Heat and Dust by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala

sarcophagi in the centre: but when the groaning noise was repeated, I noticed that it came from another shape huddled in one corner. This was human and dressed in something orange. I went up close – Inder Lal gave a warning shout from outside – and got down to peer at the groaner. I recognised him as the white sadhu, Chid, whom I had once met outside the travellers’ rest-house.
    He had all his possessions with him – a bundle, an umbrella, prayer-beads, and a begging bowl – and they were scattered around him where he lay propped against a latticed arch. There were also some bits of dried bun on a newspaper. He said he didn’t know how long he had been lying here – sometimes it was dark and sometimes it was darker,he said. He had been thrown out of the travellers’ rest-house when his two companions had moved on. He had then tried to continue his pilgrimage, but feeling very ill on the road, had dragged himself back to Satipur. He said he was still very ill. He had been lying here alone, and no one had bothered him because no one had found him except once a pariah dog had sniffed at him and gone away again.
    Inder Lal, standing inside an arch at a cautious distance, warned me “Be careful.”
    â€œIt’s all right,” I said. “It’s someone I know.” I felt Chid’s forehead and found it to be hot.
    He groaned: “I’m thirsty . . . and hungry,” he added, patting his stomach hard like an Indian beggar so one could hear the hollow sound.
    Inder Lal had now come up cautiously and stood looking down at Chid: “Why is he dressed like that?” he asked.
    â€œHe is a sadhu,” I explained.
    â€œHow can he be sadhu?”
    â€œHe’s studied Hindu religion.”
    It was horrible inside the tomb – there was an acrid smell of bat droppings and also I think Chid must have been disrespectful enough to use the place as a lavatory. I wondered what to do with him: he couldn’t be left, but where should I take him?
    â€œWhat has he studied?” Inder Lal asked; he was now keenly interested. “What have you studied?” he probed. “Do you know the Puranas? What about the Brahmanas?”
    Chid did not hear these questions; he was looking at me with pleading, fevered eyes. “Do you live near?” he asked me. “I could walk if it’s very near.”
    I was reluctant, but Inder Lal seemed to fancy the idea of taking Chid home with us.
    10 April.     Although Chid recovered from his fever after a few days, he has given no indication of leaving. I suppose it is restful for him in my room after all his travelling across India. It is not very restful for me though. I have had to lock up all my papers – Olivia’s letters and this journal – not because I mind his reading them (I don’t think he’d be very interested anyway) but because of the way he ruffled through them and left them scattered about with dirty finger-marks on them. These finger-marks are on everything in my room now. He makes no secret of going through my possessions and taking whatever he needs: in fact, he has explained to me that he doesn’t believe in possessions and thinks it is bad for people to be attached to them. He is not very demanding, actually – he eats the food I prepare and is satisfied with everything he is given. He spends a lot of time walking around town and has become a familiar figure so that even the children have got tired of running after him. Some of the shopkeepers allow him to sit in their stalls with them and occasionally he collects quite a crowd as he sits there cross-legged and expounds his philosophy.
    Everyone considers it a privilege for me to have him in my room. It seems I have been presented with an excellent opportunity to acquire merit by serving a holy man in charity. The question as to whether Chid is holy may remain open, but as far as the town is concerned, he has