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Ch 34 - A Passage to India · A Passage to India

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  Chapter thirty four, Doctor Aziz left the palace. At the same time.
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  As he returned to his house, which stood in a pleasant garden further up
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  the main street of the town. He could see his old patron paddling and
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  capering in the slush ahead. Hallo, he called, and it was the
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  wrong remark for the devotee, indicated by circular gestures of his arms that he
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  did not desire to be disturbed. He added, sorry, which was right
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  for God. Balay twisted his head till it didn't belong to his body and
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  said in a strained voice that had no connection with his mind. He arrived
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  at the European guest house, perhaps at least possibly did he, since when,
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  but time was too definite. He waved his arm more dimly and disappeared.
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  Aziz knew who he was Fielding, but he refused to think about him
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  because it disturbed his life, and he still trusted the floods to prevent him
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  from arriving. A fine little river issued from his garden gate and gave him
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  much hope. It was impossible that anyone could get across from Deora in such
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  weather as this. Fielding's visit was official. He had been transferred from Chandrapur
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  and sent on a tour through central India to see what the remoter states were
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  doing with regard to English education. He had married, he had done thee
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  expected with misquested, and Aziz had no wish to see him again. Dear
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  old God Bolet, he thought and smiled. He had no religious curiosity and
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  had never discovered meaning of this annual antic but he was well assured that God
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  Boalt was a dear old man. He had come to Mao through him and
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  remained on his account. Without him, he could never have grasped problems so
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  totally different from those of Chandrapur. For here the cleavage was between Brahman and
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  non Brahman. Moslems and English were quite out of the running and sometimes not
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  mentioned for days. Since god Bali was a Brahman, Aziz was one also.
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  For purposes of intrigue, they would often joke about it together. The
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  fissures in the Indian soil are infinite. Hinduism, so solid from a distance,
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  is riven into sects and clans, which radiate and join and change their
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  names according to the aspect from which they are approached. Study it for years
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  with the best teachers, and when you raise your head, nothing they have
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  told you quite fits. Aziz, the day of his inauguration had remarked,
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  I study nothing, I respect making an excellent impression. There was now a
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  minimum of prejudice against him. Nominally under a Hindu doctor, he was really
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  chief medicine man. To the court. He had to drop inoculation and such
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  western whims. But even at Chandrapor his profession had been again centering round the
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  operating table. And here in the backwoods he led his instruments, rust ran
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  his little hospital at half steam and caused no undue alarm. His impulse to
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  escape from the English was sound. They had frightened him permanently, and there
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  are only two reactions against fright, to kick and scream on committees, or
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  to retreat to a remote jungle where the Sahib seldom comes. His old lawyer
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  friends wanted him to stop in British Indian and help agitate, and might have
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  prevailed, but for the treachery of fielding. The news had not surprised him
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  in the least. A rift had opened between them after the trial, when
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  Cyril had not joined in his procession. Those advocacies of the girl had increased.
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  It then came the postcards from Venice, so cold, so unfriendly,
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  that all agreed that something was wrong. And finally, after a silence,
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  the expected letter from Hampstead. Mahmoud Ali was with him at the time.
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  Some news that will surprise you. I am to marry someone whom you know.
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  He did not read further. Here it comes answer for me, and
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  he threw it to mahmud Ali. Subsequent letters he destroyed unopened. It was
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  the end of a foolish experiment, and though sometimes at the back of his
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  mind he felt that Fielding had made sacrifices for him, it was now all
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  confused with his genuine hatred of the English. I am an Indian at last,
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  he thought, standing motionless in the rain. Life passed pleasantly. The
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  climate was healthy so that the children could be with him all the year round.
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  And he had married again, not exactly a marriage, but he liked
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  to regard it as one. And he read his Persian, wrote his poetry,
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  had his horse and sometimes got Shikhar. While the good Hindus looked the
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  other way. His poems were all on one top Oriental womanhood. The purda
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  must go was their burden. Otherwise we shall never be free. And he
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  declared fantastically that India would not have been conquered if women as well as men
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  had fought at Pleasi. But we do not show our women to the foreigner,
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  not explaining how this was to be managed, for he was writing a
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  poem. Bulbuls and roses would still persist. The pathos of defeated Islam remained
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  in his blood and could not be expelled by modernities. Illogical poems like their
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  writer, yet they struck a true note. There cannot be a motherland without
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  new homes. In one poem, the only one, funny old good Bullet
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  liked, he had skipped over the motherland whom he did not truly love,
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  and gone straight to internationality. Ah that is Bakhti, Ah, my young
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  friend that is different and very good. Ah India, who seems not to
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  move, will go straight there, while the other nations waste their time.
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  May I translate this particular one into Hindi. In fact, it might be
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  rendered into Sanskrit. Almost it is so enlightened. Yes, of course,
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  all your other poems are very good. To his Highness was saying to Colonel
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  Mags last time he came that we are proud of you, simpering slightly.
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  Colonel Mag's was the political agent for the neighborhood and Aziz's dejected opponents. The
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  Criminal Investigation Department kept an eye on Aziz ever since the trial. They had
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  nothing actionable against him, but Indians who have been unfortunate must be watched,
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  and to the end of his life he remained under observation. Thanks to Misquested's
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  mistake, Colonel Maggs learnt with concern that a suspect was coming to Mao and
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  adopting a playful manner, rallied the old Raja for permitting a Moslem doctor to
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  approach his sacred person a few years ago. The Raja would have taken the
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  hint. For the political agent then had been a formidable figure, descending with
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  all the thunders of empire when it was most inconvenient, turning the polity inside
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  out, requiring motorcars and tiger hunts, Trees cut down that impeded the view
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  from the guesthouse, cows milked in his presence and generally arrogating the control of
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  internal affairs. But there had been a change of policy in high quarters.
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  Local thunders were no longer endorsed, and the group of little states that composed
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  the Agency discovered this and began comparing notes with fruitful result. To see how
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  much or how little Colonel Maggs would stand became an agreeable game at Mao,
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  which was played by all the departments of state. He had to stand the
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  appointment of doctor Aziz. The Raja did not take the hint, but replied
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  that Hindus were less exclusive than formerly thanks to the enlightened commands of the Viceroy,
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  and he felt it his duty to move with the times. Yes,
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  all had gone well hitherto, but now, when the rest of the state
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  was plunged in its festival, he had a crisis of a very different sort.
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  A note awaited him at his house. There was no doubt that Fielding
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  had arrived overnight, nor much doubt that God balay knew of his arrival,
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  for the note was addressed to him, and he had read it before sending
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  it on to Aziz, and had written in the margin, is not this
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  delightful news, but unfortunately my religious duties prevent me from taking any action.
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  Fielding announced that he had inspected woodcool Miss Deryck's former preserve, that he had
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  nearly been drowned at Deora that he had reached Mao according to timetable, and
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  hoped to remain there two days, studying the various educational innovations of his old
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  friend. Nor had he come alone, his wife and her brother accompanied him.
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  And then the note turned into the sort of note that always did arrive
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  from the state guesthouse, wanting something. No eggs, mosquito NEETs torn When
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  would they pay their respects to his Highness? Was it correct that a torchlight
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  procession would take place? If so might they view it? They didn't want
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  to give trouble, But if they might stand in a balcony, or if
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  they might go out in a boat. As he tore the note up,
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  he had had enough of showing misquested native life, treacherous, hideous, harrodan,
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  bad people altogether. He hoped to avoid them, though this might be
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  difficult, for they would certainly be held up for several days at Mao.
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  Down country, the floods were even worse, and the pale gray faces of
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  lakes had appeared in the direction of the Arsirgar Railway station. End of chapter thirty four