Free A Garland of Marigolds by Isobel Chace Page B

Whenever I did I was hurt too badly, or so it seemed to me.
    I was sitting at the bench in the laboratory when the Swami walked in. He came and went as he pleased, his saffron robes flapping in the dusty breeze. Everyone respected him. I was always pleased to see him and soon got used to his shock of wild hair and his ability to remove himself from any conversation by the simple expedient of staring into space.
    “ I thought you would like to accompany me through the village to see the new pump. ”
    I was highly gratified. For a moment I tried not to show it, but the smile of pleasure spread across my face just the same.
    “ Is it really working? ” I asked.
    He nodded. “ So they tell me. ”
    I threw down my pen and stood up immediately. I had been astonished and appalled by the delay in getting the well into action.
    We walked through the village as if we owned it. The Swami strode on ahead, his robes rippling in the wind; I followed a pace behind, anxious as always to see everything that was going on around me. The Swami must have been more observant than he looked because he stopped suddenly in the middle of the street. As always in the presence of a foreigner a knot of begging children had gathered, more curious than determined. The boldest of them touched my skirts, while the others put their hands over their faces and peered through their fingers.
    “ It will be well when my people learn to be a little less materialistic, ” the Swami said sternly.
    I laughed. “ You want too much! ” I teased him, a little shocked by my own audacity. “ They have to eat! ”
    “ But not by begging. ”
    “ No, but by giving me water for my wheat! ” I retorted.
    He shook his head at me.
    “ You must ask Mr. Wait for that. ”
    I sighed. “ I suppose so, ” I said.
    There were surprisingly few people at the well. I recognized most of the women drawing water. They were very graceful, filling their pots and carrying them off on their heads, but it was plain that the vast majority of them were still using the water from the buffalo tanks. We stood and watched for a while, trying to fight down a feeling of disappointment that the whole village was not making use of it as we had hoped.
    I went to the edge of the well and peered down into its depths. There was very little to see, for the new electrical machinery took up most of the space and one could only glimpse the water below.
    “ It is working well now, ” the Swami told me, not without pride. “ At first it was difficult because none of us knew how to prime it. ” I giggled, remembering similar pumps in the country where we had spent our school holidays when I was a child. I put my two hands on the edge of the well and exchanged smiles with one of the youngest housewives I had ever seen. Aged no more than twelve, she nevertheless had the proud bearing of one who was sure of her own status. For an instant I thought she might have been a relative of Lakshmi ’ s, but as soon as she filled her earthenware pot and raised it to her head, the likeness disappeared and she wandered away down the street and was lost in the crowd.
    I was so busy watching the first girl, I didn ’ t see the second until she was right on top of me. She had none of the confidence of the first, but was quite scared to take the water from the well. I stood up straight to help her, but other hands were there before mine. To my surprise, they were Gideon ’ s.
    “ Will you get me water to drink? ” he asked her.
    She was plainly overcome by such a request, but his smile reassured her and it was obvious that she didn ’ t like to refuse his request.
    “ The water is tasteless after the other, ” she told him shyly. “ It is clean, ” he replied. “ The other water holds many illnesses inside it. This will keep your children well and strong. ”
    She licked her lips doubtfully.
    “ My husband will say my cooking is not as good as his mother ’ s, ” she went on.
    Gideon laughed. “ All