by Sharon Maas
Nat was so sensitive, which was what distinguished him from every other man in London. Most men thought tears were weak and effeminate, but Nat was not ashamed to weep for love, to let his heart overflow when he was so deeply moved he could no longer contain his tears, and this was the essence of his manliness: that he allowed his gentleness to show, and there was not a woman alive who despised him for this, for every woman knows in her heart that true strength is always gentle. So Kathy cried with him now, and their tears mingled as he took her in his arms in gratitude, and they worshipped one another till the morning came.
25
Chapter Twenty-five
Saroj
Georgetown, 1964-1966
Saroj's short flirtation with freedom was over, but between her and Ma grew a bond of silent understanding. They never again referred to their conversation; but Saroj knew. It was as if Ma had lifted her up and placed her on her wing, where she sat while Ma flew through a dark sky, not knowing where she was going, not asking, but only trusting. Knowing that Ma would never let her down. Not ever.
Saroj no longer wanted the shallow freedom Trixie had offered, the temporary, illusory freedom of riding around town chasing and being chased by boys, following each fleeting impulse regardless of its long-term consequences. The fluttery flight of a hen within a coop! The coop itself must go.
True freedom lay in education.
O Levels would be in two years. Saroj determined to work so hard, to gain such excellence, that Baba would allow her to stay in school and work even harder for her A Levels. And then she would win the scholarship. And then Baba would send her to England. He'd have to. What a scandal if she won that scholarship, the best girl in the whole country, and he refused to let her take it! All the politicians in the country would rise up against him, and all the women, including Trixie's mother and the Minister of Education who was also a woman. It was a tangible, attainable goal, easily with her grasp.
So she would go to England. She would leave this mess behind and start a new life in a new country, really free. She immersed herself in books. She aimed at excellence, and swore off fun.
'All work and no play makes Jill a dull girl,' Trixie grumbled. 'I miss you, Saroj!' But Saroj didn't care. All work and no play was her password to freedom. She'd be much more dull as the Ghosh boy's wife.
'But it's such a waste! All you have to do is snap your fingers . . . the cutest boys around . . . only the other day Brian van Sertima asked me where you were hiding, and...'
Brian van Sertima was the lead guitarist and singer of the most popular band, The Alleycats. Saroj had danced with him at Julie Chan's fete. He had pressed his groin against her. She wrinkled her nose.
'I don't like his deodorant.'
The rumour spread around town, and returned to Saroj via Trixie, that she was the biggest stuck-up snob in the country, and frigid too.
‘Sour grapes!' Saroj replied. But she knew they were right. She was a stuck-up snob. She couldn't stand those fawning, drivelling boys. She didn't want them touching her. The thought of their lips on hers repelled her. Her reputed beauty was, to her, a handicap. The attention it attracted reduced males to a horde of panting dogs worrying a bitch in heat, except that she wasn't a bitch in heat. If refusing such base attentions meant she was frigid, then that was no insult.
'One look at your face and they're reduced to jelly,' said Trixie. Saroj snorted in disgust.
'Boys are so stupid, like slobbering puppies. Ugh! Disgusting! I don't mind being a snob if it keeps that idiot-pack away.'
But she and Trixie remained friends, for what bound them was deeper than boys and books. They sat up in the tower, played music on the cassette-recorder Ganesh had given Saroj, and talked the hours away.
Saroj's attempted suicide had shocked Trixie too, and her life, like Saroj's, took a new turn. Trixie had been the undisputed leader in the days of fun and freedom. Now Saroj was the authority. Trixie confided in her her fear of failing all her O Levels except art, her anxiety at her mother's reaction, and the mess her life would be in failure.
'I'll have to get a job, but what kind of a job can I get without O's? Or else stay at school to repeat them and that would be awful without you and with all those babies laughing at me — but I haven't a hope, Saroj, not a hope!'
So Saroj volunteered to help her with maths. Almost immediately her marks and Saroj's reputation improved. The friends she'd neglected turned back to her, asking for help, and soon Saroj found herself giving lessons in maths, physics, biology, chemistry, French and geography. Everything, in fact, except for art, music and sport.
'It all sounds so easy when you explain things,' Trixie said glumly, 'but the moment I'm back in school — wham! Miss Abrams with her droning voice explaining theorems and such, it's just all so boring! So I sit and stare out the window. Or draw things in my exercise book. Yesterday I drew Miss Abrams and she recognised herself.'
Trixie grinned her old boyish grin which never seemed far from the surface. She put on a high squeaky voice in imitation of Miss Abrams.
'Trixie Macintosh, go and stand in the corridor! You should exercise your artistic talent at the right time and in the right place!'
'Perhaps she's right!' was all Saroj said. Trixie seemed not to hear.
'And I can't stand Mummy telling me to follow your example,' she continued. 'She's always saying how much she used to be like you, and how she almost won the British Guiana Scholarship and how I'm going to be a failure. I wish Daddy was here. If he were I'd go and live with him. But he hasn't sent for me since he got married, and now he has two boys — forget it!'
'Why don't you just ask him if you can come?'
'Fat chance. I've been begging Mum for years to send me and all she says is, d'you think your father wants you? And then she said, work hard and get your A Levels and then you can go to university with my blessing. I'm not sending you to London to work in a fish and chip shop and go to the dogs and blah blah blah. But, Saroj, I don't want to work in a fish and chip shop. Why can't I go to art school? Daddy'd understand if he hadn't married that white lady. She's all rich and snooty.'
And Trixie was still madly in love with Ganesh — more so than ever before.
'The only reason for staying here I could think of would be to marry Ganesh!' she said boldly. Saroj stared.
'Marry Ganesh? But Trix, he's .. .'
'Okay, okay, don't scream, you needn't rub it in. Ganesh has never even seen me properly.'
She glared at Saroj as if she were responsible for her brother's indifference. 'I think he has a girlfriend. He does, doesn't he? I know you don't tell me everything so as not to hurt me but I know he does, I saw him hanging around at Esso Joe talking to her… he didn't even notice me. And I'm fifteen going on sixteen so it's not as if I'm too young! I bet it's because I'm black.'
'Trix!'
'No, don't protest, Saroj, I just know it. One feels these things. Your Baba hates blacks so Ganesh must too, secretly. You never see an Indian marrying a black. Never.'
'Trix, don't be silly, Gan's just like me, he just doesn't think that way! Girl, so many boys like you, why can't you —'
'I've tried, Saroj, I really have! I've tried so hard to fall in love with someone else. But even when I went out with Derek I kept hoping we'd run into Ganesh and make him jealous. Make him realise that he loves me and that he'd better make a move before it's too late. And at the end of this year Ganesh is going to England and then I'll lose him for ever. But not if I go to England myself, except Mummy won't send me and Daddy doesn't want me so what am I to do with my life? I'll never get married, I'm quite sure of it. I'm going to be an old maid like Aunt Amy.'
Saroj wanted to tell her she'd give anything for such a destiny. But Trixie looked so depressed she held her tongue. She had the feeling Trixie would rather marry the Ghosh boy than not marry at all.
On 26 May 1966 British Guiana gained independence from Britain, becoming Guyana, under the leadership of the African Forbes Burnham. Bl
ack Power hit Guyana like a tidal wave, sweeping half the population along with it, and Trixie in its wake. Trixie, non-political to the core, might have stayed outside the current if she had not fallen desperately, temporarily, in love with Stokely Carmichael when her mother dragged her along to a talk at the university.
'You must meet him, Saroj, you must! Imagine, I shook hands with him! And with Miriam Makeba! I can't believe it! I'll never wash my hands again! Mum's so pleased, she's arranged for me to go to a private party of one of her friends and he'll be there, she thinks I'm getting a political conscience! You must come, I'll get you an invitation. Just wait.'
'Trixie, no. I can't. Don't you understand? I can't!'
'But why not?'
There was no answer to that. Didn't she get it? Couldn't she see? Was she so blind? Didn't she realise that this movement threatened to tear them apart? That one day she would have to take sides?
And which side would she take? For Africans were not only anti-white; they were anti-Indian. Adamantly, ferociously so. More than ever. When push came to shove what would be Trixie's choice: her people, or her friendship?
'Your mind is so mathematical, Saroj. So cool and calculating. Loosen up a bit! What you need is a bit of romance. Mark my words: one day a prince on a white steed will ride up and sing a serenade at the bottom of this tower and you'll let down your long black hair, which by then will be down to the bottom of the tower, and he'll climb up and clasp you to his broad hairy chest and your bosom will be heaving with desire, and then you'll have this long passionate kiss, the sky will turn red and the curtains will close.'
Saroj had to laugh. 'Oh Trix, you live in a dream world.'
'Yes, and I like it there! Because there Gan loves me back!'
'And what about Stokely Carmichael?'
'Oh, him! He's married and much too old and anyway, he's gone. Ganesh is my first and final love. If he'd been mine I wouldn't have even glanced at Stokely. But all I have of him are dreams. And where's the photo of him you promised?'
Saroj groaned. 'I'll have to steal one from the family album and Ma'll notice.'
'Just get it for me and I'll have it reproduced and she won't notice a thing. Go and get the album, Saroj. You promised! If I can't have him in the flesh at least I can swoon over his photo.'
Saroj groaned, but finally stood up to fetch the family photo album. It was the rainy season, and she and Trixie, up in the tower, sat as if enclosed in a bubble in the middle of the ocean. Rain sluiced from the drenched heavens in a solid sheet and pounded on the slate roof, like thunder. Looking out at the sky of water Saroj was transported back to her childhood, when Ganesh and she would run screaming through the wetness in the back yard, up the kitchen steps dripping wet and laughing, tear off their soggy clothes and throw them in a heap on the bathroom floor, wrap themselves in sheets and cuddle into Ma's arms . . . if Baba wasn't home.
She brought the album and a sheet and squatted down beside Trixie. They had made a home of the tower by now; bought a little Indian carpet from Mr Gupta to cover the bare floorboards, hammered in lopsided shelves for Saroj's school books and Trixie's novels, hung an extension cord down the stairs to a plug in Saroj's room, so they could play the cassette-recorder.
Saroj wrapped the sheet around them both, for it was chilly and their bare brown arms were rough with gooseflesh. She drew up her knees, leaned the album against them, and opened it. She hadn't looked at it for a long time. She hated photos of herself because she always looked so stiff and corny in Indian clothes, so usually she threw a glance at the latest family picture and that was it. And now, looking through the album with Trixie, she saw the photos through another's eyes and it seemed to Saroj they were stiffer and cornier than ever. The only one of them who looked consistently good was Ganesh, who always had this funny grin across his face and liked to strike a pose.
But in the earlier pictures it was different. There, even Baba looked good. Like Ganesh. Youthful, boyish and handsome. It seemed to Saroj that things changed after her own birth. Baba's face grew progressively sour from photo to photo, Ma's progressively serious, as if she herself had somehow brought bitterness into the family. And there were some things she knew vaguely, which were now confirmed — that before she was born they used to go to Trinidad for a holiday every July to stay at the beach house of an uncle who had settled there. Ganesh's birthday fell in July, and four of those photos were taken on the beach. She was not in any of them; and yet, she was born in Trinidad. Why hadn't they ever returned?
Saroj and Trixie sat looking at this last beach photo, when Ganesh was two and Indrani four, and they were all together, a small, happy Indian family. Just Ma, Baba, Indrani and Ganesh. No Saroj. Ganesh had made an enormous sandcastle, like a wedding cake, and was naked, and Ma wore a sari which was completely wet. Ma was smiling almost blissfully, her hand in Indrani's, and so was Baba, who kneeled beside Ganesh with a proud hand on the boy's head.
Saroj reached out for the album, held it up and squinted at this photo. There was something strange about it, something wrong. But she couldn't for the life of her figure out what.
The next strange thing happened the very next week. They were up in the tower, and Ma as usual was out at the Purushottama Temple.
The telephone rang. It was a nurse from Dr Lachmansingh's maternity home where most Roy women went with their medical problems and to have their babies.
Indrani had just arrived, they told Saroj, and was about to give birth prematurely, and was asking for Ma. Saroj grabbed Trixie's bike and tore down the street towards Brickdam, to pry Ma away from her prayers or her kirtan.
She walked past the watchmen who were always posted here nowadays, entered the temple grounds and approached the first person she recognised, who happened to be Mr Venkataraman from the Robb Street jewellery shop. She asked for Ma, for Mrs Roy, and was passed along from this person to the next till she came to a pundit in a white dhoti, who said crisply, Mrs Roy is not here.
'But she must be!' Saroj said. 'Listen, it's terribly important, her daughter is in hospital and needs her!'
The pundit called someone else who called someone else and a lady in a yellow sari came and they all discussed the matter. Then the lady in the yellow sari went to look for Ma and the pundit told Saroj to sit down in a chair in the corridor, which she did. She waited and waited and after a while yellow-sari returned and said, 'I'm very sorry, Mrs Roy is not available.'
'Not available? You mean she won't come?'
'No. Mrs Roy is not here at the present moment.'
'But she's been here since three o'clock, she always comes here!'
'Apparently she attended three-o'clock Shiva puja and then she left again. Mrs Roy never spends much time here.'
'Never spends — but she always comes on Wednesdays and Fridays!'
'She usually just drops in for puja and then leaves again.'
'Are you quite sure?'
'Most certainly. We have looked for her everywhere and the watchman saw her leaving at around three thirty.'
'Do you know where she went? It's very important.'
'How would we know where Mrs Roy has gone? It's not our business. Now, if you would please excuse.'
Yellow-sari touched the tips of her fingers together and turned her back.
Ma arrived home at around six. Saroj told her about Indrani, who by this time had given birth to a premature son.
'You weren't at the temple,' Saroj said accusingly.
'I know,' said Ma calmly. Saroj waited for Ma's explanation. None came. She packed a basket and left for Dr Lachmansingh's maternity home.
26
Chapter Twenty-six
Savitri
Madras, 1934
That was a glorious season. Savitri and David met each afternoon in the tree-house, and no-one knew but them. Both glowed, both grew beautiful with happiness and love, with hope for the future which could only be better and confidence that their love would conquer. David charmed Savitri into putting asid
e the reality which was Ramsurat Shankar for the Elysium of now, so that only the now, this love, this joy, seemed real, and the spectre of marriage to another faded like morning mist. She wanted to believe, and so she let herself be charmed, allowed herself to believe. David, accustomed to having his way, could not imagine a world where his will was not final. They dreamed on.
Iyer and his wife saw Savitri's love in the radiance of her countenance and the light in her eyes, in the lightness of her being. But they shut their eyes trusting that destiny would chart her course and sort things out; and where the young master was concerned, how dare they speak up? And was he not returning to England at the end of the season? Iyer hunched his shoulders and his wife drew her sari tighter around her shoulders and gave Savitri more tasks. They spoke more and more often of the bridegroom, and the wedding. But Savitri was not listening.
Mrs Lindsay was proud of her son, and with reason. She relished the comments of her friends on his dashing good looks, his charm, his quick intelligence. If David had once, as a child, been an outsider among his peers; now he was the opposite. Young people, the cream of the next Madras generation of English society, up-and-coming, bold and self-assured, sought him out and wanted him among them. But David held himself apart, and they could not understand. The world lay at their feet, and always had, and though there were rumblings among the Indians, and this Mr Gandhi was stirring them up and making trouble, why, the English were here and always would be here, and all this talk of Independence was nothing but rot. It would all pass away, including this Mr Hitler in Germany. They were English, they lived in peaceful pockets of paradise amidst a turbulent world, they were confident that nothing would ever shake that world, and if only David, the most attractive young Englishman in town, would even look at one or two of the prettier girls, all would be well.