Nectar in a Sieve: Chapters 17–23

It was the second crop of the year, sown on ground which had not been allowed to lie fallow, and so we did not think it would be other than meagre; but contrary to our expectations it was a very good harvest.

Nathan especially was in exuberant mood.

Confounding the curses that came his way—and there were many, for his usury was harsh beyond necessity—he continued to prosper, squeezing the life from those hapless creatures who were driven to borrow from him, and gaining his strength from their weakness.

Confounding the curses that came his way—and there were many, for his usury was harsh beyond necessity—he continued to prosper, squeezing the life from those hapless creatures who were driven to borrow from him, and gaining his strength from their weakness.

Confounding the curses that came his way—and there were many, for his usury was harsh beyond necessity—he continued to prosper, squeezing the life from those hapless creatures who were driven to borrow from him, and gaining his strength from their weakness.

“For you particularly,” he insisted, his flabby lips twitching with innuendo. “I have heard from Kunthi that this is so.”

“Foul-mouthed pig!” I said. “Carrion crow!”

Accustomed though I was to him, the brusque words, his short manner, dashed the welcome from my lips.

I do not know what emboldened me—perhaps it was his silence.

The memory of those days was ever with me, yet the passing of time had made it quiescent; now my own words brought it savagely alive with a shrill, stabbing pain that swept the words away.

“I am not a fool,” I said, speaking in a low voice, pleased by the commendation in his eyes, a little hurt by it as well. “Have I not so much sense to see that you are not one of us? You live and work here, and there is in your heart solicitude for us and love for our children. But this is not your country and we are not your people. If you lived here your whole life it still would not be.”

I walked home, musing over what he had said, and presently it seemed to me there was truth in his words, and I felt a little comforted.

I watched him covertly, wondering whether I should say, “You must be prepared: this new association will not be taken at face value, there will be vilifiers who will say it was done not for you, but for your mother, who will seek to destroy your peace”; but then I thought resolutely, I will not take the fire from his resolve or sow suspicion between them, and so I held my peace.

I watched him covertly, wondering whether I should say, “You must be prepared: this new association will not be taken at face value, there will be vilifiers who will say it was done not for you, but for your mother, who will seek to destroy your peace”; but then I thought resolutely, I will not take the fire from his resolve or sow suspicion between them, and so I held my peace.

“I will repeat it again: you must cry out if you want help. It is no use whatsoever to suffer in silence. Who will succour the drowning man if he does not clamour for his life?”

Want is our companion from birth to death, familiar as the seasons or the earth, varying only in degree. What profit to bewail that which has always been and cannot change?

“Acquiescent imbeciles,” he said scornfully, “do you think spiritual grace comes from being in want, or from suffering? What thoughts have you when your belly is empty or your body is sick? Tell me they are noble ones and I will call you a liar.”

He has gained his relief, she her payment, he merges carelessly into the human throng, consigning her back into the shadows where she worked or to the gaudy streets where she loitered.

He has gained his relief, she her payment, he merges carelessly into the human throng, consigning her back into the shadows where she worked or to the gaudy streets where she loitered.

I did not want his mother to see: I washed him slowly, and massaged oil into his body, hoping to mitigate the whiteness of it, hoping to give colour to his skin, while he cried lustily, for he was a healthy child: and finally his mother called for him.

People came to see the child, and I do not know what tales they told but more people came, their faces avid with curiosity to see him—a curiosity which was never sated although they stared and stared with bulging eyes; and they went away with appropriate comments on their lips and mouths bursting to describe the poor little albino mite they had seen.

So they came: friends, neighbours, bringing sugar cane and frosted sugar and sticks of striped candy for the new baby. Ira accepted them in his name, smiling, graceful as ever, unperturbed.

Old Granny, bent low on her stick, came bringing a rupee which she gave me to keep for the child. I did not want to take it but she insisted: if I had known it was her last I would have resisted her blandishments.

She had been suffering from one of her periodic attacks of ague, and as soon as she had got rid of it she came, waddling, for she had put on a lot of fat when prosperity had returned to the land.

“Is it true about the baby? People say he is milk-white!”
“He is fair,” agreed Ira equably. “See for yourself,” and she held out the sleeping child in her arms.

Kali stepped back as if she had been deliberately affronted: and such pity as she might have had in her perished.

Sacrabani, who had been screaming vigorously, began to quieten down: he gave one or two more tentative wails, then his mouth split in something like a smile and his fingers curled round Selvam’s.

During the preparations, while the site was bought and cleared, and a contractor engaged to find men and material, he spent his time with Kenny, and what they discussed I do not know, but sometimes he came home elated and sometimes he was morose and dejected; and it was clear enough that the many delays they encountered irked his spirit beyond the telling.

I wanted to throw it away—give it to the next old crone I saw—anything to gain my relief; but the money belonged to Sacrabani, not to me.

And what I of little perception knew Kenny and Selvam knew twofold: but we none of us said anything, for we had woven about us a net of silence in whose meshes were precariously held our fears and our misgivings.

Once in a moment of thoughtlessness I asked how he would contrive to pay all his staff when the hospital was finally established, for it was certain many people would be needed to run it.

At any rate in our family my sons and daughter had always been as one in their thinking: such schism as there was opened between them and us, never between themselves.

Selvam’s easy attitude towards her son brought Ira even closer to him. From the beginning Selvam had accepted the child’s albinism: accepted it and thought no more of it.

We had not seen her, nor did we know her family, and the marriage, in the second year after Sacrabani’s birth, was solemnised at her parents’ house without either of us being present.

He had begun to suffer from rheumatism, and apart from this had had several attacks of fever, from each of which he recovered more slowly and emerged weaker.

“Do not concern yourself,” I said diffidently.

And whatever extraneous influence the tannery may have exercised, the calamities of the land belong to it alone, born of wind and rain and weather, immensities not to be tempered by man or his creations.

I do not know what I expected—indignation, anger, perhaps sorrow: but he betrayed no emotion.

He put the books he was carrying in the wooden crate he had made, then he sat down, still keeping his own counsel; the wavering light from the wick in its saucer of oil fell on his face, sombre and serious as it always was in repose.

“It is not just,” Selvam said. “It is not right.”
“Yet there is no law against it,” said Nathan wearily. “We may grieve, but there is no redress.”