‘It is your favourite pickle.’ Prem smiled rather sheepishly, and helped her to climb into the tonga. ‘Are all my things here?’ she asked. ‘They won’t fall out?’ She had a lot of baggage: there was a steel trunk with a big padlock to it, a roll of bedding, a great number of cloth bundles tied with thick string, a basket and an earthenware water-container. Prem did his best to accommodate all these things safely in the tonga, while the tonga-driver sat perched up on his seat, with his whip in his hand, and watched him. The horse stood with its head patiently lowered and the porter stood waiting for his money. At last they started off and Prem’s mother asked, ‘How much did you pay him?’ When Prem told her, she said, ‘That is too much. I never give more than two annas to a porter. They don’t expect more.’ Prem said nothing, only lowered his eyes as if he felt the justice of her rebuke. ‘You must learn not to be extravagant,’ she said. ‘Now that you will soon have a family of your own.’ When they got home, she looked Indu up and down.
