.’
I did know the difficulties. Although before the law all citizens had the same rights, when a man came before a prospective employer he had to balance his brown skin by being twice as good as the white man applying with him, even if they had been born and bred in the same district. It would be even more difficult for a foreigner. He might be lucky and obtain a post, but I writhed at the thought of the petty insults he might well have to endure from the men who served under him.
‘I do know,’ I said, my mind made up. ‘We shall go to India, and we shall hope to win your parents’ goodwill. You shall teach me carefully the customs of your caste, so that after a while people will half forget that I am English, and then perhaps your father will not be so angry and you can make peace with him.’
‘You are good,’ he said. ‘You would not have to alter completely your way of life – you need only conform in public – perhaps wear a sari.’
His face cleared, and I said: ‘You are right about being married soon. We will put up the banns immediately and we can then be married a week before you go.’
‘What are banns?’ he asked.
I explained about a registry office marriage. He was full of excitement. ‘I will go to the Registrar tomorrow,’ he said. He squeezed me hard against him, and then got up abruptly, fumbling in his pocket for money to pay our bill.
We decided to go back to town by bus, and as we waited in the darkness at the bus stop near the inn, he came close to me and held me to him, and talked quietly about our future life together.
Our children could be Christians, he said, if I wished it, but he would prefer to bring them up as Hindus as they would have to live in India. This question had already occurred to me, and I said that they should be Hindus. I knew from previous conversations with Ajit that the rules of conduct laid down for Hindus were wise, and all I asked of Ajit was that what we taught our children should be free from corruption or bigotry.
He chuckled. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said, ‘and put out of your mind most missionary writings about us. You will find purity of thought in India as well as here.’
‘I shall be happy if our children are like you,’ I said.
He trembled. ‘I am not good,’ he said. ‘I … I want that we do not wait three weeks for our marriage.’
‘The time will go quickly,’ I said, unclasping myself from him, as the lights of the bus swept us.
As the bus jogged back to town, I puzzled over the best way to break the news of my engagement at home. My head was heavy from lack of sleep and I could not think very well, so I decided to leave the question until the following day.
Knowing that Ajit’s dragon did not provide supper, I insisted that he should come home for a meal.
As our shoes were dirty, we went in through the back door. My heart was pattering and I think Ajit’s must have been too, but Mother was too busy to notice any difference in us. She was just taking a pie out of the oven.
‘Come in, children,’ she said. ‘I hoped you would come soon. I have made a pie for supper. Peggie, pass me that cloth. Ajit, I am glad you have come. Perhaps you would like a wash. Hang the rucksack on the door.’ She flew round the kitchen like a plump robin.
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