Free The Moneylenders of Shahpur by Helen Forrester

realize the fact?

CHAPTER EIGHT
    John soon dismissed Mahadev Desai from his mind. After finishing the captions for his sketches, he began to draft a description of the enclosing cloisters of the Marwari Gate temple, with their fifty-two small shrines, each of which seemed to be the work of a separate person.
    He did not hear the students shouting goodbye to each other as they left the badminton courts and the cricket pitch, nor Ranjit gossiping with the milkman when he brought the evening milk.
    When Ranjit brought his tea on a small, brass tray, he forgot to drink it; and Ranjit took one look at the dark head bent over the manuscript and at the scuttling fountain pen, and turned on the desk light. Then he retired to the kitchen veranda and took a nap, knowing well that on such a day dinner would not be required until late.
    A sharp rap on the outside door, however, forced John to lay down his pen and call, ‘Come in.’ He fumed inwardly at the interruption.
    His irritation quickly turned to pleasure when he saw who the caller was.
    ‘Why, Tilak!’ he exclaimed. ‘Come in.’ He waved a friendly hand towards the couch. ‘Sit down. How are you?’
    It was odd, he reflected, that this excitable, tense man had found his way into his affections so quickly. Perhaps it was because his ability to be one minute exalted and the next minute cast down was almost childlike and one automatically consoled him as if he were still a youngster.
    As Tilak took the proffered seat, he looked unsmilinglyat John. Then the door was flung open again by the wind, and a swish of sand flew across the stone floor. With a muttered exclamation, he jumped up to shut it. ‘Sand storm coming,’ he said, as he shot the great, brass bolt with unexpected force, as if to keep at bay something more than the whirling wind.
    He plonked himself down again on the couch and sat there silently, pounding one clenched fist into the palm of the other. It was obvious that he was in a dreadful temper; his face was as grim as an idol of an avenging god.
    John hastily abandoned all thought of his work, and asked, ‘Anything the matter?’
    ‘Everything,’ said Tilak.
    ‘Like to tell me about it?’
    ‘Yes, indeed. I came to you …’ he started and then stopped, realizing that he really did not know this monklike Englishman very well. The man was famous in the city and in the University, he told himself. Everybody spoke of him with admiration, and one of the first questions any member of the staff asked him was whether he had yet met him. Surely, he would understand. He looked at the face before him; a typical lantern-jawed English face, the skin made red and leathery by much exposure to the Indian sun, lines of pain etched deeply into it, yet with a long thin mouth as sensitive as his own and narrow, blue eyes, bloodshot with study, observing him sympathetically. Compared to Marathas, the English were not a handsome race, he ruminated with sudden pride. He sensed, however, that this eccentric Englishman had an integrity, a trustworthiness, which was rare enough anywhere, and he badly needed to talk to somebody outside the University.
    John always seemed willing to give him time, time and a considered opinion when asked for it, so Tilak made a real effort to control his rage; but the words he wanted would not at first come to him in English.
    John turned his chair so that he faced Tilak, took hispipe out of his pocket and resigned himself to listening. Quite often he found himself consulted by irate members of the University staff deeply provoked by the petty politics of the campus – as if I were some antiquated guru, he thought ruefully, guaranteed to give impartial advice. He knew that all he had to do was to listen for an hour and then suggest a little moderation on both sides, and the men concerned went away comforted. Most of the squabbles were incredibly petty and he got some amusement out of watching them resolve themselves.
    John offered Tilak a