Burial at Sea

by Khushwant Singh

  Victor could not come to terms with Bombay’s upper-class society. Most of them had businesses of different kinds with single-track minds: how to make more money and cheat their workers and the income tax authorities. Their transactions were largely in unaccounted cash. The future of their country was of little concern to them. They lived in opulent splendour without any refinement. Victor kept aloof from them, but the rest of the city’s inhabitants weren’t his kind of people either—there was too big a divide of class and temperament between him and the masses. He had to spend many days of the month in Bombay but wanted to have as little to do with its citizens as possible. He also wanted to be away from his office where people complained constantly about Nair. He found the ideal solution. Once when abroad looking for ships to add to his fleet, he heard about a yacht owned by a Greek millionaire who had died recently which was on sale. He flew to Athens to see it. It was a motorized vessel without sails. It had twelve cabins, a large lounge and a dining room. He closed the deal and ordered the captain to deliver it at Bombay where his Indian crew would take over.

  Victor returned home. He looked as if he had found a new wife for himself. He showed pictures of his new toy to his family and told them how many people it could accommodate, how fast it could travel—from Karachi to Bombay to Goa to Madras to Calcutta, all in one week! ‘What will you do with it?’ asked his mother naively. ‘Do with it, Ma? I will live in it, conduct my business, have board meetings, have parties. Wait till you see it. You will fall in love with it—no noise, no khich pich, no smells. Only fresh air and the boundless sea. I want all of you to come to Bombay and see it.’

  When he got news of the arrival of the yacht, he chartered a Dakota to fly his entire family to Bombay. They spent a night in the penthouse of Jai Bhagwan Towers. Next morning they were driven up to the Yacht Club close to the Gateway of India where the yacht was moored. A crowd had collected there; no one had seen a yacht of that size and elegance. Victor’s mother had already chosen a name for it:Jal Bharati.

  The family were shown around the yacht. They saw their names on doors of cabins meant for them. They stood on the deck and waved to the crowds. With the hoot of a siren that echoed across Marine Drive theJal Bharati pulled away from the Yacht Club of India and headed towards Elephanta. It was a family picnic. They visited the caves and returned to the yacht for lunch. Everyone was very excited, most of all Bharati, now four years old. She went around telling everyone, pointing to the yacht, ‘My sip.’

  ‘Yes, beta,’ assured her Dadima, ‘your Papi has got it for you.’

  They sailed to Goa and spent two days on shore walking on its sea beaches.

  ‘Could do with a few good hotels,’ remarked Victor. ‘This place could draw tourists from all the world. But only after we’ve got rid of the Portuguese. They have no business to be here. Now that the war is over, it is only a matter of time before the British leave India. Once we get them out we will send the French and the Portuguese packing.’

  Victor wrote to Gandhi about his new acquisition. As usual he got a prompt reply on a postcard. It contained a mild snub: ‘Always keep your poor countrymen in mind. Don’t let your new acquisition become a rich man’s toy.’

  Victor was provoked to defend himself. He wrote back: ‘Bapu, however different our perceptions about the future of our country may be, you have been the source of my inspiration. You have the right to rebuke me about what you describe as my expensive toy. But I do not mean to play with it; I mean to conduct my business on its board far away from the maddening crowd. You know I have done my little bit for my countrymen. I have given employment to over 100,000 men and women. I give them free housing and their children free education and medical care. I give them retirement benefits and provident funds. Surely you approve of these things. I would be happy to hear you say so if you do.’

  Bapu relented, once again with a cryptic one-liner: ‘I look upon you as my own son, I don’t have to say more.’

  8

  * * *

  The family and servants were flown back to Delhi after a few weeks. Victor stayed back in Bombay. There were a few changes in his daily routine. At first he spent the night and most of the day in his penthouse and offices in Jai Bhagwan Towers and tookJal Bharati ‘for a spin’, as he said, for a couple of hours in the evening. Then he reversed his daily schedule; he spent his nights on the yacht, spent a few hours in his office and returned to the boat in the afternoon. And he rediscovered the peace he had known all those years ago when he spent time alone at his flat in Albion Mews. He felt confident about handling anything when he was by himself on his yacht. He began to value the solitude, which he could not explain to his ageing parents. They often suggested that he marry again. He brushed aside the idea each time. He was not looking for a companion: he had no time for companionship. Though at times he longed for physical intimacy with a young woman, whenever one made overtures to him, he did not respond to her. He did not want a mistress either, because having one would impose certain emotional obligations. And give rise to gossip. So would consorting with an Indian prostitute. Whoring in London, Paris and Hamburg was wiser than whoring in Bombay or Delhi. In any case his mind was preoccupied with things more important than sex.

  The British had finally decided to hand India over to Indians. But the country was to be split in two. Fratricidal war erupted on the subcontinent between Hindus and Sikhs on the one side and Muslims on the other. They were slitting each other’s throats from the banks of the Indus to beyond the Hooghly. This was not the India Victor had dreamt of in his younger days. He was in Delhi the day India gained her independence. The city was flooded with Hindu and Sikh refugees who had fled from Pakistan. They were driving Muslims out of their homes and shops. They were living in ancient monuments, on footpaths and roundabouts. His father had employed extra guards and shut the gates of his house to prevent them occupying his garden. He was in a high state of tension, blabbering nonsense: ‘Keep the British here, we are not fit to rule this country … all this talk of freedom isbuk buk… we are born to be slaves.’ It was no use talking to him. And Bapu Gandhi had vanished into remote villages of East Bengal, to tell people to behave like civilized human beings because they were all children of the same God known by different names. The only one who looked happy was Victor’s little daughter, who went around Shanti Bhavan marching like a soldier carrying the tricoloured flag of Independent India and shouting ‘Bharat Mata ki Jai (Long live Mother India)!;Mahatma Gandhi ki Jai;Inquilab zindabad(Long live the revolution)!’

  Victor did not take part in any of the Independence Day celebrations in Delhi and returned to Bombay. The city was also in a festive mood with the Indian flag flying on all buildings and processions marching down the streets shouting slogans. Nair had himself hoisted the tricolour on Jai Bhagwan Towers and treated the entire staff to tea and cheap biscuits. He was jubilant: he had been elected president of the state Bombay committee and assured of a seat in Parliament. Victor spent an hour in his penthouse and without informing anyone drove to the Gateway of India to board his yacht. He told the captain to take the boat out into the open sea till land was out of sight and weigh anchor there. He wanted to be by himself, undisturbed.

  He felt more isolated than ever before. The country he thought was his, for whose prosperous future he had been laying strong foundations, had been transformed into something completely unrecognizable by the British, the Congress and the Muslim League. Politics had won after all. In his personal life too things were changing for the worst. His father’s health was deteriorating. The babbling with which he had responded to Independence and the Partition refugees had forced everyone to confront the obvious: he was very ill. He had become absent-minded and had bouts of depression followed by hyperactivity during which he talked non-stop by the hour. His only companion was the doughty Valerie Bottomley who did her best to keep his office going, get doctors, give him medicines on time and try to cheer him up. Victor’s mother seemed to enjoy her husband’s growing
helplessness. If he could show such callous indifference to her for all these years of her married life he had no right to expect her to look after him when he was stricken. Her sole interest in life seemed to be her granddaughter Bharati. Victor sensed that his father’s days were numbered. But for his father’s support he would not have got where he had. He now had to reconcile himself to the idea of not having him around for too long.

  There was a time when he had hoped for support from another man: his old friend Nair. But he had changed. Victor had turned a deaf ear to all that was being said about him. He still refused to take any such talk seriously. But he could see that Nair harboured other ambitions than being his number two and overall general manager of his companies. He persuaded Victor to give large donations to the Congress Party and entertained editors of left-wing journals. It was evident that he wanted to build a career in politics with the support of Jai Bhagwan Enterprises. It made Victor uneasy. He would not stand in Nair’s way but he could no longer count on him to forward his future plans. For the first time in his life, Victor understood the meaning of loneliness.

  ~

  It did not take long for Victor’s gloomy prophecies to come true. It was a sunny October morning. Victor was taking in the sea air on a deck chair when he saw a motor boat come streaming across the bay and pull up alongsideJal Bharati. ‘An urgent telegram for the sahib,’ yelled the pilot of the boat. It was a short message from Valerie: ‘Your father suffered a stroke and haemorrhage of the brain. Condition serious. Come at once. Have informed your sisters.’

  Victor ordered the yacht back to the harbour. His car was waiting for him. He asked his secretary to hire a private aircraft from the Tatas. Nair had decided to accompany him. Late that afternoon, as they stepped down the tarmac at Delhi’s Palam Airport and proceeded towards the airport building, they were accosted by a party of press photographers and reporters. Victor sensed that the event he dreaded had taken place. He brushed the journalists aside and walked ramrod straight through the arrivals lounge to the car awaiting him where there was another group of reporters. Nair spoke sharply to the pressmen. ‘Have you no shame? He’s just heard of his father’s death and you want to interview him! This is ghoulish. Move away!’ Then he took Victor by the arm and led him into the car. The old Nair had surfaced briefly, and Victor felt both affection and gratitude; he couldn’t have wished for anyone else to be by his side at this difficult time.

  Press cars followed his right to his home. The road outside and the lawns were full of mourners. Liveried chaprasis were bringing in wreaths to be placed on Mattoo’s body, from the Governor General, Prime Minister, cabinet ministers, heads of industrial houses. No sooner had they heard that Victor had arrived than they would come to pay their condolences—and be photographed doing so. Grief which was private to him and his family would be converted into an exercise in public relations. Valerie Bottomley stepped out of the crowd and embraced Victor. ‘You are a source of strength to everyone; I’ll leave you with your mother and daughter.’ She slipped out of the crowd and returned to her cottage. She knew she was not wanted anymore.

  Victor took off his shoes and entered the drawing room where his father’s body had been laid on the floor amidst large blocks of ice. Incense of agarbatti mingled with the scent of dying flowers. Priests seated in a corner chanted Sanskrit shlokas that few people understood, but the drone was preferable to silence. His mother sat by her husband’s head, moaning and breaking into sobs. Bharati sat next to her, weeping silently. Mattoo lay with his mouth half open and cotton swabs stuck in his nostrils. Victor sat down on the floor and took his mother and daughter in his arms. His resolve broke down and he wept like a child. Bharati looked up at him and stopped crying. She stared at him in shock. ‘Don’t cry Papi,’ she implored. ‘You scare me, Papi.’ Victor hugged her tight and promised, ‘I won’t, my child. We must all be strong. I want you to be strong too, for your Dadima.’ Both father and daughter wiped their tears. Even as they composed themselves the Governor General arrived to condole with Victor. While they met and spoke in hushed, sad tones, seven-year-old Bharati took charge. She ordered the durbaan not to allow anyone into the room without first checking with sahib. ‘My father is very tired. We must look after him,’ she said firmly to the astonished durbaan who clicked his heels, saluted the little lady and said, ‘Ji Memsahib!’

  After the mourners had left, Victor went to Valerie’s cottage. Though just a short walk from the main house, it looked forlorn with its single lit window in the night. It seemed she had been expecting him. ‘Come Victor, you could do with a stiff drink or two. I’ve also got some chicken sandwiches to share with you. I know there’ll be no food cooked in the house today.’ She poured out two large Scotch and sodas and handed him a glass. Victor could see that she had been crying. And he noticed for the first time that she was now an old woman.

  ‘He had a good innings,’ said Valerie breaking the ice. ‘And he did his family and friends well. He was very good to me.’ She brushed a tear from the corner of one eye.

  ‘He was a good father,’ responded Victor. ‘I have much to be grateful for to him.’

  They sat in silence for some time. Then Valerie spoke. ‘I expect I won’t be needed around here anymore. I think I should return to England. My parents are in their nineties and I am not getting any younger. But we’ll keep in touch, won’t we?’

  ‘Of course!’ replied Victor. ‘You’ve been like a member of the family. You have the use of the Albion Mews flat whenever you are in London. You have a handsome provident fund. And I will always be there if you need anything.’

  ‘Bless you, Victor. I am well provided for by God’s grace, your father and you. Don’t worry about me. Go and join your family. Your sisters should have arrived by now.’

  As he left, Victor said, ‘Thank you, Valerie. I know you brought happiness into my father’s life. I want you to know I’m grateful to you for that.’

  Valerie’s eyes welled up. She felt a huge weight had been lifted off her heart. ‘Thank you, Victor. God be with you always.’

  His sisters and their husbands arrived for the funeral the next morning. Preparations for the funeral began early. Mattoo’s body was bathed in water specially brought overnight from Haridwar. It was draped in white from head to foot, laid on two planks of wood and tied to them by a rope. The hearse drove in at 8.45 a.m.

  Victor watched his mother touch her unfaithful husband’s feet. The body was lifted into the hearse. She wept like a child as the hearse drove away. As it left the outer gate of the house, over fifty cars followed it on its journey to the river. There were policemen posted all along the route to halt traffic till the cortege had passed.

  There was an enormous crowd on the Yamuna’s bank: ministers of government mingled with workers from Jai Bhagwan Textiles. Hundreds of wreaths were laid on the pyre and then removed. At 11 a.m. Victor was handed a flaming torch. He went round the pyre, setting it aflame at different points. It burst into flames, the crackling of wood drowned by the drone of shlokas chanted by a choir of a dozen Brahmin priests. Victor felt a wave of panic rise in the pit of his stomach at the absolute finality of this parting. He waited for it to pass. Bharati came up to him and put her small hand in his. Then he was calm.

  A postcard from Bapu Gandhi arrived that evening: ‘Death is an integral part of life. It comes to all of us in due course of time. Do not grieve too much. Just meditate on what your father left you in his legacy and build on it. You will emerge from this stronger. In your hour of bereavement I send you, your dear mother and daughter and all other members of your family my love. Yours, Bapu.’ Victor put the card in his pocket; it would be his most cherished possession.

  A week later, Valerie Bottomley took leave of the Mattoo family. Victor and Bharati drove her to Palam Airport for the long flight to London. She would never see India again.

  Victor’s brother-in-law who was in the ICS and posted in Delhi was persuaded to move into the house with his wife and their chi
ldren to give company to and look after Victor’s mother and daughter. Victor returned to Bombay. For close to three months after he had consigned his father to the flames and then his ashes to the Ganga, he was at a loose end. He had a sense that tragedy was not done with him yet. The feeling frustrated him—it kept him from giving one hundred per cent to his work. He decided to take a break and went on a long cruise in his yacht. He was anchored near Goa when the news reached him. He had lost his second father: Bapu had been assassinated. He was devastated. What kind of savage race did he belong to which killed its own saintly father? He did not know who to turn to for solace. He felt being on a luxury yacht off the coast of Goa was not the right place to be at the time. He returned to Bombay and after a day attending a condolence meeting called by his staff, flew to Delhi to be with his mother. She was in a state of shock. She held her frail head in her hands and kept repeating, ‘It is kalyug (the dark age). People are killing their own fathers! Who knows when they will come for us. Look after yourself, beta. These are bad times.’