by Sharon Maas
The second side-effect was that Saroj found herself arguing on the side of her mother, supporting the idea of her love affair, which was no longer reprehensible in her eyes but completely understandable now that she knew her father's identity; and, in fact, she was glad that she herself was a child of love and not of Deodat. It was only too bad that Ma had died in the interim (Saroj still felt guilt at this, for it had been her doing that the tower door had been locked at the crucial time) and that she would never have the chance to share this gladness with Ma, and, perhaps, her real father.
The third side-effect was that she concluded that between herself and Deodat there was nothing, and more than nothing. She hadn't seen him for years, and didn't wish to see him. And only on her way home did she realise that, whatever it was Ganesh had wanted to say about Deodat had been forgotten in the rush of emotions thrown up by Ma's adultery.
For a long time Saroj refused to face the fact that Deodat was ill, which was what Ganesh had tried to tell her the night of the quarrel. The following day, however, he rang to say that Deodat had suffered a heart attack, was in hospital, and would soon be discharged to live all alone in his West Norwood bedsit, where he had moved a year ago when Priya, Walter's wife, practically threw him out because, as she put it, she didn't need a crotchety old man telling her how to raise her children in this day and age, and comparing her constantly with his dead wife who, it seemed, had been absolutely perfect, a saint, and was now a goddess up in heaven.
Saroj kept her voice deliberately bland. 'What's that to do with me? He's got all of you to take care of him, hasn't he?'
'All of you' meant four sons, and their wives, if they had them; of these four, Ganesh was, in fact, the only unmarried one.
'Yes, but Priya's not going to help. And Evelyn's got her own parents living with them, and he can't move in with James because they haven't got a spare room…’
'And because I'm there. The moment he moves in, I move out.'
'Come off it, Saroj. He's changed, you know. He's just a poor old man now. I feel sorry for him, living in a crummy bedsit in West Norwood with a dragon of a landlady. And he keeps asking for you.'
'He can ask till kingdom come, as far as I'm concerned.'
'Saroj, where did you get that hard heart from? I can't believe you're Ma's daughter.'
'Leave Ma out of it, Ganesh! I mean, what can I do? I can't take Deodat in, and I'm certainly not going to go and live with him in West Norwood! And besides, he's not my father; why should I bother?'
'Don't let's start that again. For goodness' sake, he raised you, whether you're really his daughter or not, and he's the only father you're ever going to have!'
'So what should I do, be grateful and kiss his feet for his fatherly affection and loving care? Break my back shoving bed-pans under his bottom? No thanks.'
'I can't believe it's you talking like this, Saroj! Your own father ..
'He's not...'
'Yes, he is, whether you like it or not! I mean, shucks, you could just go and visit him! Just once! Think how you'd feel if he had another heart attack, a fatal one, and died without ever seeing you again! Think how you'd feel then!'
'I wouldn't feel a thing! I told you, I hate the man!'
'And you want to become a doctor? You'll make a brilliant one, no doubt. But cold as ice. No wonder they called you Ice Princess.'
'I'm not, Ganesh, I'm not! It's just where Deodat's concerned.'
'Why can't you forgive him? If you could see him! Last time I was there, I could have sworn he was crying because you don't come. Please, Saroj. Put aside your pride, and just go! Look, I'll come with you, if you like.'
But Saroj was adamant.
'He's not my father, and I've cut him from my life. He deserves all the suffering he gets.'
'Hi, Nat, what're you doing on Saturday?'
'Ganesh! Good Lord, I've been meaning to ring you for ages, but…'
'Yeah, yeah, don't tell me, too busy, studies, women, all the usual excuses. Anyway, I want you to make some time for my wedding. Next month.'
'Ganesh, I don't believe it, no! Not you! That was quick! The same girl? What's her name, some ridiculous thing, Trick, Trickie, or something . ..'
'Trixie. Yes, well, anyway, we're getting married, definitely and finally. And I want you as best man. That's why we're doing it now, before you take off for good to India.'
'I haven't even met the girl yet, and you want me as best man?'
'Oh, you'll meet her all right, at the very latest at the wedding; we should have all got together sometime. The two of us, you, Saroj... Well, never mind. It's this crazy city, that's what it is; keeps people apart. And now there's no time.'
'Hey, it just occurred to me, how come a best man? Don't tell me you're having a Christian wedding?'
'Well, the trouble is, she's got this thing about white weddings so we're getting married in some little chapel in Yorkshire. I don't know what the hell's going on, she arranged it with some New Age vicar who doesn't mind marrying a Hindu to a Christian, and it's all the same to me anyway. I've never been into religion, and if it's what she wants ... It's not going to be a big thing, just the two of us, family, close friends.'
'Talking about family, what about your father? Didn't he raise any objections to your marrying a Christian girl?'
'Well, that's another thing.'
'What's another thing?'
'My father. The thing is, he doesn't know yet. I've been trying to find a way to break it gently but I guess there is no way.'
'There isn't, Ganesh. I know your father. There's no way he'll approve of your marrying a Christian.'
‘That’s the least of my problems. It's when he sees her he's going to start pulling out his hair. She's black, remember?'
‘No, I don’t remember because you never mentioned it... No, you didn't… Well, okay, why should you? But that just goes to show we should all have met sooner…'
'Anyway, it's a long story but there's nothing my father hates more than Africans. And she’s Saroj’s best friend and they have a past… and what with the heart attack… So we're keeping the whole thing secret, at least till after the wedding, and somehow break things to him gently. Get him used to her first. We thought of smuggling her in as a nurse or something.'
'Ganesh, if you think you can keep a thing like this secret you'd better get your head examined. You, with your big Indian family! You know what Indians talk about most? Weddings. So how are you going to keep all those sisters-in-law quiet?'
'It's easier than you think. None of them can stand him and none of them visit him in that bedsit of his in West Norwood. We've got a nurse going to see him every day, and I go around at the weekends. Apart from that he's cut off from the family. And Trixie and I don't want to wait till he dies. It could take years!'
'What about that sister of yours? The brilliant unmarriageable one you tried to palm off on me? Won't she talk?'
'Saroj? No, Saroj won't talk, she doesn't even visit him. In fact she hates him.'
'Right; that's the one he's always complaining about because she won't obey him. So this poor old man's living all by himself, almost on his deathbed, and not even his own daughter's checking up on him? That's a very un-Indian thing — what kind of a family are you? I mean, he's just a harmless, slightly eccentric old man in need of a little tender loving care. Why does your sister hate him?'
'Oh, that's another long, long story and I don't think I'll tell you on the phone. Ask Saroj yourself, she'll be at the wedding; she's Trixie's bridesmaid'
56
Chapter Fifty-six
Savitri
Madras, 1942
'Nataraj,' Savitri said. 'His name is Nataraj. Lord of the Dance.'
'That's nice,' said Sister Carmelita, though her pursed lips belied her words. Nataraj, what a name! Ungrateful, the mother! After all, the child had been born in a Christian home, and Savitri had been cared for all this time by Christians, nuns, in fact, so mother and child were doubly blesse
d; it was only right that he should have a Christian name! She had even given Savitri a book of suitable Christian names weeks ago, so she had had ample time to choose. And there had been reason for hope, for Savitri's soul, it seemed, was fertile ground. She attended morning and evening services and Mass on Sundays, and read the Bible on the night-table next to her bed. It was only a matter of time before she, and the child, were baptized…
But heathen customs die hard, Sister Carmelita thought, shaking her head. Nataraj! What a name! Savitri had firmly written 'Nataraj' in the space for the baby's name, in the form for his birth certificate. Well, it could be changed, of course. Joseph was the name she, personally, had chosen for this boy, though she had not told Savitri yet. Joseph for a boy, Ruth for a girl. Beautiful names. But Nataraj ! Sister Carmelita clucked in annoyance. But then she thought of the telephone call she had made earlier in the day, while Savitri had been in labour, and knew there was still hope. The mother can do what she wants, she thought fiercely. But this shall be a Christian child!
Working in the vineyard of the Lord requires patience, endless patience. But Sister Carmelita had sown the seeds of the true faith, and prayed for this particular mother and child, and with the Lord's blessing one of those seeds would sprout in Savitri's heart — for surely that was not stony ground! Savitri was a sinner, to be sure, why else would she be here? Brought here in great shame by her brother, to hide from the world? By definition, all the women who came here were sinners. But the Lord had sent his Son just for these — the Physician visits not the healthy, but the sick, and what about Mary Magdalene? But Savitri was, basically, a sweet girl. What joy it would be to bring home this lost sheep! Sister Carmelita considered herself a Fisher of Women — fallen women. Or a Shepherdess of the Lord — what lovely metaphors one could find in the Bible!
'So, dear, try to get some rest. I'll take him with me now for he needs a rest too, he's exhausted! There! See! What did I say!'
She and Savitri both smiled fondly as the baby opened his mouth in a wide yawn and waved a little fist. Trustingly, Savitri closed the blanket around Nataraj and handed him up to the nun. She'd have liked to keep him with her, to sleep with him nestled in her arms, but she knew the rules. The babies slept in the nursery, separated from the mothers by a whole floor. At present there were six girls in the home, all in various stages of pregnancy. Savitri, until now, had been the most advanced. Now she was a mother. Again, a mother. For the fifth time, a mother, and this time motherhood would last. This was David's child.
The baby was brought to Savitri for nursing that night. She nursed him, savouring the gentle toothless motion of his gums on her nipple, relishing the closeness. Holding him, it was as if a cool, soothing balm rested on her soul. The fierce burning, the terrible piercing ache that had been with her since she had learned of David's death had at last begun its healing process. She had spent the first weeks after her return with Henry and June — as she now called them — trying, unsuccessfully, to recover from her grief. She had not thought into the future.
'When the baby is born, then I will start to order my life,' she had told June, who had been anxious to see Savitri's whole future life neatly planned and organised, and who had offered support in the difficult times ahead.
'You can stay with us for as long as you like,' June had said. 'You can work as a nurse, and we'll have an ayah for you, and…'
'We'll cross that bridge when we come to it,' was all Savitri had replied. However, she knew that she was an unfair burden on the Baldwins. Henry had his job to think of, which he might lose if the parents of the children he taught heard that he was supporting a pregnant, unmarried, Indian woman.
And so, early in the pregnancy, she had allowed Gopal to arrange for her to move into this home for unmarried mothers in Pondicherri. Gopal, she knew, was terribly embarrassed by the whole business. She was a disgrace to her family, she knew, for an unmarried mother was considered a whore; but what did she care? But it was too much for Gopal. Savitri, an unmarried mother, in Madras! His own sister!
'When the baby is born the problems will increase a hundredfold,' Gopal said.
'Our sons can play together, in a few years,' Savitri replied, dreamily, unburdened by such misgivings. 'Or our daughters.'
For Fiona was pregnant again, at last, and this time she had passed the six-month mark, and it seemed the baby would live. It was due a month before Savitri's, who already looked forward to the time when she and Fiona would be not only sisters but mothers together, fondly watching their children grow, children who were cousins through both sets of parents and thus doubly bound to each other.
'I am a modern-minded man,' said Gopal firmly, 'but we have to find an interim solution.'
This Catholic home had been the interim solution. As for the time thereafter — Savitri would not think of it.
'I'll cross that bridge when I come to it,' she told herself again and again as the months sped by and her girth grew greater. Gopal's son Paul was born, and then Nataraj, and now she had arrived at that bridge. Involuntarily she glanced at the bed next to hers. It was empty — the girl had had her baby last week. It had been taken from her to be adopted and the girl had left the home that very day, weeping bitterly. Savitri's arms tightened protectively around her child.
Fiona stopped dead in her tracks. A man was in the room: he was standing quite still with his back turned towards her and looking down at Paul sleeping blissfully on the straw matting of the upstairs room. The man, hearing her stifled gasp of surprise, turned, and he must have been smiling even before he turned but it was not a smile of friendship. She began to back out of the doorway but then she remembered Paul and pressed herself against the wall, hoping to edge her way around and so pick up the baby.
'Good morning, Fiona,' said Mani and his smile grew wider. Fiona didn't answer.
'Well, aren't you glad to see me? I haven't been here for some time now; haven't you been missing me?'
Still she said nothing.
'Why are you pressing against the wall like that? Don't say you're scared of me? You know I wouldn't hurt you. I wouldn't even touch a piece of scum like you. You filthy piece of dirt. How could my brother even bear to touch you, a woman who has been taken by so many men before him, low-born men at that. You are nothing but a worthless lump of dirt.'
He began to cough and once started could not stop. The coughing racked his body, bending him forward. Finally he removed a dirty rag from the waist of his dhoti and spat into it, inspected the spittle, replaced the rag and continued his tirade.
'You are covered in filth from head to toe. But my brother, my own brother of a highborn family, has seen fit to make you a member of my family. Well, I will tell you one thing — neither you nor my brother belong to my family. I have no brother by the name of Gopal. I have no sister at all. Filth has been brought into the family to ruin our reputation. You have given birth to scum. You English, do you know what you are? A pack of dirty rats! We Indians hate you with every fibre of our being and will fight you with the last drop of our blood. If it were not for my handicap I would join Hitler's army myself — may he destroy every last one of you, men, women and children! May he swarm with his armies over your land and may every blade of English grass be his! But now... let us go downstairs and talk. I want to do business with you. Are you scared? Very well, I will go first, you follow behind me.'
He moved towards her and like a frightened rabbit she scuttled to the doorway. But yes, she wanted him away from Paul and so when he went down the stairs she followed him and closed the curtain over the door so that Paul was safe.
He walked into the kitchen, she behind him. 'Aren't you going to make me a cup of tea? Where's your hospitality?'
She moved over to the tea and filled the kettle with water from the clay vessel and lit the fire and placed the kettle on the stove while Mani watched her silently.
'Where is she?'
Fiona swung around, staring. 'Who?'
Mani sneered. 'You know who
I mean. That whore whose name I will not mention.'
'I don't know.'
'Don't lie to me. Tell me where she is. Where is she hiding? Don't waste my time. I know she is hiding somewhere. I know Gopal is hiding her. Where? I have heard a rumour about her and I must confirm it. Where is that whore? You must tell me, now. If not…'
He drew a knife from the waistband of his lungi. It was a small knife, but it was sharp. He held the knife in his right hand, and raised his left. With his left thumb he pointed to the room at the top of the stairs, where Paul lay sleeping.
57
Chapter Fifty-seven
Saroj
Yorkshire, 1971
Trixie's stepmother's brother lived with his family in Four Oaks, the family mansion in a village near Harrogate, where the bride's party would stay for the weekend, and where the reception was to be held. The groom's party was to be scattered in various quarters all around the area; it consisted of Ganesh's three brothers, their wives, some of their children, and Nat.
It was a tiny chapel on the property of a local landowner, a friend of Trixie's stepmother's family, half an hour out of the village. There was no organ, but Elaine had arranged for recorded music, and when 'Here Comes the Bride' rang out from behind a back pew all faces turned and smiled, because Trixie was going to be a beautiful bride in white. Nat, standing at the altar next to Ganesh, had an excellent view of the aisle, and gazed admiringly at Trixie as she walked up in the flowing white dress she and Saroj had chosen together two days earlier.