gone.
The British were plagued by the devaluation of the rupee, and only a few of them still thought it worth their while to continue in India. Jack Strachey regularly discussed and kept up with developments, but his mind was made up. The city was now his city for the rest of his life, as much as any Bengaliâs, and his body, when lifeless, would be given to its soil. Sharpâs had vanished, an unimaginable development, and he was saddened to see the decline in local industry.
And now old age claimed the prime attention of this couple. Both were completely white haired and though Myrna used corsets in cooler weather and they tried to keep themselves trim by walking briskly on the maidan and golf course, they couldnât hide the facts that their bodies and faces
had thickened, their hair had thinned, and they found it more and more difficult to negotiate the stairs.
The progressive mental decline of their friends had a poignant effect on Myrna, and she worried incessantly she would go the same way.
âWhat if I donât know , if I donât realize it?â she asked Jack that day, after they had decided yet again not to return to England. âWhat if I get senile, how will I know?â
Jack decided to face her questions. Myrna had that effect on him. When she persisted with something, he, who took her every utterance so much to heart, was quickly convinced. He remembered the Wentworths in their crumbling house on Lansdowne Road. The house had been under endless litigation, and the neighboring guards had had to chase away the landlordâs thugs when they had tried to create a disturbance. The litigation had reduced the Wentworths to a state of penury and they had only one erratic servant. When he stopped coming, the Wentworths didnât eat but drank endless cups of tea. When that was beyond them, one of them would totter across the street to a tea shop in the wall and fill up an old kettle with steaming, milky tea, pick up a spicy samosa or two in tendu leaf containers. And magically, there had always been alcohol in some form, devolving from rare scotches in their heyday to Indian whiskeys, gin, vodka, beer, country liquor, and finally to poisonous concoctions which almost turned them blind and certainly sped up their end. The building had become decrepit and dangerous and they had moved out into the garden permanently, taking shelter in an abandoned outhouse. The British community, including Jack Strachey, had tried to help through the Society for the Aged run for Anglo-Indians. But Mrs. Wentworth had driven them away, screeching at them in her own version of Hindi, and brandishing her stick at them. The Wentworths had died, half-starved, filthy, their bodies dropsical and barely clothed, not a possession to call their own, except the rusted kettle and kerosene stove in the kitchen. Their servant had made off with whatever little of value lay in the house, the litigation was at a standstill, and the landlord, patiently waiting, reclaimed his property and completed the demolition of the building.
No one knew or remembered if the Wentworths had children, and if so, why they hadnât come forward.
Seeing Martinâs impossible distance, Jack Strachey realized the fragility of their state. And here was Myrna, possessed, impossibly abrasive. He fought the certainty that this was the very thing she dreaded.
Â
It was just after the monsoons. The air was pleasantly cool with stirrings of the South breeze, which made the veranda such a blessing.
âWhat if I get senile without knowing it?â said Myrna, again.
âWhy should you?â
âHave you forgotten the Wentworths?â
Jack winced at this evidence of their coinciding thoughts.
âI must write to Martin,â he said, trying to steer the conversation away.
âMartin! As if heâll do anything! Itâs because of you that Martin is what he is! How can you let him treat us like this?â
Jack turned
The British were plagued by the devaluation of the rupee, and only a few of them still thought it worth their while to continue in India. Jack Strachey regularly discussed and kept up with developments, but his mind was made up. The city was now his city for the rest of his life, as much as any Bengaliâs, and his body, when lifeless, would be given to its soil. Sharpâs had vanished, an unimaginable development, and he was saddened to see the decline in local industry.
And now old age claimed the prime attention of this couple. Both were completely white haired and though Myrna used corsets in cooler weather and they tried to keep themselves trim by walking briskly on the maidan and golf course, they couldnât hide the facts that their bodies and faces
had thickened, their hair had thinned, and they found it more and more difficult to negotiate the stairs.
The progressive mental decline of their friends had a poignant effect on Myrna, and she worried incessantly she would go the same way.
âWhat if I donât know , if I donât realize it?â she asked Jack that day, after they had decided yet again not to return to England. âWhat if I get senile, how will I know?â
Jack decided to face her questions. Myrna had that effect on him. When she persisted with something, he, who took her every utterance so much to heart, was quickly convinced. He remembered the Wentworths in their crumbling house on Lansdowne Road. The house had been under endless litigation, and the neighboring guards had had to chase away the landlordâs thugs when they had tried to create a disturbance. The litigation had reduced the Wentworths to a state of penury and they had only one erratic servant. When he stopped coming, the Wentworths didnât eat but drank endless cups of tea. When that was beyond them, one of them would totter across the street to a tea shop in the wall and fill up an old kettle with steaming, milky tea, pick up a spicy samosa or two in tendu leaf containers. And magically, there had always been alcohol in some form, devolving from rare scotches in their heyday to Indian whiskeys, gin, vodka, beer, country liquor, and finally to poisonous concoctions which almost turned them blind and certainly sped up their end. The building had become decrepit and dangerous and they had moved out into the garden permanently, taking shelter in an abandoned outhouse. The British community, including Jack Strachey, had tried to help through the Society for the Aged run for Anglo-Indians. But Mrs. Wentworth had driven them away, screeching at them in her own version of Hindi, and brandishing her stick at them. The Wentworths had died, half-starved, filthy, their bodies dropsical and barely clothed, not a possession to call their own, except the rusted kettle and kerosene stove in the kitchen. Their servant had made off with whatever little of value lay in the house, the litigation was at a standstill, and the landlord, patiently waiting, reclaimed his property and completed the demolition of the building.
No one knew or remembered if the Wentworths had children, and if so, why they hadnât come forward.
Seeing Martinâs impossible distance, Jack Strachey realized the fragility of their state. And here was Myrna, possessed, impossibly abrasive. He fought the certainty that this was the very thing she dreaded.
Â
It was just after the monsoons. The air was pleasantly cool with stirrings of the South breeze, which made the veranda such a blessing.
âWhat if I get senile without knowing it?â said Myrna, again.
âWhy should you?â
âHave you forgotten the Wentworths?â
Jack winced at this evidence of their coinciding thoughts.
âI must write to Martin,â he said, trying to steer the conversation away.
âMartin! As if heâll do anything! Itâs because of you that Martin is what he is! How can you let him treat us like this?â
Jack turned
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