Free The Householder by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala

‘You must tell me the truth.’ His hands lay heavy on Prem’s shoulders. ‘Do you think a Westerner like me can reach to the spiritual greatness of the Indian yogis?’
    Prem said, ‘Everything is possible if one tries.’
    Hans took away his hands and cried in agony, ‘But I have tried—oh, my God, how have I tried!’ In his agitation he took a few skips round the room on his naked feet, raising them high up so that it looked as if he had stepped on a nail and hurt himself.
    â€˜Well that’s something, isn’t it,’ Kitty said.
    â€˜In here I have a great longing to feel, to be ! You, Prem, are Indian, you understand what is this longing that has come to me—’
    â€˜You can pick us up Saturday evening for Peggy’s party,’ Kitty told Prem.
    Hans said, ‘Please tell the washerman to bring back my good shirt for this day.’ He put his arm round Prem’s shoulder and walked him out on to the veranda. ‘So, my friend,’ he said, ‘we have had a good conversation.’ Mohammed Ali was squatting on the top step of the veranda, enjoying a little brown cigarette which he held cupped in his hand. He looked up at them sourly, but made no move to rise.
    When Prem got home, lights were burning in all the rooms of the Seigals’ house and there were visitors and card-playing on the veranda. But upstairs in his own house all was darkness and silence. Indu was lying on the bed fast asleep. The kitchen was empty, though there was still a spark of fire in the grate. Perched on top of the pile of ashes was a pot and on the lid of the pot lay a few dry chapattis. This, he supposed, was his food. He was hungry, so he sat down on the floor of the kitchen and ate. But he knew it was not right for a wife to go to sleep before she had served her husband however late he might come. He considered for a moment whether to wake her up and tell her so. But he did not feel angry enough for that. He was still a little dazed from his visit and kept thinking about Hans and Kitty. Their interest in spiritual matters puzzled him, for he had always thought that Europeans were very materialistic in their outlook.
    The servant-boy appeared and Prem at once began to scold him for going out. As usual, the boy took no notice of him, except to assume a somewhat contemptuous expression. ‘Until the master of the house has taken his food,’ Prem told him, ‘your place is in the kitchen.’ ‘Finished?’ the boy asked and took away Prem’s empty pot for cleaning.
    Prem lay down next to Indu on the bed. He could hear her regular breathing and at once forgot about Hans and Kitty and about everything else. He sat up and looked at her. There was a very dim light in the room, which came from a street-lamp a few houses farther down. He could just make out her shape as she lay there. He had already begun to notice that she had changed, that her hips and breasts, always fine and plump and round, had become burgeoning and luxurious. He supposed it was the baby. Reverently he placed his hand on her stomach and thought about how it was his child in there. But not for long. Soon his hand had found the string at her waist to untie her petticoat. After a while she woke up. She turned her head away to hide her face, but did not try to hide anything else.
    Next morning, though, Prem was in a stern mood with her again. He watched her drinking her tea and noticed regretfully that she was not doing so with the refinement which would be required at Mr. Khanna’s tea-party. He brooded about this for a while, then got up and followed her into the bedroom. She was lovingly dusting a picture of Mother and Baby which she had recently acquired and hung up on the bedroom wall. Baby was very stout, with big folds in its legs, and Mother had a simpering expression and held a sunflower in one hand.
    â€˜When you drink tea,’ Prem said, ‘you must hold your