“Have I ever been there as far as you are concerned?” he had said, in a dismayed tone. “On your own in an alien city, no friends, no one that you know, I don’t like it –not at all. Did Rusi think this was a good idea or did you push him to agree?”
“It was his idea that I should become a Bedou, wandering around with my case as a lady of no fixed abode.” She tried to laugh, though the image generated no true joy in her heart.
“I hope you can keep up your humour, Dwita – we are both going to need it in the next few months or years.”
“I was only joking. In fact I already have both an abode and an address in Abu Dhabi. However we only have P.O. Boxes – you can no longer turn up on my doorstep without proper notice! Also single women are a suspect breed in the Arab world as you know, so you can no longer be my guest or even be seen to be intimate with me. We shall be expected to maintain a respectable distance between us,” she teased him.
“As if we are not maintaining it now,” he said dryly.
She had also spoken to Dia. She often rang the Parkinsons just to speak to her, to hear her cheerful voice. She so often wished to see that face, but comforted herself by looking at the photos that she always carried in her bag. They wrote letters to each other regularly – Dia’s consisted of much scribbled nonsense and colourful sketches. She filed them all carefully and kept them away from curious eyes. She sometimes reflected that Dia was growing up and maybe John and Jennifer would allow her to spend a few weeks of her holidays alone with her.
Dwita had also written to Barun about her move and he had replied by return of post and also spoken to her on the telephone. He was very hurt that she was leaving, just as he was returning after so many years. He did not conceal from her that he felt Calcutta would only be bearable if she were there. He sounded let down and rather distressed and tried hard to dissuade her from leaving Calcutta and Sunbeam.
She had obviously upset many by her decision to leave, but really there was no one who could have offered her an acceptable alternative. Barun was perhaps the only one, who like her, was able to love without many expectations. He merely wished for her company and that was not an unreasonable demand. Perhaps she had made a serious mistake in her way of life? Perhaps she should not have nursed the free spirit within her, allowing it to grow to such an extent that it was now even beyond her own control. Perhaps she should have curbed her taste for independence, been less sensitive and more of an extrovert. But the combination of her upbringing and Nishith had left her very little choice. She came to the conclusion there was no turning back, she could only go forward alone.
The day of departure finally arrived. The flight from Calcutta was going to take her to Bombay, and from there an international connection to Abu Dhabi. She felt calm as usual but not unmoved, amidst tears, flowers and fond farewells, with Raghu as her only companion in the venture into the unknown. All the friendly faces of those she loved and cared for, present and absent, had merged into a macrocosm of maya – an illusion – that she had no right to preserve or sustain.
CHAPTER XV
She sat alone in the air-conditioned comfort of her living room in Abu Dhabi one Friday morning, with a cable staring at her from her lap – a message that Rusi was very ill in a London clinic and wished to see her urgently. Janet had sent the cable which had not been delivered but left lying in her Post Box, which Raghu had fortunately checked earlier that morning. He always checked the box several times a day, hoping that there might be a letter from his wife. He was now a successful man, as he had hoped, his family valued him more as an earner of an Arabian fortune. He had achieved his dream of building a house and possessing all the electrical comforts which made life in an Andhra village agreeable for him and his family. It was five years since the two of them had arrived in Abu Dhabi and so much had happened since then – so much that had touched her without actually affecting her in any tangible way.
She decided to leave for London the same night, but first needed Sheikh Sultan’s permission. He was away and not expected back until Sunday. She telephoned Sheikha Fawzia, his second but more important wife, who was a friend of Dwita’s. Fawzia assured her that as it concerned Rusi, the Sheikh would not mind, in fact he would probably follow her to London before long.
In these five years she had become accepted as a member of Sheikh Sultan’s entourage. It had been an uphill task but she had come a long way from the day he had doubted her ability on the basis of her sex. At first he had tested her out through many deliberate acts of non-cooperation and discourtesy to see if she would weaken and resign, and had sent her on all sorts of difficult errands into the wild maze of Arab business practices, made her travel for days through hot and dusty desert roads, flirted with her himself and did not discourage his friends from showing her undesirable attentions. This went on relentlessly for six months. She was miserable in the quiet of her own bedroom, often regretting her decision. Sometimes she was tempted to telephone those who were close to her, but did not want to give them the satisfaction of saying “we-told-you-so”. She often thought then that she had overestimated her capacity and forbearance. But suddenly the torture had stopped and Sheikh Sultan had equally suddenly accepted her. He had invited her to his home and even visited hers with Fawzia. Without any overt acknowledgement or apology, a truce had been declared. Since then he had given her complete authority to plan and execute her own assignments. He never questioned her means, only studied the results. She travelled extensively, spent large sums of money for him – he trusted her completely. He only grudged her one favour and that was leave; though she worked a twelve-hour day he was always reluctant to give her even one extra day off. But she realised that was one concession that Arabs did not like to make to an expatriate whose services they had bought at a high price. So she was relieved that Fawzia had then not hesitated to grant her leave on the Sheikh’s behalf; for nothing would have kept Dwita away from Rusi’s bedside, particularly when he had asked for her. She would have gone with our without her employer’s permission.
Dwita had got to know quite a few managers of international airlines. Her company was an agent for one of them. She rang its general manager, Mr Khalil, and asked him to get her a seat on the next possible flight leaving for London. In no time he rang back offering a confirmed seat on one of the night flights. He said his assistant would collect her and hand over the ticket – she knew her passport and health documents were all in order as she travelled so often.
Raghu knew what was coming, he could anticipate by now every move Dwita made. He was already busy with the iron, pressing and folding her clothes neatly, the suitcase had been wiped clean and lay open in front of the wardrobe. She reflected that she could not have managed without Raghu’s meticulous care in a way of life that commanded all her time. He was a good manager himself and looked after the domestic arrangements with distinct ability and without any assistance from her. In a strange way Raghu now reminded her often of Mahama.
Mahama herself had spent a happy four years in the home and had died about a year ago in her sleep, from cardiac arrest. Dwita had flown out briefly to perform the last rites for her. She always regretted her inability to provide the old woman with a home in the last few years of her life. Her mother was well aware that Dwita had never forgiven her for not taking Mahama back. Parna had offered to take Mahama’s ashes to Hardwar for immersion but Dwita had refused, and taken them herself to the holy river in Dakshineshwar. She owed it to Mahama to help her find her soul to find salvation in the bosom of the sacred river.
On that trip she had met Barun, he was back in Calcutta. He was the same as usual, pining for his academic existence at Harvard, but making a success of running his father’s business. Abani Mitra hardly came to the office, Barun ran it all now. Barun had said: “Dwita you have not changed at all – I mean physically, you seem just the same. But I feel you have receded even further into yourself – your eyes have a distant, introverted look, like a recluse. Are you sure it is not time f
or you to come back? Have you not had freedom enough?”
“I will return when you are married and middle-aged – I will come back as an eccentric aunt to your children.”
Barun shook his head as he so often did and smiled, but said nothing further. He had known in his heart that Dwita was still not ready to come home. Both were in fact aware that she could not achieve a return very easily. When her two-year secondment elapsed, Sunbeam had extended it by another year. But thereafter it had been necessary for her to resign in order to stay on with Sheikh Sultan. She had done so because Rusi had by that time retired and was living mostly in England. The board had been very decent and assured her that they would welcome her back if she ever wanted to rejoin the company. She had settled well into her present job by then and the Sheikh was anxious for her to continue with his company. Through her efforts she had built up viable organisational structures in all his establishments in the Gulf and outside, and established a stable and competent corps of managers who ran the multiple operational bases of the company around the world.
Sheikh Sultan valued her presence in his enterprise not just as a competent manager, and a ‘management developer’ – in her success he had grown to enjoy his role of a social innovator within his own community. Dwita’s respectability and impeccable conduct drew the admiration of her Arab colleagues and business contacts. They did not fail to notice that she always honoured their cultural and religious practices and observed all their social codes of conduct. Sheikh Sultan often wondered how a young Bengali girl of her sheltered upbringing could hold her own in a hard-nosed business world. He privately envied her strength and courage and had even dared to ask her once: “Mrs Roy, are you going to spend all your life as a wandering businesswoman?”
“I enjoy it, so why not?”
“In our family, we would have tried to marry you off again.”
“In mine too. But it was my choice, the way I am,” she had said with a note of finality.
Fawzia too, asked her once: “Dwita, tell me, have you never been in love? Have you never wished for a home and children of your own, a husband to care for?”
“Fawzia, our dreams bear no resemblance to the realities that overtake us.”
“You speak in riddles as always. This means no further discussion wanted, right?”
“Right.” She had laughed to cover up the abruptness of her reply.
It was now three years since she had last seen Christopher or heard from him. The lack of contact was her decision and she had taken it to save him the misery and confusion of a double existence. He had perhaps made his peace with Julia and probably resigned to a state of mixed happiness in the end. How many people can claim complete married bliss?
The thing she had dreaded had finally happened when she was in London over three years ago. She had met Julia quite by chance at Waverley, visiting the Parkinsons. When Dwita realised who she was, it was she not Julia, who had left hastily and driven away like a coward. This brought home to her finally that she was merely the ‘other woman’, occupying the position of usurper in a triangular relationship which had no future nor prospects of fulfilment. The futility of it all! What difference did it make if she never saw him again, of what use were a few telephone calls, letters or visits in a lifetime of denial? It was again only a maya – a mirage – one kept pursuing in life. And nirvana? What was that? Was it perhaps a simple form of detachment, a cure for all illusions, or was it a way of undiluted peace and serenity?
She had then sat down and reviewed all her relationships one by one, given up some and kept fewer – nothing and no one would be able to hold her to ransom any more.
She had not returned to London properly since then except for brief stopovers for reasons of business. She had not met Christopher either, but had written asking him not to keep in touch. He had been confused and upset at first, pleaded with her, but she held her ground and refused to volunteer reasons for her sudden stand. Since then she had not answered his letters, nor taken his telephone calls. She wrote to Dia sometimes and spoke to her occasionally, as the girl was now at a boarding school in Sussex. Her only link with the old world was Rusi – they had never lost touch. She met him and he her at pre-arranged destinations. He had come to Abu Dhabi to see her, but beyond him she had few links left with her past. Her mother had come to stay with her once and then gone on to London to spend a few weeks with the Wadias and other friends. Barun had passed through Dubai on his way to Europe and America and she had seen him briefly then. He refused to give her up as a friend, which she attributed it to Barun’s good nature rather than her own worth. Her self-abnegation had taught her to appreciate Barun’s own brand of detachment in life. They were both travellers in the world who had run after unattainable mirages and in the end given up, defeated but still thirsty. They both knew they would have to live with the vacuum in their lives. This was both their destiny, his and hers.
Dwita looked at her watch – it was time to get ready. She briefed Raghu, gave him some money and a cheque to cash. He was used to her disappearances at short notice, she always kept him informed once she knew herself about her exact whereabouts – the telephone was the bond between them. The car and Mr Khalil’s assistant arrived with her ticket as promised. Her heart was heavy. She hoped Rusi would recover, but somehow she did not think so, as he would never summon her urgently to his bedside if he knew the matter could wait.
CHAPTER XVI
She rang the doorbell of the Wadias’ flat in Chesham Place, keeping the taxi waiting. Nothing happened and her gaze fell on a slip of paper taped to the wall by the door, giving the address of a London clinic. She returned to the taxi hurriedly and directed him to the clinic. He got her there as quickly as possible, wishing her luck as she paid him. She left her case with the desk porter and was shown to Rusi’s room by one of the nurses. He was lying still, asleep or unconscious she did not know, and Janet was sitting by his bedside, alone and lost in thought. She got up quickly on seeing Dwita, took her hand and clung to it, so unlike Janet, she thought, who rarely demonstrated emotion of any kind.
“They operated on him – made a bypass.” She shook her head to show it had not succeeded. Rusi opened his eyes a little, a semblance of a smile crossed his lips, and he lifted his fingers feebly to show he had seen Dwita. She put her hand on his forehead, kissed it for the first time and sat by his side holding his hand. She had loved this man for as long as she had known him, almost as the father she never had. She had never embarrassed him with the knowledge of her love for him, but today there was no time for formality, she had to let him know. She was only grateful that she had not been too late. Rusi had looked at Janet with hazy questioning eyes and she remembered something suddenly. She took out an envelope from her bag and gave it to Dwita. “Read it later – not now, my love.”
Rusi passed away during the night, quietly and peacefully – the doctors were unable to help him. Dwita had taken Janet home and stayed with her that night and during the following days John and Jennifer took charge of everything. She had attended the funeral – though a devout Parsee he was buried according to Christian rites at his own request. Sheikh Sultan had also come as Fawzia had predicted, in time for the funeral – Dwita had telephoned the news to him. Christopher was not there, and she had not tried to find out the reason for his absence. She had spoken to no one, just stood by Janet’s side silently. For her another link in the chain of life had snapped.
Janet had asked her twice not to open Rusi’s letter until she had left London. She had not disobeyed her. She only took one day off to visit Dia at school as the girl had not been able to join the family. She was so grown-up now, poised and beautiful. She had embraced Dwita warmly and said, “You took a very long time to come and see me.”
“Darling, you know I miss you all the time. Now that you are older, you must come and see me. We can plan a little holiday of our own.” – Dia was overjoyed at the prospect of a holiday with her favourite, almost-aunt, who was somehow closer to he
r than an aunt – sometimes seeming closer than her own mother, who was growing older and did not always understand the problems of growing up. Looking at Dwita, Dia saw that she looked very tired, and thought perhaps she was working too hard. But she did not say anything – she knew that Uncle Rusi was dead and Dwita was very close to him. Dia bade a reluctant farewell to Dwita, who drove back to London in the car she had hired for the visit. Next day she had flown to Bahrain – Sheikh Sultan had passed on an urgent problem for her to solve in the office there. She had almost forgotten the envelope in her bag but now decided to open it in the peace and quiet of her hotel room in Bahrain. It was a letter from Rusi.
My dear Dwita,
I should have said this to you myself and much earlier, but the vow of silence was inflicted upon me by John Parkinson and Dr Bijit Mitra. I must say that at the outset I agreed, thinking that they were right, as I wanted you to be free and unencumbered, not burdened by any more responsibilities than you had already decided to bear on your young shoulders. But I have never been able to relax since then, nor been able to look you straight in the eye. As the years passed, looking at you and your solitary existence I felt I had perhaps wronged you – but I was afraid to open wounds that were sealed with time. Now I know it is late, but I cannot die in peace with your secret in my heart.
Diana, as you may have suspected already, is your daughter. She was taken from you at birth partly for your sake and partly to give her a chance to develop normally, by being brought up outside her environment and without knowledge of her ancestry. According to John and Bijit she has grown up as a mercifully happy and normal human being – tests so far (done very discreetly of course), have left them in no doubt.
They had also felt that the circumstances of her birth would have prevented you from bestowing spontaneous maternal love on her – which in itself would have caused irreparable harm to Diana. At that time I went along with them, giving them the benefit of the doubt, but later on I was not so sure that the ends justified the means, and for many years now I have been living with a troubled conscience. Diana, with her strong physical resemblance to you, reminded me all the more.
The Onus of Ancestry Page 26