Free Out of India by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala

sounded happy, light-hearted. She peeped out from the dark doorway and saw him clearly just under the lamppost outside the house. He was wearing an orange T-shirt that she had given him and that clung closely to him so that all his broad chest and his nipples were outlined; his black jeans too fitted as a glove over his plump young buttocks. She edged herself as close as she could against the wall. When he entered the doorway, she whispered his name. He stopped singing at once. She talked fast, in a low urgent voice: “Come with me—what do your parents ever do for you?”
    He shuffled his feet and looked down at them in the dark.
    â€œWith me you will have everything—a motor scooter—”
    â€œIt is sold.”
    â€œA new one, a brand-new one! And also you can study to be an aircraft engineer, anything you wish—”
    â€œIs that you, son?” Mrs. Puri called from upstairs.
    Durga held fast to his arm: “Don’t answer,” she whispered.
    â€œGovind! Is that boy come home at last?” And the two plain sisters echoed: “Govind!”
    â€œI can do so much for you,” Durga whispered. “And what can they do?”
    â€œComing, Ma!” he called.
    â€œEverything I have is for you—”
    â€œYou and your father both the same! All night we have to wait for you to come and eat your food!”
    Durga said, “I have no one, no one.” She was stroking his arm, which was smooth and muscular and matted with long silky hair.
    Mrs. Puri appeared at the top of the stairs: “Just let me catch that boy, I will twist his ears for him!”
    â€œYou hear her, how she speaks to you?” whispered Durga with aflicker of triumph. But Govind wrenched his arm free and bounded up the stairs toward his mother.
    It did not take Bhuaji long after that to persuade Durga to get rid of her tenants. There were all those months of rent unpaid, and besides, who wanted such evil-natured people in the house? Bhuaji’s son-in-law had connections with the police, and it was soon arranged: a constable stood downstairs while the Puris’ belongings—the velvet armchair, an earthenware water pot, two weeping daughters carrying bedding—slowly descended. Durga did not see them. She was sitting inside before the little prayer table on which stood her two Krishnas. She was unbathed and in an old crumpled sari and with her hair undone. Her relatives sat outside in the courtyard with their belongings scattered around them, ready to move in upstairs. Bhuaji’s old husband sat on his little bundle and had a nap in the sun.
    â€œOnly pray,” Bhuaji whispered into Durga’s ear. “With prayer He will surely come to you.” Durga’s eyes were shut; perhaps she was asleep. “As a son and as a lover,” Bhuaji whispered. The relatives talked gaily among themselves outside; they were in a good, almost a festive mood.
    It seemed Durga was not asleep after all, for suddenly she got up and unlocked her steel almira. She took out everything—her silk saris, her jewelry, her cashbox. From time to time she smiled to herself. She was thinking of her husband and of his anger, his impotent anger, at thus seeing everything given away at last. The more she thought of him, the more vigorously she emptied her almira. Her arms worked with a will, flinging everything away in abandon, her hair fell into her face, perspiration trickled down her neck in runnels. Her treasure lay scattered in heaps and mounds all over the floor and Bhuaji squinted at it in avid surmise.
    Durga said, “Take it away. It is for you and for them—” and she jerked her head toward the courtyard where the relatives twittered like birds. Bhuaji was already squatting on the floor, sorting everything, stroking it with her hands in love and wonder. As she did so, she murmured approvingly to Durga: “That is the way—to give up everything. Only if we give up