by Sharon Maas
Scissors in hand, she stood before Ma's mirror and held up her plait. Before she could think a further thought crunched through it. There. It was gone. Ma’s pride and joy. After that it was easy. She cut it off as near to her head as possible, not measuring but just cutting, blindly, plunging the scissor blades into the black thicket Ma had tended for hours and hours of her life, letting it all fall to the floor around her. Tears stung her eyes but she paid no heed, grabbing now at the last handfuls of hair and ruthlessly snipping them off, throwing them to the floor in disgust, watching herself in the mirror through the stinging mist of threatening tears as she worked.
It was a lot of hair. And it lay there in a deep, dead pile of worthless silk. She threw the scissors onto the pile, opened Ma's top drawer where hairpins, clips, rubber bands, ribbons, jayal sticks, and other whatnots were neatly organised in little throat-drop tins. She selected a thick black stick of kohl and wrote across the mirror: LIAR!
Leaving the drawer open and the kohl stick lying on the vanity, she picked up the pillow-case and ran down the stairs. The postman had come in her absence, for a thick blue airmail letter with strange bright stamps lay on the floor before the door. It wouldn't be for her; probably Baba's relatives from Bengal. Saroj opened the door, slipped out, locked it, replaced Ganesh's key, went out of the gate, and down the avenue to Lamaha Street. She looked at her watch. Ma would just be arriving at the hospital.
At the bus stop around the corner she stopped and looked at her watch again. It was lunchtime. Trixie would be joining her mother at one of the restaurants in town before afternoon school began. She'd have to wait. It might take some time before Trixie came home but it didn't matter. She'd just sit on the back steps (she should have gone to Ma's kitchen and taken some food; too late now) and enjoy her freedom. She had all the time in the world; the rest of her life, in fact.
'Christ, Saroj, where's your hair? Dammit, what've you done? Your hair! You look terrible! Oh my Gawd!'
Trixie was in a terrible panic and Saroj just stood there smiling as she ran up, turned her this way and that, grabbed what was left of her hair and finally, realising that it was true, it was all irrevocably gone, collapsed in a heap on the front stairs.
'Why'd you do it?' she said flatly.
'Because it's all over. I've finished with them. I've left home. I've done it, Trixie, I've left them. I want to stay here, with you. You said I could.'
'You shouldn't have done it. Not cut off your beautiful hair.'
'I had to. I'll explain once you let me in the house and fill up the hole in my belly, I'm famished, been waiting here since lunchtime.'
'Come on then.' Trixie took her school bag from the bicycle carrier and walked up the stairs, Saroj close on her heels. Before turning the key she looked at Saroj again and moaned, 'Christ, Saroj, I can't believe it, I mean I just can't believe you really did that. That hair! Your lovely, lovely hair. You look a mess, a disaster. Nobody'll ever look twice at you again.'
'And what do I care?' Saroj snarled, following her into the house. 'I'm sick and tired of being looked at. What's a lump of hair? Just hair, that's all. Hair. Fibres. My God, the way people make a fuss over a few feet of dead fibres. Look at me, Trixie, I'm here, I'm alive!'
Trixie plonked her satchel down on a dining room chair and snorted.
'That's what you say now. Anyway, no use crying over spilled milk, it's done and it's a shame but it won't come back. C'mon. What'd you like?' She led the way into the kitchen, opened the Kelvinator and poked her head in. 'Not much here. Bread and cheese. Shall I make you a Welsh rarebit? Oh, and there's some old soup. From Wednesday, I think. Callalou. Mabel made it.'
She took out a small pot, opened the lid and sniffed at it. 'Should be good still. Shall I warm it up?'
Saroj thought nostalgically of Ma's samosas, her bhindi bharva, stuffed okras, the exquisite scents wafting from her kitchen at all hours of the day, the fridge constantly brimming over with delicacies. Hard times for her palate lay ahead; but it was a price she was willing to pay. Nothing comes cheap, Ma always said. The good things in life call for sacrifice. Give your all to get your all.
Okay, Ma, I'm ready.
'Don't bother. Just some bread and cheese.'
The bread was pre-sliced and stored in a plastic bag. Because the outer slice was hard Trixie removed it and placed the rest of the loaf on a breadboard. She took a lump of cheddar from the fridge. She cut off a slice of mould, threw that away and gave Saroj the rest. A plastic butter-dish followed. She took two Jus-ees from the fridge, plonked two glasses on the kitchen table and sat down beside Saroj before prising the lids off the drinks.
Digging away at the cork inside the Jus-ee crowns with a knife, Trixie forgot Saroj and her hair.
'Einstein,' she said. 'That's the last of my scientists. Let's see what's here.' She dug at the second crown and threw it away in disgust. 'Lord Byron. Shit. That's the third Lord Byron. I still need Jane Austen and Wordsworth. And I haven't got a single American president! Hey, doesn't your family make these drinks? Can't you get hold of the right crowns for me?'
Jus-ee drinks was running a 'Famous People of the World' competition: in all of its crowns there was a famous person in six different categories; you stuck them into a special album and the winner would get a lady's or a gent's Suzuki. That was the kind of thing Trixie got to do and Saroj, till now, couldn't. Ma usually didn't stock Jus-ee at home, even though they were manufactured by a Roy. Ma made all their drinks, except at birthdays and weddings. They might taste better than Jus-ee but weren't half as much fun. And you couldn't win anything.
'I'm going to start collecting from now on,' Saroj declared. 'You can give me that Byron. He's my first.'
And then she told Trixie her story.
Trixie shook her head in disbelief. 'You're the weirdest person I ever knew,' she said. 'You mean, you're leaving home just because your Ma had an affair and you discovered your Baba isn't your Baba? And all the time they were marrying you off you didn't run away? Now that's a good reason to leave — what happened about that Ghosh boy, by the way? — But your Ma having an affair? I think it's exciting! Romantic! So that's where she was when she was supposed to be at the temple! You know, I had a feeling back then, but I didn't say anything. Shows your Ma's got guts. If I were you I'd be dying to find out who's my real father. I wouldn't run away, I'd gang up with my Ma and get her talking. Who d'you think it is ?'
'I don't know and I couldn't care less. You just don't get the point. Ma 's always going on about purity and truth and she can't…'
'But she did, silly! You've got the proof, I just don't get why you're so uptight. This just goes to prove that she's not all different like you say, not the saint you were always making out she is, she's just, well, she's normal, she's like everyone else! Lots of married people have affairs. How many married men do you think raise kids from other men in all innocence? Hundreds — thousands, I bet!'
'And I think you read too much True Confessions behind your mother's back. I don't know how someone with your brains could read such absolute drivel and then believe it, and anyway, what counts for the rest of the world doesn't count for Indians, they're different, Ma is different, I tell you. Her doing a thing like that is like if… like if the sun began rising in the west and setting in the east! It's just unimaginable, and if she did do it, which is obvious, then everything she ever said and did is just one huge lie! She’s a hypocrite; that’s what bothers me. And apart from that she let me believe that monster is my father, that Deodat Roy!'
'You should at least give her a chance to explain everything! I mean, what if she's desperately in love with someone else? I once read a novel about a married lady — I was sobbing for days afterwards, so I think you should at least talk to your mother and find out what really happened, and keep her secret, because if your Baba ever finds out she had an affair he'll... Christ, I can't even imagine what he'll do! Think he'll throw her out, or what? Divorce her?'
In fact Saroj had
n't given even the slightest thought to Baba's reaction. For obvious reasons he didn't know Ma had been unfaithful and if he did find out, if he began to ask questions because of what Saroj had written on the mirror, there was no telling what he'd do to Ma. What if he killed her in his rage?
But no. Ma would be home long before Baba and she'd certainly remove the evidence, that message on the mirror. All Ma would have to tell him was that Saroj had cut off her hair and run away. Baba would believe it was because of the Ghosh boy. If Ma had any sense — and she must have sense if she'd managed to keep this love affair a secret for so long — she'd manage it. She was underhand enough. A sly, conniving bitch.
What if Dr Lachmansingh talked? He might consider it his duty, men among men, and so on. Well, that was Ma's own doing; she'd trusted Dr Lachmansingh with her secret so if he spilled the beans to Baba, then it wasn't Saroj's fault. And she, Saroj, certainly wouldn't be talking to Baba, and neither Trixie nor her mother would ever snitch. So Ma could keep her dirty little secret.
35
Chapter Thirty-five
Savitri
Somewhere in Rural Madras State, 1938-1939
Savitri's son Ganesan was born on the day Great Britain and France declared war on Germany. An inauspicious sign? Many other things had happened in the year leading up to that birth.
R. S. Ayyar seemed, after Anand's death, stricken with genuine compunction, perhaps even remorse, perhaps only fear of bad karma. That was the last time he beat her. The rape stopped too, for the most part, but that was more or less involuntary. For his drinking increased, and when he came home drunk at night he could do little more than collapse on a heap on the mat.
A month after the 'incident' — as he chose to call it — Ayyar suggested that Savitri return to Madras for a while to visit her relatives. With mixed feelings, then, she wrote to Gopal in Bombay to come and get her. She longed to relive the good things of the past, but, of course, most of those were gone forever. David was gone, and Fairwinds. Mrs Lindsay too was gone; Appa had died two years ago, and all that remained of the people who had brought her joy was her brother Gopal and Amma.
Mani was now head of the Iyer household — what was left of it, which was only Amma, and she herself was ill and dying. Mani's illness, too, had worsened — often he coughed into the night. He did not earn much money since leaving the army — he was now a salesman in a shop for electrical appliances, in downtown Madras — and the home Savitri found waiting for her was in no way the place she remembered. They still lived on Old Market Street; but on the other side, and further down, near the bazaar, in the crowded, loud, dirtier section, and instead of a garden and a huge estate behind the house there was only a paved court with a well in the middle, which they shared with two squabbling families.
Mani was gone most of the day but when he was home she knew he hated her still, and she did not know why. Gopal took a week's holiday to be with her in Madras, and between them a new depth of understanding grew. Gopal now wore Western clothes — dark long trousers, and long-sleeved shirts with a chequered or striped pattern, which he combined with leather chappals. He was handsome in a film-star way, with a thin moustache and slicked back hair. He was still at odds with his family and lived with a cameraman friend from a Madrasi studio, but came daily to pick up his sister and take her out. With Savitri side-saddle behind him on a borrowed motor-scooter he cut a dashing figure, and the two of them turned heads wherever they went.
Gopal had won a contract with a film production company in Bombay. His first novel, Ocean of Tears, had been published, and had been a great success with middle- and upper-class Indian housewives. He had been 'discovered' by the rapidly developing Indian film industry, and had developed a screenplay from the novel. In the process the studio had discovered his great talent for directing. The film was bound to be a hit. He told Savitri the story with much enthusiasm: it was a tragedy, the story of twins, violently separated from each other and from their mother at birth, and finally reunited at their mother's death-bed in a dramatic, tear-jerking climax. He had thousands of ideas for further screenplays, and stood, it seemed, on the verge of fame and prosperity.
Proudly he introduced Savitri to the fabulous fantasy world of film, to be discovered sitting in the very best seats at the Wellington Talkies on Mount Road. It was the first time Savitri had been to the cinema. She watched fascinated the story unravelling before her, the story of a beautiful heroine facing untold dangers, heart-wrenching sorrows and a ruthless villain until finally rescued by the miraculous hand of God and a brave and handsome hero, and everything ended happily.
But it is not so in real life, Savitri said to herself. In real life there is no end to the sorrows, and all we can do is learn to bear them bravely and patiently, that we may leave this world of misery worthy of bliss in the afterlife.
They went to the beach and walked along the sand together, wading on at the water's edge, in silence, each lost in memories. The water was tepid, washing forward in gentle sheets over their bare feet, and pulling back again. Savitri's sari, a fine pink one, quite new, which Gopal had bought for her, was wet up to her knees. Oh, the wideness, the greatness, the grandeur, she thought, and her heart stretched out and beyond the horizon. If I reach out far enough, over the ocean, all around the curve of the globe, then I will meet him. Maybe right now, at just this minute, he is also reaching out to me. I will never forget him. I will never forget running into this very same ocean with him, and laughing with joy, our hearts full to bursting! Whatever happens, that is always there! I will never forget, for he is the air I breathe!
Gopal interrupted her thoughts. 'Savitri, can you keep a secret?' he said.
She looked up at him. 'A secret? But of course, Gopal, you know I can! What is it?'
'I have a wife in Bombay!'
'A wife! Gopal, you are secretly married?' Savitri exclaimed, in Tamil.
Gopal replied darkly lowering his voice. 'You must keep this secret, Savitri. I have married Fiona!'
'Fiona!' cried Savitri. 'I thought Fiona was…’
'No. Fiona came to me, her only refuge, and her one true love. We were lovers over the years even after our thwarted elopement. We used to meet secretly at the home of a modern-minded actor friend in Madras, till tragedy struck in the shape of my very own brother.'
He paused. Savitri looked up at his profile and saw a pulse beating at his temple. She waited for him to continue.
'I never stopped loving Fiona,' Gopal said then. 'That is why I never married another. I still loved her, in spite of the great shame our own brother brought on her.' Savitri looked up at him sharply, but the words were flowing fast now and he could not stop them.
'Mani raped her. My own brother.'
'Gopal! Wasn't it proven that Mani wasn't…?'
Gopal stepped away from her and clasped a hand to his heart dramatically. 'Oh, what do I care about proof! Even if his was not the male organ that sullied her, still it was his command that the deed was done. Of course it was! Who else! He was too clever for the authorities and got his cronies to do the dirty work. But he was getting even at us both, at you and me. He even so much as admitted it to me. Your little English harlot, he said to me smirking. She deserved no better for whoring around.'
'So he knew about you and her?'
'He knew everything. Mani has spies all over Madras. He knows what all the English are doing everywhere. He hates them and he hates us.'
'But why, Gopal, why? Why does he hate the English, and the two of us, his own brother and sister? He has always hated me especially, even before I ran away with David. Why, Gopal? What did I ever do to him?'
'Ha!' said Gopal. 'You don't know that? Well, little sister, I'll tell you. He hates the English because they took his mother away from him. Because his mother had to obey them and desert him, and go and live in the big house and give suckle to an English boy. He hates you because you were the cause of it all; you put the milk in Amma's breasts, you were with her in the big house and n
ot he. That is the simple reason. He hated you the moment you were born, but you were too young to know. I knew. I saw it in his eyes. And I saw in his eyes how he hated me, when I joined Mr Baldwin's class. And now his heart is black with hate, Savitri. And I fear there will be worse, if we are not careful.'
'No. He has had his revenge. He has torn me from David and sent me into hell, and he has driven Mrs Lindsay away who was so kind to us and he has ruined Fiona's life. What can be worse than that?'
'Who knows, Savitri? Our brother has the devil in his heart. Beware.'
But Savitri only shook her head and smiled to herself. Gopal sounds like one of those film heroes, she thought. The cinema has taken hold of him. He has seen too many Talkies. He is being melodramatic. Mani has done his worst. He has given me in marriage to Ayyar. I have lost David, and my daughters and my son. Mani has had his revenge.
36
Chapter Thirty-six
Nat
Madras City; A Bus Ride into Nowhere; A Village in Madras State, 1969
Nat and Henry had to wade through black, stinking water at Parry's Corner to get to their bus. They had bought umbrellas and raincoats and large plastic sheets; they had wrapped up their luggage in plastic, they had taken off their shoes and wore shorts and the water was far above their ankles. All of Madras was under siege. Rain fell in one solid sheet of water. Traffic was reduced to a trickle and it had seemed a miracle to even find a rickshaw willing to take them to the bus station.
They hauled themselves into the 122 bus. It was already full, but on the back seat the Indians pressed together to make room for them and they squeezed in, and very soon after that the bus rolled off.