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Ruth Prawer Jhabvala is the author of nineteen books. She is the recipient of Booker Prize, a MacArthur fellowship, and has been honored with an Award in Literature from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. Jhabvala's screenplays for Merchant–Ivory Productions have earned two Academy Awards. Jhabvala and her husband divide their time between Delhi and New York.

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My Nine Lives

Shoemaker & Hoard

Chapter One

I HAVE gone back to live in India, partly for economic reasons.It's cheaper for me here than in New York, and that hasbeen a consideration during these last years. Of course I nolonger live where I used to when I came here over forty yearsago-with Somnath and his family in their crammed flat inthe crammed house in a maze of alleys leading off the bazaar.The house is still standing, though a part of it, cracked andcrumbled during a particularly heavy monsoon, has had tobe propped up. Another family is occupying Somnath's oldflat, which has been divided into even smaller sections; thewhole house is now a warren of subdivided living spaces letout to large families sharing sanitary facilities.

After my return, the first place I moved to was in a suburbanmiddle-class colony. Although newly built, it was alreadyoverpopulated and not so different from the inner-city areawhere I used to live in Somnath's house. The streets werecrowded with hawkers and pushcarts and homeless dogs andcows and an occasional pig snuffling in the gutters fordiscarded food. I rented a room built on the terrace roof-itwas small, but enough for me and with its own toilet andshower. It also had its own staircase at the side of the houseso that I was independent of the landlord's family living downstairs.At first they were very friendly to me, and once whenI was sick with flu, they sent up food. I knew that they referredto me as the "budiya"-the old woman-up there. It is difficultfor me to realize that this description fits me as it usedto fit Somnath's old mother: she had a hump and a chronicbad knee that she clutched all the time while groaning andcalling to God for release. But I spend my days in the samefeckless way I used to forty years ago-and, I must admit,with an even lighter heart. I have no responsibilities and amalways alone.

Being alone is nothing new to me-from childhood I'vealways preferred it, except for being with my mother, andwith my father, Otto. The only years when I felt my alonenessas loneliness or friendlessness-I really had no friends-wasduring my teenage years, from sixteen to twenty; andthen it was not so much because of my own expectations anddesires as those of my parents for me. My father had remarriedbut was in an apartment around the corner fromwhere I lived with my mother, Nina. On Saturday nights sheinvariably went out whereas I invariably had nowhere to go."Will you be all right?" she would ask me; she felt bad aboutleaving me and that was what made my eyes fill with tears.To hide them, I would lower my head over the book I wasreading-"Oh yes," I said, "this is fascinating;" the momentshe left the tears would fall on to my fascinating book andI would have to wipe them off. But by the time I had enteredmore deeply into my studies-I was in the oriental departmentat Columbia-my books really were more interestingto me than anything offered elsewhere; and my parents,though still anxious about me, could reassure one another:"Rosemary is an intellectual."

During my first visit to India, in my early twenties, Ichanged my name to Shanti (meaning Peace, which I wasanxious to pursue and, if possible, possess). But on my returnto New York I changed it back to Rosemary-which did notsuit me, never had done, but was all that was left of myparents' expectations for me. Even the room that Nina hadso lovingly furnished for me in her apartment-in all herapartments, whether we were in Los Angeles or in NewYork-had been overlaid by my own interests. Oriental textsand Sanskrit grammars filled the closet that should have heldrows of pretty dresses; the vanity table with its frilly skirthad to bear my brass statues of Hindu deities; a mandalafeaturing the cycle from birth to death eclipsed the rosebudson the wallpaper chosen by Nina as suitable for a young girl'sbower (or "Mddchenzimmer," as she and Otto called it).

All through my childhood, I tried to live up to my nameRosemary. I knew how hard it was for Nina that I was notpretty, let alone beautiful as she was. She would buy mefrocks that would have looked lovely on some other little girland I put them on eagerly. But it was Nina herself who said,"Take it off, darling," and she would turn away-in tears, Iimagined, so that I ran after her and clung to her. Then shewould say, "Never mind, darling, what's it matter?" But thatonly made me more miserable because I knew how much itmattered to her.

Nina herself had been a spectacular beauty, in Germany inthe 1930s, before they were forced to emigrate, she had beguna career as a film actress that might have led to stardom.Nina left because she was married to a Jew-my father, OttoLevy; she herself came from a Catholic family of modestmeans (petit-bourgeois, she said, but only just). The Levyfamily had sufficient influence to arrange for visas to America;also sufficient funds to start a New York branch of theirprosperous business in fine leather goods, with Otto as themanaging director. Nina and I did not stay with him for long.By this time they fought a lot, and I believe Susie too hadalready attached herself to them. But mainly it was becauseNina felt that her place was in Hollywood, and following upsome leads and promises, she boldly packed us up and left.Her stunning looks, her courage, her perseverance, and maybeto some extent Otto's money with which he was alwaysgenerous to us even after their divorce, all these helped usthrough. She did have some success in Hollywood, thoughnever on the scale she might have expected in her nativeGermany. She always played foreigners, for though herEnglish was fluent and even racy, her accent remained heavilyGerman; and with this accent, and her sultry, pouting looks,she was inevitably cast as the bad woman-during the waryears even as a Nazi-in contrast to the wholesome Americanheroine. They were not good parts, nor were they good films,and she spoke of them disparagingly, pretending to shrugthem off as merely her, and my, bread and butter. But in factshe worked hard at her roles, however small and unworthythey were, analyzing them, researching the background,extracting possibilities of depth that may have been in herbut were not in the characters she was called on to play. Andafter a while, when she got older and heavier-she alwayshad a weight problem-the parts that came her way weresmaller and fewer, until finally she decided that it was notworth staying in Hollywood but that she might as well goback to New York, to allow Otto a share in my upbringing.

It was Otto who found the Upper East Side apartment inwhich Nina and I lived for so many years. He and Susie,whom he had since married, were just around the block, sowe became one fairly harmonious family. He and Nina nolonger fought the way they used to; they had far too manyinterests in common and were eager for each other's company.Susie did whatever they did, but since she had less stamina,they preferred to leave her at home for their more strenuousactivities, such as their "antiquing" expeditions. Both lovedbuying objects and both had the same taste. Nina had a flairfor picking up bargains, and they always returned flushedwith victory and loaded with vases and clocks and tapestriesfor Nina's and my apartment. Susie didn't care to have toomany things in her and Otto's place-they only collected dust,she complained, and that was a problem for her who couldnever keep household help for more than a few weeks. Butshe joined them on their visits to...