Rajmahal

8

227 the rumblings of the rajmahal volcano could no longer be ignored. Feelings between sections of the mansion staff had heated up withthegoadingofJunior’smusclemen.Theneighbor,whocouldn’tforget the breaching of his wall to make room for the tomb, had passed on his illfeeling to his son. And the son was kept fully informed of all the goings on. He had no hesitation creeping in through the new breach created by the city toughs, and the volcano was never allowed to go extinct. Though Junior had dismissed the toughs by then, their links with the staff were already well forged. And the two teams placed themselves knowingly on the summit of the volcano. Surjeet Shona found herself inextricably linked to the situation. Not merely because it was her bhaiji who was involved in the initial problem. But for other, more vital reasons. Surjeet Shona’s weavers’ organization and other projects were well set, run by dedicated younger workers, and her presence had become nominal. Between a few conferences and seminars, time hung heavy on her hands and her Rajmahal altruism became a compulsion. The Rajmahal, a sentimentalist if anything, had enjoyed Surjeet Shona most when she had been immersed in Martin, the phase Surjeet Shona considered her berserk phase. It watched her reactions with interest when Martin Strachey came down for his parents’ funeral. He had climbed high inBritishacademiccircles,hiseminencerestingonoriginalresearchesinto Calcutta,thecityhehadabandonedandwithithisparents.“Hiswifehasn’t come because she’s too ashamed,” thought Surjeet Shona, her heart full with the poignancy of the old couple’s end, and for her ex-lover’s feelings. But there had been too much in between and Martin was too crushed by 8 Twice Married, Twice Bereaved 228 the manner of his parents’ deaths to feel anything but penitence and grief. And though Surjeet Shona admired his fine graying, the roughening of his skin contradicted by the refining effect of the present pain, no vestige of that searing affair threw threads between them. The other Rajmahalians, inarticulate, their age an upsetting reminder, attended the funeral with ashen faces. Surjeet Shona could see the affected Martin struggling with his emotions, but there was no help for him. “He must feel everyone’s accusing eyes on him,” she thought. “What a burden he’ll have to carry.” The Rajmahal looked on Surjeet Shona, this original daughter with pensive love. “Neel was wonderfully interesting, and a Calcuttan. But he was a bastard. And the doctor may have been more suited, but he took on too much for his age. It’s a good thing she didn’t marry him. But how can she be protected? She’s so messed up and independent and always trying to do good! I wish she would simply go back to her original self-centered self. Poor little thing.” SurjeetShonawasneither poor, inanother sense, nor little. And though the mansion may have been wise, its assumptions about the “real” Surjeet Shonatookitintodifficultterrainbeyonditsscope.Thoughtodoitjustice, it was remarkably flexible for such a rigid thing as a building. Where the Rajmahal found Surjeet Shona’s altruism unnatural, the Gulianis were simply suspicious. Especially after Surjeet Shona agreed to help them redo their apartment. “Whatsheisgettingoutofthishelpingus?”sniffedMrs.Guliani.“What does she think she is getting?” And when her husband rebuked her too quickly she shot back, “You are paying for her work or what? How much you are paying?” In another context, Guliani couldn’t help agreeing with his wife when they discovered Surjeet Shona’s close involvement in all the mansion’s goings-on. “Always here, always there,” said Mrs. Guliani. “No one can live without her or what?” “Who knows?” shrugged Guliani disparagingly. “As long as our work gets done.” Inside him he was as puzzled as his wife. “What has she to do with all these people, these Petrovs and Maudie Jessop and all the others? And why is she so ready to help us too?” He wondered if she was getting a cut from the interior decorating firm working for him. “No,” he thought. “She’s too stinking rich as it is.” 229 “It’s just loneliness,” temporized the Rajmahal. “Everyone gets lonely when there’s no one else in the house.” While Surjeet Shona ministered to the Petrovs during their last days, she would go onto the veranda where the old Russian sat cross-legged on his divan, his loincloth hanging about his haunches almost indistinguishable from the folds of his skin. She would look...