Belonging

by Umi Sinha

  I wished that I could say something to comfort him, but there is nothing. I understand now why he never wanted to speak of the past.

  16th July 1882

  Today I asked Father something that has been puzzling me since he told me the story of my mother’s death, namely how it is that I am not famous as the sole survivor of the bibighar.

  He explained that in all the hysteria that surrounded the discovery there was a lot of confusion, and rumour was rife. ‘Soldiers made up stories to feed their desire for revenge and justify our own atrocities – stories of women being paraded naked in front of Nana Saheb’s troops, of rape, of babies’ bodies found hanging on hooks – as if the truth wasn’t bad enough! There were so many rumours that contradicted each other that no one really knew what to believe.

  ‘Afterwards I avoided any mention of it and no one dared to raise the subject with me. They talked, of course – no one could stop that – but that was just speculation. No, the only time I was concerned was when I learnt that Lt. Thomson was writing a book about the events at Cawnpore. As soon as I heard of it I wrote to him and asked him not to mention you – you were still a child and I didn’t want that notoriety for you. And he was kind enough to agree.’

  It is humbling to realise that the mystification about my birth that I have resented all these years was devised in order to protect me.

  18th July 1882

  Yesterday, on an impulse, on my way back to Bhagalpur, I alighted from the train at Cawnpore and went to look at the site where the entrenchment had been. Nothing, of course, remains. The buildings have all collapsed, their materials scattered, the mud walls washed away long ago, and it has reverted to the patch of barren waste ground, populated by scavenging pariah dogs, that it must have been before it was selected for that most hopeless of defences.

  In the evening I went to visit the memorial gardens that have been planted where the bibighar once stood. There is a British soldier stationed at the gate to prevent Indians from entering. An octagonal pierced marble screen conceals the well, now filled in and covered over. I stood for some time looking at the guardian of the well – a marble Angel of the Resurrection with cast-down eyes and a sombre, brooding expression. Crossed palm leaves fan out above his folded hands.

  The bibighar – my birthplace – in the gardens of which the well stood, was originally built in the grounds of his house by an Englishman for his bibis. It was demolished soon after the Mutiny and the memorial was raised some years later, paid for by public subscription in England and fines levied on the citizens of Cawnpore.

  The inscription reads:

  Sacred to the Perpetual Memory of a great company of Christian people, chiefly Women and Children, who near this spot were cruelly murdered by the followers of the rebel Nan Dundu Pant, of Bithur, and cast, the dying with the dead, into the well below, on the XVth day of July, MDCCCLVII

  The white purity of the monument conveys nothing of the terrible event it memorialises.

  I waited there for some time until the tomb glowed pink in the short but spectacular sunset, hoping for some flicker of memory, some buried instinct to stir, but I felt nothing.

  Lila

  A few weeks after Jagjit arrived in India I had a letter from him.

  My dear Lila,

  Please forgive me for being such poor company when I was last with you. I was haunted with guilt about Baljit’s death and it seemed wrong to pursue my own happiness when, through my fault, my parents and his wife and son – born just a month ago – have lost their child, husband and father. I cannot replace him, even in my parents’ affections, for we are almost strangers to each other.

  My real life is in England and I feel closer to you than to any of my blood family. If I did not make love to you it was not because I did not want to, but because I could not bear the thought of leaving you bereaved if anything were to happen to me. Please believe me when I say my heart has not changed, and that I fully intend to keep my promise if it is humanly possible, but from what I have seen of this war so far it is impossible to predict what might happen. I can no longer believe that the world will be a better place for all this slaughter.

  I realise now that I allowed myself to be drawn into this war simply to prove myself, and that that motive has dictated most of my behaviour over the last ten years, ever since I came to England. I can no longer even remember who I used to be. After this war, if I survive, I will have to spend some time finding out who I really am. What I have always admired about you is that you go your own way.

  With all my love,

  Jagjit

  Although he sounded unhappy, this was the first letter I’d had from him in which he shared his thoughts with me as openly as I had done with him. I thought about what he had said about me. Was it true that I went my own way, or was that just a reaction too? Had I not learnt that from Father, who, like Akela, always walked alone and whose only friends – with the exception of Uncle Gavin and Uncle Roland – were the Indians he worked with?

  I, too, felt more comfortable with Indians, but by then I was no longer working at the Indian Hospital. Shortly after Jagjit’s departure all the English nurses had been removed, all visitors banned and patients were no longer allowed to leave the premises. The fences were heightened and barbed wire put along the top. Despite protests that the patients felt imprisoned, and appeals that it was bad for their morale, the military authorities stood firm. It was felt that the Indian soldiers were becoming too friendly with the local women, and that this familiarity might negatively influence their behaviour towards Englishwomen when they were back in India. By the end of 1915 the Indian hospitals were closed down and the treatment of Indians shifted to France. Over the same period, most of the Indian troops were withdrawn from the Western Front.

  According to Mr. Beauchamp, the M.P.s who had argued against the use of Indian soldiers felt vindicated by the difficulty they seemed to have had in adjusting to trench life, attributing it to a lack of moral fibre. It was decided that the troops withdrawn from the Western Front should be sent to Palestine, Egypt and Mesopotamia, where conditions were closer to those they were accustomed to, and where they would be fighting other brown-skinned races.

  In the autumn of that year, Jagjit was sent to the Mesopotamian Front, or – as it would later be referred to by soldiers on the Western Front – ‘the Mesopotamian Picnic’. At around the same time, Aunt Mina’s house was requisitioned by the Army as a convalescent home for wounded officers and I was offered a job and a room there. Aunt Mina moved in with the Beauchamps for the duration of the war.

  The last uncensored letter I received from Jagjit was written soon after his arrival in Mesopotamia.

  My darling Lila,

  I have been in Basra for almost a week now, waiting to join my new regiment. The other relieving troops and I are stuck here because there are not enough boats to carry us upriver. I do not want to worry you unnecessarily, but I shall not get another chance to write freely once I join my regiment. I am sending this letter in the care of a wounded officer who is waiting for a passage to England. He is a captain with a Sikh regiment and he told me that the 3rd Battalion, to which most of the Sikh regiments belong, has received more than double its original strength in replacements since April. In other words it has been wiped out twice over. This perhaps explains the letter that was waiting for me on my arrival informing me that I have been promoted directly to the rank of jemadar, I presume as a result of my time in the trenches. As promotion is strictly by seniority, I don’t need to spell out the implications.

  As if to underline it, the first sight that met my eyes when I got off the troopship was a pile of new pine coffins the size of the great pyramid at Giza. Ironic, as there is a shortage of almost everything else – tents, medical equipment, mosquito nets, water-sterilising equipment, and especially the shallow draft boats needed to transport equipment and men upstream and bring down the wounded.

  While I kick my heels, waiting for my orders, I have been helping
to unload some of the wounded from the river transports. After travelling downriver on the open decks, most of them are suffering from heatstroke and sunburn. Many are still wearing their field dressings. It is so bad that one can smell the arrival of a hospital boat long before one can see it.

  On a more cheerful note, the campaign has made tremendous progress under Gen. Townshend, who they say is a great tactician. He made a reputation for himself in your father’s part of the world and has earned the sobriquet ‘The Hero of Chitral’ for defending a siege there with a tiny garrison while besieged by Afghans. So far his forces have won every battle and it is said his objective is Baghdad. Despite the conditions, it will be good to be mobile and not stuck in a trench for months at a time. But once we are on the march I do not know how easy it will be to write. Please remember, my darling, if you do not hear from me for a while, that I love you more than these feeble words can ever express.

  Jagjit

  I received a few short letters from him after he joined his regiment but they were constantly on the march and had little time to write, and once again letters were being censored, this time by an official censor based in France, which meant they sometimes took months to arrive. But through the newspapers and Mr. Beauchamp’s offices I received regular news of General Townshend’s rapid progress towards Baghdad as he defeated the Turks in battle after battle.

  News of his triumphs helped to alleviate the terrible news that continued to come in from the Western Front, until November, when his forces were defeated at Ctesiphon with enormous casualties. Weeks of uncertainty followed as families waited to learn the names of those killed or missing in action; for me it was even longer because Indian names did not appear in the casualty lists. My only hope of news was through Jagjit’s family, but it was weeks before I could expect a reply to my enquiries. When it came it was to say they had heard nothing.

  News came at last that Townshend had been driven back to Kut-el-Amara, a small shanty town lying in a fold of the River Tigris. Kut was completely surrounded by the Turks: no letters went in or came out, and attempts to drop supplies and mail by plane were abandoned. For five months there was no further word. Those months were the darkest of my life as I struggled to keep hope alive, knowing that everyone thought I was deluding myself. Only the fact that I had patients to care for kept me going; while I was working I had no time to think, and my own anxiety and grief opened my mind to their suffering.

  Kut finally fell at the end of April 1916, and the whole garrison became prisoners of the Turks. Once again there was hope that we might find Jagjit’s name in the records of those taken prisoner, but prisoners’ names had been phonetically transcribed by Turkish guards in their own script, and records were chaotic.

  Over the months that followed we learnt something of the conditions at Kut. Thousands had died of disease and towards the end the garrison had been starving. As news from the Red Cross became available, we learnt that prisoners had been marched many hundreds of miles into the desert and some of the prison camps were so far into the interior, where there were no roads or railways, that the Red Cross had been unable to trace them.

  Finally, after nearly two years of hearing nothing, in August 1917 I received a letter from the War Office.

  Madam,

  I am directed to transmit to you with regret the enclosed letter/s addressed to Jemadar Jagjit Singh which has been returned from Turkey with an endorsement to the effect that Jemadar Singh is dead.

  No confirmation of this information has reached this office, but it is feared that, unless you have heard from him recently, it may possibly be correct. An enquiry is, however, being sent to Turkey with a view to learning whether the report is confirmed, and, until the result of the enquiry has been ascertained, the report will not be accepted for official purposes; but I am to point out that a considerable time will probably elapse before an answer can be expected.

  I am to express the sympathy of the Army Council with the relatives in their anxiety and suspense.

  Your obedient servant,

  F. Weatherstone

  A bundle of my letters to Jagjit was enclosed. He had never received any of them.

  PART THREE

  Henry

  19th July 1882

  Everything has happened so fast that I can scarcely believe it; it has been less than a month since I went on leave and in that time everything has changed.

  I arrived back last night to two pieces of news. The first is that Thornton’s replacement – a Mr. Farraday – has at last been appointed and will be arriving at the beginning of August, and that I am to stay on as an additional district magistrate at least until he finds his feet. The second, and more shocking, is that Miss Ramsay’s father collapsed at the Club a few days after I left and died of a heart attack. Roland tells me he left nothing but debts – he owed money everywhere and was in arrears with his rent. His employers have agreed to pay Miss Ramsay’s rent for two months to give her time to make other arrangements. Roland says people were expecting her to go to relatives in England or Ireland, but she seems to have none – or none willing to take her.

  ‘How is she?’ I asked. ‘She must be very distressed.’ I can imagine her grief more vividly perhaps because of hearing so recently about the circumstances of my mother’s death. It seems like another connection between us.

  To my considerable surprise, Roland admitted that he hasn’t seen her since it happened; she’d been unwell and he didn’t think her ayah would welcome a visit from him. He must have seen my incredulous stare, for he added, ‘The truth is, I wouldn’t know what to say to her. I’m no good at this kind of thing… Damn it, Henry, it’s all very well for you to look like that but it’s a damned awkward situation. It’s not as if I promised her anything…’

  ‘But you implied it.’

  ‘Well, let’s just say she made certain assumptions that I failed to dispel.’ He smiled that lopsided smile that women seem to find so disarming. ‘And now of course she expects me to come to her rescue. But I can’t do it, Henry. You know how I feel about her but, even if my C.O. gave permission and I could afford it, marrying now wouldn’t do my career any good.’

  ‘I had no idea you were so ambitious.’

  ‘It’s not ambitious not to want to ruin one’s career. And it’s not as if I don’t care… I do feel badly about it.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t worry too much. Since she’s disliked by the other women, no one will blame you for letting her down.’

  He glared at me. ‘I don’t know why you’re being so damned superior. Would you marry her in my place?’

  ‘I’d feel honour-bound to if I’d encouraged her hopes as you have.’

  ‘Well, if you’re so damned honourable, why don’t you ask her? You don’t imagine I haven’t noticed how you feel about her, do you?’ He laughed. ‘Only we both know that she wouldn’t look at you while I was around. Well, now’s your chance – she’s desperate enough to snatch at any straw.’

  ‘You arrogant bastard!’

  I had forgotten that all that riding has made his stomach muscles as hard as rock. He stood watching me curse as I bent over my hand, nursing it, and then turned to go. ‘Good luck,’ he said from the door. ‘You’ll make the perfect couple. And, if you need someone to give the bride away, don’t hesitate to ask.’

  I would never have thought Roland clever enough to be capable of sarcasm.

  20th July 1882

  I don’t know whether to feel hopeful or terrified. I have asked Rebecca to marry me. It happened almost without a conscious decision on my part and I can’t help wondering if Roland was right about her desperation. And yet she did nothing – it was all my doing.

  I went to see her today to ask about her health and, to my surprise, her ayah recognised me and invited me in. Rebecca was sitting on the back verandah in a steamer chair. She was dressed in a high-necked white cotton nightdress and her hair has been cut off to conserve her strength. Sitting there, with short dark curls framing a face
almost as pale as her nightdress, she looked like a beautiful boy.

  Spread across her lap was a large piece of embroidery of extraordinarily fine quality: a detailed depiction of a banyan tree with hanging roots. I looked closer, intending to say something complimentary, and saw there was a woman peering out from in between the multiple trunks, her mouth open in a scream of terror or despair. She appeared to be trapped, manacled by the hanging roots, which had coiled around her wrists and ankles. Her right breast and leg appeared to have been absorbed into the tree trunk but the left breast was bare, the nipple hidden by a spreading root that had sunk its gnarled fingers into the flesh around it as though seeking out her heart. I barely had time to get an impression of the whole before her ayah snatched it up and began to fold it away.

  I greeted Rebecca and sat down but I was too disturbed by her embroidery to meet her eyes, so I focused my gaze on her bare feet, which had been exposed by the removal of the fabric. They are exquisite – slender and high-arched, with four long, slim toes and one short one. With a curious feeling of déjà vu, I saw in my mind’s eye a pillared temple illuminated by moonlight. Some picture I’d seen, perhaps? But it was gone before I could grasp it.

  Rebecca appeared not to notice that her embroidery had been removed. She sat up and eagerly demanded when Roland was coming to see her. I stammered some excuse and watched her eyes brim with tears.

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear about your father,’ I said, feeling the inadequacy of the words.