Burial at Sea
Page 13
‘Perhaps.’ They both knew this was impractical.
A great sadness came over Victor. He pulled Durgeshwari to him and held her close. ‘You will give me a few days, won’t you? Bring Sheroo here. Just a few weeks. Make that your farewell gift to me.’
Durgeshwari put her arms around his neck. They sat in silence for a long time. Neither had expected their unusual love story to end in this manner. Ma Durgeshwari was surprised by the tears in her eyes. After a while she turned to Victor. ‘I think Bharati should know. I’d like to tell her myself.’
~
Bharati had suspected for long that the relationship between her father and Durgeshwari was not exactly that of a guru and a disciple. At first it had bothered her, for she was extremely possessive about her Papi. But she later came to terms with it as she realized that Durgeshwari made her father very happy. Victor, on his part, was careful not to upset his precious daughter, and always made it a point to spend time with her so that she wouldn’t feel jealous or neglected in any way.
Ma Durgeshwari decided to speak to Bharati the very day she told Victor that she would leave him. She went to Bharati’s office in Jai Bhagwan Towers late in the evening. Most of the staff had left by then. She shut the door behind her. Bharati sat across the table, facing her.
‘I have something to tell you, Bharati,’ Durgeshwari began. ‘I’m pregnant. It’s your father’s child.’ She watched Bharati’s face for any reaction. Bharati stared back impassively. She didn’t say a word.
‘Neither of us wanted this child, Bharati,’ Durgeshwari continued. ‘There’s nothing to be done now. I cannot commit jeev hatya.’
‘Don’t be melodramatic,’ Bharati replied icily. ‘That won’t be necessary.’
‘I am planning to go away for a while. I shall have the baby and leave it where it will be cared for.’
Bharati interrupted: ‘All I want is a guarantee that my father will never know where you leave the child. The press should never find out—absolutely no one must ever know. You must promise me that.’
Ma Durgeshwari said softly, ‘You have my word. Your father cannot afford a scandal. You need not worry. I love him, you know.’
The meeting ended with the understanding that after a couple of weeks in Bombay with Sheroo, Ma Durgeshwari would return to her ashram for good. Bharati also insisted that the ashram be shifted to some other part of the country as soon as possible. She would bear the expense.
14
* * *
The 9th of June is an important date in the calendar of Bombayites. That day they expect the summer monsoons to break over their city. They watch the storm gauge at the base of Walkeshwar Road near the entrance of the Babul Nath temple to keep abreast of weather conditions. People get ready for the onset: On Chowpatty Sands bhelpuri sellers, fruit juice makers and paanwalas begin to move their stalls and gas lamps to their homes for safekeeping. At the Churchgate end hawkers appear on the sidewalks, selling gumboots and umbrellas. Coconut sellers disappear; their places are taken by sellers of chana and corn on the cob. Waters of the bay turn restless, fishing boats are towed away to safe moorings. During Victor’s lifetime, the last boat to disappear wasJal Bharati, whose silver-white presence on the dirty grey sea assured people that there was still some time for the monsoon to set in.
Black clouds roll in suddenly from the south-western horizon. They may be seen on the 3rd of June or the 7th or the 10th, but the 9th is the date fixed in people’s minds. They may announce their arrival with lightning followed by claps of thunder. Or silently spread themselves across the sky and send down a gentle drizzle, before they open up their water sacks into a downpour. People rejoice; the sea loses its torpor. Angry waves build up in the bay and come surging towards the shore. They are checked by large cement tripods put up to halt their progress. They hurl themselves against the tripods; their spray rises many feet and splashes across Marine Drive drenching anyone or anything passing along it. Walkers disappear. Roads turn to rivers of muddy water. There are traffic jams all over the city’s congested roads. For some days life in Bombay comes to a standstill.
Every year Victor looked forward to the advent of the monsoon in Bombay. But no sooner had it arrived than he began to tire of the incessant downpour. He had to stay in his penthouse. The only exercise he could take were yoga asanas. He did not have the same enthusiasm to make love to Durgeshwari. It was the same with Bharati and Swamiji: a lot of yoga but little appetite for anything else. And Sheroo became very grumpy. He ate well but had little exercise and farted a lot. Twice a day Ma Durgeshwari put on a raincoat and took him for a walk. He did not like being drenched and pleaded with his Ma to take him back. Then he stretched himself out on a sofa and snored.
However boring the monsoon made life in Bombay, Victor never missed his after-dinner walk on Marine Drive. Clad in a light raincoat and with an umbrella over his head he walked up to the Church Gate intersection and back. There were few people on the road. Later in the monsoon young Maratha boys appeared from nowhere, tied bells on their ankles and formed a ring holding each other around the waist. Then they danced in circles:chhung, chung, chhung. They rehearsed every night for the Gudi Padva festival in honour of Shri Ganesha when they would dance through the streets, leading processions carrying garishly painted idols of Ganapati to immerse in the sea now back to its pre-monsoon calm.
The year Durgeshwari decided to leave him, the monsoon was particularly depressing for Victor. The dark clouds and cool breeze filled him with great longing and greater sadness. He began to feel old again. They did not make love. Though he had wanted her to stay for a few weeks with him before the final farewell, he found he was less unhappy when he was away from her. He spent his days in the office or being driven around the city in his car. In the evenings he had more than his regular quota of two drinks and went to bed early. He waited impatiently for the monsoon to end so he could get on his yacht again.
The monsoon departs with greater fanfare than at its arrival. There are huge bulbous clouds but they are waterless and white, not nimbus grey. They often run into each other with flashes of lightning followed by thunder. In the evening they catch the fire of the setting sun and light up the sky with an orange glow. But people know it is more noise and bluster without much rainy business. On Chowpatty Sands bhelpuri, paan, fruit juice and ice cream stalls are re-erected. Around Churchgate station, gum boots and umbrella sellers disappear. Sea waves no longer crash on tripods with the same fury nor spray Marine Drive with saline water. Fishing boats appear in the bay. In those long ago years the silver-whiteJal Bharatireappeared in the sea soon after the fishing boats and the sight reassured Bombayites that the annadaata, the food provider, of thousands of families all over the country was still among them.
Victor was eager that year to leave his apartment and be on his yacht. He got daily reports from the dry docks of the work being done on it. When he was assured the yacht was as good and seaworthy as it was when he had acquired it, he had provisions sent aboard to last him at least a month. He announced his decision to his daughter, Ma Durgeshwari and Swamiji; he intended to be by himself for some time. He would leave on Saturday evening.
At 5 p.m. Victor left Jai Bhagwan Towers for the Gateway of India whereJal Bharati was moored with the gangway lowered to the steps of the gate. Marine Drive was crowded with walkers. The chauffeur turned left at the Churchgate intersection, past the High Court and University buildings, into the side road beyond the main entrance of Hotel Taj Mahal. There was a vast throng of humanity here; to Victor, impatient to escape the clamour and crowds of the big city, it seemed as if all of Bombay had spilled out onto the road. He asked the driver to pull up on the side; there was no way he could get to his yacht except by forcing his way through the crowd and through the massive Gateway, then down the steps to the gangway. Many people recognized his large Mercedes Benz. Many more recognized him as he stepped out of the car. Someone shouted out: ‘Jai Bhagwan ki’, and dozens of voices replied: ‘Jai.’ Vict
or waved a hand half-heartedly to acknowledge their acclaim; he needed to get away, out into the sea, so he could breathe again. He was a few yards from the Gateway when a volley of shots rang out. People ran in all directions, falling on each other. In the commotion, the car that had brought the killers to the scene of the crime sped away without anyone trying to stop it or taking down its number. By the time the chauffeur was able to get to his master, he was lying dead, drenched in his own blood.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Janet Ward for going over the text and saying nasty things about it. My thanks also to Ravi Singh and Diya Kar Hazra for making it readable.
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First published in Viking by Penguin Books India 2004
This collection published 2017
Copyright © Khushwant Singh 2004
The moral right of the author has been asserted
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ISBN: 978-01-4341-514-5
This digital edition published in 2017.
e-ISBN: 978-81-8475-048-5
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