Of Marriageable Age

by Sharon Maas

  His head hanging now, he confessed all to Savitri, and she smiled and laid a hand on his in understanding as he wept.

  'It is all right,' she said. 'You are only human; a man. Men are weak in this respect. It's all right.'

  'But that's not all,' Deodat said, and could not look her in the eye. 'Parvati is now with child — my child!'

  Neither of them spoke for a long time. And then Deodat said with an unsteady voice, 'It is all my fault and I must make it up to her. I cannot allow her to raise a child out of wedlock! She and the child — my child! — would be treated as vermin. And I thought, I was wondering, I always wanted a large family, more children, but...'

  'I know,' said Savitri. She knew: between him and her there would be no more children. It had been that way since Ganesh's birth.

  'So you want us to adopt the child? Is that it?'

  'What a terrible thing to ask a wife! What an insult to you!'

  But Savitri only laughed. 'It is no insult. I would do it gladly! But what about the child's mother? You would take her child from her? Do you know what a terrible thing that is?'

  'I told you, she cannot raise the child herself. She will have to give it up for adoption anyway. She would be happy to give her child a happy home and a good mother.'

  'But no-one must ever know,' Savitri said firmly. 'They must not know that she has had a baby — an unmarried mother. She will never find a husband if they know. We must do this in secret. We must pass the child off as mine. We'll hire her as a nanny, maybe

  leave the country for a while. I must think. Leave this to me.'

  So Savitri went to Trinidad, in good time, taking Indrani and Ganesh with her, and Parvati as nanny. When they returned Savitri had a baby girl, named Sarojini. Savitri, knowing what it was for a woman to lose a child, shared the baby with Parvati, and Parvati was Saroj's beloved nanny, a second mother.

  Saroj turned to Trixie. 'Remember the photo, Trix? The one of Gan's second birthday, on the beach? I knew there was something strange about it but I couldn’t think what. It was taken in August; I was born that September. Ma should have been eight months pregnant, but she wasn't. She was slim as a reed in that photo.'

  When Deodat looked at his little daughter, the child nearest to his heart, he feared for her, for she was a child of sin and guilt. He had to get rid of that bad influence, that woman of sin, that Parvati, who had once had power over his lower senses, but who had subsequently, in the wake of the resulting problems, lost that power. It would be difficult to get rid of Parvati, because Saroj loved her so, and his wife — whom he feared to cross in any way — encouraged her. But then Parvati let the child play with the negroes next door. It was a serious transgression. Absolutely forbidden. It was the chance he was waiting for. He threw her out.

  From that day on Deodat watched hawk-like over Saroj, for she carried the seed of immorality within her. What if she inherited that woman's beauty! Those loose morals! He vowed to do his best for this child. Protect her from the perils of straying lust. Keep her hidden from mankind, fostered, preserved and treasured. His heart ached when he saw her, the poor little thing. The finding of a good husband for her, Deodat swore, would be his first and sacred duty.

  When Parvati's mother was dying, Savitri came and cared for her, brought medicines and laid hands on her and wiped the sweat from her face. As far as her husband and her family were concerned she was at the temple. It was the beginning of a double life, a life of subterfuge.

  Soon after her mother's death Parvati developed a wicked red rash on her hands and arms, painful to the touch. She went to the Georgetown hospital but nothing helped. Then Savitri laid her hands on the rash, rubbed an ointment into it, and in a few days the rash flaked off and the skin healed, and after that she had no trouble. Parvati told all her friends, and the next time Savitri came the sick people lined up on the road to see her.

  Savitri began to treat the sick of La Penitence. At first just once a week in the afternoon, when she was supposed to be in the temple. But demand for her grew. She came for an hour in the mornings as well, when the children were at school and Deodat in the office. She brought herbs and tinctures, teas and roots and powders, and she went to people in their homes and laid her hands on them.

  Parvati's home became a hospital. The people of La Penitence flocked to Savitri, because Savitri had a smile and she had a special touch. When Savitri laid her hand on them they felt they were well again. They believed, and they were healed.

  When Parvati's mother died there wasn't enough money, and of course no-one would marry her, for it was rumoured that she had once been the mistress of a married man, though nobody could exactly name him. And it was rumoured that she had borne a bastard child and given it up for adoption. But Parvati was still beautiful and though no man would have her as a wife several wanted her as a mistress, and she chose another married man who kept her fed and clothed. After him there was another, and another.

  But physical beauty is evanescent, and Parvati's faded quickly. Savitri helped with gifts of money and food, but after her death the bad times came; and more men.

  'I is a bad woman, a woman of shame,' said Parvati. 'You should not have come. And now you know you should go and forget me. I am glad you came but I will understand. Go now and try to forgive me. Pray for me.'

  But Saroj was hardly listening. She was grinning at Trixie, in triumph.

  74

  Chapter Seventy-four

  Saroj

  London, 1971

  It was a small, messy, poky room, a bedsit near Streatham Common. Dark, for the curtains were drawn, and lit only by a dirty electric bulb hanging naked from the ceiling, giving off a tepid yellow glow. In one corner, an unmade bed, in the other, a wardrobe with a broken door. The smell was a mélange of old stale sweat and sickly-sweet incense. Saroj looked around in distaste; then she looked at Baba, dressed in grubby longjohns and an even grubbier singlet, sitting in an armchair facing the dead fireplace. The two stared at each other in silence.

  ‘Tell me about Parvati,’ said Saroj.

  Baba looked away.

  ‘You found out — you know! I didn’t want…’

  ‘No theatricals, please. Just tell me the story.’

  And so Baba began to speak. A broken, humble Baba, stumbling over the words, pausing when he couldn’t find the right ones, rambling when his thoughts took him on journeys to the past.

  ‘I was weak… I gave in to lust… She was so young, so pretty. How could I resist? It was wrong, I know… to take advantage. Then… she told me she was in trouble. What could I do… your mother was strong so I turned to her, confessed, asked for forgiveness. And help. She is so wise... now she is gone... this is all I have left of her…’

  Baba gestured vaguely towards the fireplace. On the mantelpiece was a shrine, with an urn as centrepiece, surrounded by fresh roses, and a small photo of Ma. Three sticks of incense gave off white tendrils of pungent smoke, and a thick candle burned with a single unwavering flame. The mantelpiece shrine was the only clean part of the room.

  ‘Every day I lay fresh roses for her,’ Said Baba, ‘she loved roses!

  He removed a grubby handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face, and his eyes. Saroj walked to the window, drew back the curtains, turned off the overhead bulb.

  ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘I made full confession. She was so understanding. She knew what to do. She took care of it. They went to Trinidad. She and Parvati went there, for six months. She told people she was going to have a baby, she needed long rest. Then the baby was born. You! Your mother —Parvati I mean — was weak — I was weak — so afraid. Afraid you would be weak too. I know what men are like. Full of lust. And you — so sweet, so innocent. I thought marriage was the best protection for you. I was wrong. I lost you. You always hated me. I deserved it! God has punished me!’

  ‘Ha! So you’re getting a bit of sense in your old age. But look at this place! This mess! You stink! When did you last change thos
e—those knickers? And those sheets? Pfui — filthy!’

  Saroj pulled the sheets from the unmade bed, rolled them up and threw them in the corner.

  ‘Where do you keep clean sheets?’

  Baba waved his hand towards a chest of drawers. Saroj opened all the drawers until she found clean bedclothes. She made the bed and continued to move around tidying up the room while Baba mumbled memories from the past.

  Now and then Saroj glanced at the harmless old man slumped in the armchair, and after a while her eyes softened.

  ‘You need a wife!’ she said. ‘I better arrange a marriage for you!’

  A smile played on her lips.

  ‘No, no wife — oh, you are joking. I had the best wife in the world and lost her. Nobody could replace her — a saint! Such a harsh man I was. Too harsh. Too harsh. With you too — too harsh. Tried to force you…. Now all I have are her ashes. All gone. Ganesh has gone to Guyana with his wife. Ganesh got marred.

  ‘Did you go to Ganesh’s wedding? Not me. Not invited. A nice girl, nice girl. Christian girl. What does it matter, Christian, Hindu, Moslem — many paths, one goal. What was I saying. Ashes. One day I want to return to India. My beloved India, and sprinkle her ashes in the Ganges. Nat promised to take me. Did you ever meet Nat? Ganesh’s friend. A kind boy. Used to come here and read to me – the Ramayana, the Mahabharata — like a son. He will take me to India. He is there right now. He will come back. Next time he will take me. Such a nice, kind boy.’

  Saroj said nothing, and looked at her watch. She walked to the window and opened the curtains. Daylight flooded the room. She tried to open the window, but it was stuck.

  ‘That window is hard to open,’ said Baba. ‘The paint is sticky. I don’t open it much You have to pull hard.’

  So Saroj pulled hard and the window unstuck; she threw it open and looked out on to the street. As if on cue, a man walking past looked up. It was Nat. He stopped, looked up at her and smiled.

  ‘Well — hi there!’

  Saroj smiled back, and leaned on the windowsill, chin on her hands, relaxed, happy. They gazed at each other in silence.

  ‘I got your cable,’ said Nat.

  ‘And I got yours.’

  ‘What’s your big wonderful news?’

  ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘You first`.’

  ‘No, you.’

  Nat smiled, and patted his shirt pocket.

  ‘It’s all in here. The letter Ma wrote Gopal. The famous letter.’

  Saroj continued to smile, serene, relaxed, patient. She had all the time in the world.

  ‘Baba was just telling me about some nice, kind boy. Why not come in?’

  'After you ran off I was pretty devastated,’ said Nat. ‘The whole story nagged at me and I just had to find out more. So I went to see Gopal. I told him to come out with the truth at last, and he did.'

  'What did he say?'

  'He loved Savitri. He wanted to make all things right for her at the end. You know, he's a screenwriter with a terrific imagination. It seemed to him a wonderfully dramatic idea for us to marry — his son (as he thought) with Savitri's daughter. A kind of poetic justice, karmatic balance, making everything right again, a story fit for a screenplay. That's what he said. Then he added the words that changed everything — “though she is only adopted.”

  ‘My God, Saroj, when he said that I yelled out loud. Literally! I made him repeat, explain. Yes, he said, and he seemed surprised that we didn't know.

  ‘He didn't know all the details, not about Parvati and your dad, but he did know Savitri wasn't your biological mother; she had told him in a letter. And that was enough for me. I came over here like a shot! But you were gone!'

  'Ma would have told me — but she died. She wanted to tell me, Nat. That was the letter… She was all excited about it, the day that she died. She wanted to bring me to India, to meet some special people, she said. You and David. She was going to tell me everything. And then she died.'

  'Anyway. Read this.'

  And he reached into his shirt pocket, took out an envelope folded in two, and handed it to Saroj.

  Dear Brother Gopal,

  I have just received Henry’s letter with the wonderful news. Why did you not tell me? Years ago? But how can I complain! I forgive you! The happiness I now feel at their resurrection more than makes up for even a moment of my years of anguish, believing David and Nataraj to be dead.

  I have had a difficult life, Gopal, but I know that now my bad karma is at last exhausted — Henry's letter is the proof. My darlings are alive! And out of the ashes of the past years, brother, so much good has come! Such beautiful children have been granted me — three, to make up for the five I lost. Amrita, Shanti, Anand, Ganesan, and Nataraj. Yet I did not lose five, but only four, for Nataraj has been returned to me! And once again I have four children. I give thanks to God!

  Gopal, I am hurrying to London and India as soon as possible, and I shall bring my younger daughter Sarojini with me. You remember, she is the girl we adopted, and we have been having some difficulties finding a suitable husband for her, as she is very modern-minded and headstrong as I myself once was.

  I wonder how she will get along with Nataraj? After all, he is half-English and as he is living in London he will certainly have modern ideas, just like Sarojini. She is very intelligent, as well as beautiful. So, I am bringing her along. I am so looking forward to the meeting of these two dear children of mine! (Oh we mothers! Sometimes I think matchmaking is in our blood! Yet I shall keep my opinion to myself, and let nature take its course.)

  I am going to telephone Sarojini right away. She might not want to go to India but the moment I mention the word London I just know she'll need no persuasion.

  Saroj smiled as she folded the letter. 'Savitri, Mrs Dee, Ma. Whatever her name is, she’s still right here. Attending to every single detail. Like she always did.’

  Saroj sat up with a jolt. ‘Oh my goodness, Nat, I quite forgot…'

  She took his hand, placed it on her belly, and pressed it there. 'The most important detail...’

  Epilogue

  'Ashes to ashes . . .' The vicar's voice droned on. Boring...

  Gita tugged at the hem of Mummy's shalwar kameez. Mummy's head, lowered in respect for the dead, turned slightly and she looked down sideways. Gita looked up at her in bright-eyed eagerness, just dying to speak, words gathered inside like a little brook about to bubble out of the earth. No funereal solemnity here. Mummy suppressed a smile and raised a finger to her lips. 'Ssshhhh!' she mouthed.

  Gita's eyes clouded in disappointment and she wrinkled her nose and shook her black curls. Then she raised one little bare foot to scratch the back of her calf with her toenails, wrote her name in the sand with her big toe, poked Granny in the bottom and giggled and everybody looked at her and frowned. Daddy secretly waggled a finger at her and that made her giggle again. After that the vicar finished speaking and everybody walked slowly round and shovelled spadefuls of sand into Auntie Fiona's open grave, and flowers, lots and lots of flowers. Even Grandad Deodat, sitting in his wheelchair, managed a small spadeful. And so did Khan, his wheelchair-pusher. Then it was over and they walked away, towards the house.

  Gita walked between Mummy and Granny, holding a hand of each, jumping and swinging. Daddy pushed Grandad Deodat’s wheelchair; Khan didn’t want to let him but Daddy insisted. Grandad Deodat’s head lolled to one side — he had fallen asleep again. He was always sleeping. Mummy was speaking to Granny, telling Granny to take her, Gita, for a walk to see the sea. They had been promising to show her the sea for a long time so when she heard that she danced around Granny tugging at her hand, crying, 'Yes, yes, yes, let's go to the sea!'

  'Ah comin', chile, but ah can't run so fas' like you, yuh know!' said Granny, so Gita tugged all the harder.

  'Take your time, Parvati,' said Mummy. 'Take off her clothes and let her bathe. We'll come and join you in a while — I just want to look around here first.'

  G
randdad David explained to Parvati how to get to the sea. He pointed down the curve of the driveway, through the tangle of bougainvilleas hiding the gate around the bend. 'Turn left into Atkinson Avenue,' he said, 'and walk for a few minutes till you come to the flame-of-the-forest tree. Cross the avenue there — you'll see a little path. Just walk down it and you'll come straight to the sea. You can't miss it!'

  Saroj and Nat watched as Gita dragged Parvati away.

  'Little imp of mischief!' Saroj said, shaking her head and smiling fondly. 'D'you know, she tried to take the doll out of Fiona's coffin this morning, just before they nailed it up? She said she can take better care of it than Fiona can down in the earth. I had to promise to buy her one of her own!'

  'Well, it's about time she had one of her own,' said David. 'Three-year-old girls need dolls, you know!'

  'But not Fiona's,' said Saroj firmly. 'Poor Fiona needs her doll.'

  'Who knows, maybe right now she's with the real thing. With Paul.'

  David and Henry had wandered off and stood now in the rose arbour, talking about the old days. It was all overgrown, of course, and none of the roses were blooming. A thorny tangle of bush.

  'It needs Savitri's touch,' said Henry. 'The whole place does.'

  'A gardener…' mused David as Saroj and Nat approached.

  'This place is paradise gone wild,' Saroj said, looking around her in wonder. 'All it needs is a little loving care and my goodness, what a sanctuary we'd have! And in the middle of Madras! I wouldn't have believed it!'

  'That's India,' Nat said. 'Heaven in the midst of hell.'

  'Shall I show you the house?' David asked. 'Of course, it'll be black with mildew now but maybe you'll get an idea of what it once was.'