‘Sure,’ Gautam replied, though inwardly shaken up.
Turning to Haseena, Gautam noticed that she’d gone death-pale.
‘Is your wife unwell?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, helping Haseena rest her head on his right shoulder. ‘We’ve had a long, tiresome train journey, you know. I must take her home immediately. Will you hurry up, please?’
‘Certainly,’ Bhole answered. ‘But it’s now just a few minutes to the fort. You shouldn’t miss it.’
‘I think we’ll cut the fort. Some other time.’
‘It’s right there on the way, sir,’ said the panda. ‘You may have a quick look at it from the Jumna. A great fort built by Ashoka, but desecrated by Akbar, the Muslim bastard. If only we could snuff out all the Muslims from Allahabad, bring them to this fort and butcher them here. That’s how we wiped out an entire British garrison during the Mutiny.’
Gautam now realized how the rogue had worked himself into another tirade against Muslims.
Although Haseena had come to, her body was still quaking as though she had the shivers.
‘But Ashoka’s edict inside the fort preaches a different gospel, I think,’ Gautam tried to soften up Bhole. ‘Doesn’t it exhort man to be tolerant and forgiving?’
‘All that’s gone now,’ the panda snarled. ‘In any case, Ashoka lost his head when he turned Buddhist. And are Buddhists Hindus at all?’
So the man had swept off Ashoka too under the carpet. Gautam wondered how the panda could talk of spiritual purity and massacre in the same breath.
Gautam and Haseena returned to the bank, their nerves totally shattered. They felt as though they had waded through a river of blood. Like a chamaeleon, Bhole had revealed diverse facets of his self—tough-muscled oarsman, Hindu priest and bloodhound. ‘Three-in-one!’ Gautam mumbled to himself, repeating the panda’s own phrase.
Bhole stepped out and began to pull the boat manually to the wharf; then he beckoned the couple to follow him through the marshy patch. But as Gautam tried to help Haseena out of the boat, it lurched, nearly throwing her off into the water.
‘Watch your step, Haseena!’ Gautam cried out.
Hardly had he uttered the name when Bhole sprang to his feet, like an incensed animal. Menacingly, he drew close to Gautam.
‘Is she a Muslim?’ he barked.
‘What do you mean?’ Gautam asked, utterly confounded.
‘What was the name you just called?’ The panda’s mouth was agape like a cobra’s, its deadly fangs poised to strike.
‘Seema, of course.’
Instantly, Gautam recaptured his mental agility.
‘Haseena was what I heard, man,’ the panda blared. ‘And that name rings a bell …’ He knitted his brows as if he was straining hard to recall something.
‘Bholeji,’ Gautam thought it prudent to address him respectfully, as a gesture of appeasement, ‘surely, I should know my wife’s name … I’ve never heard the other name. Who is Haseena? … Could you imagine a Tripathi going about with a Muslim?’
Gautam even tried to laugh it out, but he felt a cramping sensation in his stomach. Haseena kept looking about blankly, pale and shocked. Only vaguely did she feel that Gautam was fighting hard to retrieve the situation.
Bhole stood there petrified, finding it difficult to disbelieve what he had heard earlier. His eyes kept probing Haseena’s face. She almost cowered under his ghoulish gaze.
The only thing that perplexed the panda was the kumkum on her forehead. And there stood Gautam in his white dhoti and kurta, holding the bowl in one hand and Haseena’s arm in the other. They didn’t look Muslim, surely. Or were they masquerading?
Before the man could say anything more, Gautam took out his wallet.
‘Here’s another tenner—for the prayer, Bholeji,’ he said, very ingratiatingly. ‘We need your blessings for a happy married life.’
The man put out his right hand limply as if the tip didn’t really excite him, his eyes still lingering on Haseena’s face.
Although Gautam and Haseena tried to walk away composedly, inwardly they felt chilled with fear. What if the man got them from behind? They knew they must move on confidently till they merged into the crowd of pilgrims and beggars.
Gautam felt he would be turned into a stone if he dared look back—like Lot’s wife.
As he dropped Haseena at the tea-stall, he said, ‘Let’s not meet for three days—till we get over this shock.’
She just kept silent.
16
AS Shyama answered the door, she was surprised to see a foreigner standing on the porch—tall, golden-haired, elegantly dressed in a three-piece suit.
He enquired: ‘Is Mr Dhawan there, please?’
Although the maidservant didn’t know any English (except such words and phrases as ‘sorry, please, yes, no, thank you, good morning and good evening’), she instinctively grasped the question. She would have readily responded with a ‘yes, please,’ had Sonali not showed up at the door.
‘Please do come in,’ Sonali said, surprised to see a white man.
‘I’m sorry to barge in like this,’ said Bob Cunningham.
From his accent, she understood he was an Englishman. How she wished some of her neighbours had seen her ushering into the house a distinguished looking Englishman. He was obviously a friend of her husband’s. But shouldn’t Berry have mentioned something about him? If she’d known about his visit, she could have put on her gold-embroidered sari and some special jewellery, though the French chiffon she was now wearing appeared sparkling too.
She looked about—thank God, the house wasn’t too untidy. Fortunately, she’d got it done just that morning, otherwise she would have felt embarrassed over the smudgy glasspanes and orange peels strewn all over the floor. As for the piles of old newspapers and rags on the porch, how very lucky of her to have sold off the entire lot only last evening—at twenty paise a pound.
Sonali threw a side-glance at the visitor. Does it matter if a white man has his bath daily or not? Doesn’t he always look clean? She caught herself imagining this man in bed, making love to his wife. Hair golden brown all over, body scented … she reined in her thoughts. Not for a Hindu wife to let her mind run wild.
Sonali led him to the drawing room.
‘Hello, Bob!’ Berry greeted him, almost jumping out of his chair, putting down his glass of rum on a side-table. ‘What a surprise!’ Then, pointing to the rum, he said: ‘This is my afternoon round. How about joining me?’
‘Too early for me,’ Bob replied. ‘Look, you don’t have a phone, and I didn’t note your address the last time I dropped you here.’
‘Ah, the explanations and apologies,’ said Berry. ‘Back to your Englishness—appointments, phone calls. You’re welcome here any time, Bob.’
‘Still …’
‘And that’s my bride,’ Berry said, turning to Sonali. ‘Married seven years now, still my sweetheart.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Dhawan.’
Bob understood Berry was laying it on too thick.
‘Well, I’m in a hurry,’ Bob’s eyes returned to Berry. ‘I just came to ask you, Mrs Dhawan and Gautam …’
‘Sonali is the name,’ interjected Berry.
‘All right,’ Bob resumed. ‘I should be delighted if both of you and Gautam could come to my party next Saturday.’
‘I’m not so sure about Sona,’ said Berry. ‘You see, she may have to visit her ailing aunt that evening. And Gautam’s away in Allahabad … But I’ll come.’
Sonali was left with no alternative but to give in to her husband’s will.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sonali said. ‘My aunt has not been keeping too well, lately.’
‘What a pity!’ Bob said. ‘I hope she gets well soon.’
Why didn’t Berry take her out anywhere? But she knew he was too tough for her. While she felt happy to be called a bride and sweetheart, inwardly she sulked at being left out of the party.
‘Sona, darling, Bob should h
ave at least a glass of beer before he goes …’
There she was, Sonali thought, just another maid in the house. For once, she wished he’d asked Shyama to bring in the drink.
As soon as Sonali walked out, Bob said: ‘I wish you’d let her also come to my party.’
‘Oh God,’ Berry said, ‘she’d have ruined my evening.’
Sonali brought in a plateful of popadom and a bottle of beer. Assuming that the two men would like to be left alone, she withdrew.
Taking the beer from Berry, Bob said, ‘It’s a great pity Gautam won’t be with us that evening … You know, I like him enormously.’
‘He’s away on a secret mission,’ said Berry. ‘Remember the girl he’d met at the Bridge?’
‘Yes.’
‘I guess he’s fallen in love with her.’
‘But wasn’t she a call-girl?’
‘Not really,’ said Berry. ‘She was a Muslim girl abducted from Allahabad. So he’s taken her back to her family. Sort of freed her from her captors.’
‘Interesting.’
‘But this is not going to be smooth sailing, you know. For a Hindu to have an affair with a Muslim …’
‘He’ll come through all right,’ Bob said, ‘if he really loves her.’
‘I hope so.’
As soon as Bob left, Sonali was back in the room, ruffled.
‘You never take me out anywhere,’ she sniffled. ‘Am I just a servant?’
‘No, my Sona, my dovey,’ he cooed. ‘It’s just that Bob’s party is likely to be much too boisterous. You don’t know these Englishmen, my love …’ He paused. ‘But I’ll take you to some other party. I promise—really.’
‘It’s always another party, another time.’
Berry took her in his arms, planted a gentle kiss on her lips, then pressing her close to his bosom, whispered: ‘I love you.’
‘I love you too,’ said Sonali. ‘But …’
‘Would you like those foreigners to leer at you, my sweetheart?’ he asked.
‘Horrible!’ she cried out. ‘Please don’t say such things.’
But she imagined how very exciting it would be to be hustled by a white man—so clean, so perfumed, so sophisticated.
17
Indians invariably come late to parties, but if they choose to impress their hosts, they can be awfully punctual too. Rather excited over the invitation to a party where he’d meet some Englishmen, Berry decided to make it precisely on time—eight o’clock. In fact, since he arrived at 17 Hastings Road a few minutes ahead of time (according to his watch, of course), he got off his taxi and began to pace up and down the lane next to Bob’s bungalow. Then, as his watch showed 7:58, he adjusted his tie, smoothed the sleeves of his jacket, and briskly returned to the gate that displayed the name: ‘Robert Cunningham.’
It was an old two-storeyed house—a spacious lawn in front, a side-path running down to the backyard, with a garage on one side and a servants’ annexe on the other. Although the front lawn was somewhat dimly lit, the terrace was flashing with Chinese lights. Bob must have arranged the party up there, Berry thought, on a pleasant evening like this.
He now walked up to the porch, but he didn’t hear any voices. Where was everybody else? He rang the doorbell and an old, turbaned servant, with a gilded belt round his waist, appeared at the door.
‘Please come in, sir,’ the servant said, in a typical British accent.
‘Thank you,’ Berry said, stepping into a luxuriously furnished lounge, with a high ceiling. ‘Am I too early?’ he asked the servant, glancing at his watch.
‘No sir, it’s about time,’ came the crisp, polite reply.
But as he looked at the wall clock, showing a half-past seven, he realized that his watch was running too fast. So there he was, about half an hour before time! Never mind, he consoled himself. Wasn’t he in the house of a friend?
He looked about the room. On the left wall hung a large reprint of The Rape of Lucrece, the ruddy, fulsome breasts and thighs of the woman glistening under the multilimbed chandelier. To the right was another painting, a Velasquez, showing a nude woman reclining on a couch, a hand mirror held close to her face by Cupid. So Bob had chosen the right sort of paintings for his house.
In a corner stood a huge piano, its glazed mahogany top glittering under a candelabrum of six uplifted arms. On one side of the closed piano lay a song book, half open. On the rear wall hung two large pencil sketches—one of the first East India Company ship that sailed to India and the other of the Victoria Memorial in Calcutta. Between these two sketches was a miniature, showing boar hunting in the deep forests of Rajasthan.
Berry felt quite impressed with Bob’s palatial bungalow, its high ceilings, Persian carpets, rosewood chairs and silken tapestries. Feeling excited to claim someone like him as his friend, he thought, he’d now be awfully jealous of any other Indian getting anywhere close to him except, of course, Gautam.
‘Omar!’
A voice boomed from the first floor. It was Bob’s—deep and resonant, like an organ note.
‘Yes, sir,’ responded the turbaned servant, dashing up the steps.
A couple of minutes later, both peered down the banister.
‘Is it Berry?’
‘Yes, Bob,’ Berry replied in a tone of exuberant informality.
‘Is there anybody else?’
‘No.’
‘Then come right up, old boy, into my bedroom.’
Berry climbed up the steps.
‘Aren’t I a bit too early, Bob? … My watch is running fast.’
Berry hesitated at the door, expecting to be called in again.
‘Come in,’ said Bob. ‘So this time it’s your turn to spin out explanations and apologies.’ As Berry stepped in, Bob added, ‘I’m glad you’re early. I can now introduce you to my friend. She must be somewhere in the dining room below, fixing things for the party. She’s been a great help, you know,’ Bob smiled.
‘In bed too?’
‘Of course.’
There was a moment’s silence.
‘What’s her name?’
‘M-a-l-a!’ Bob let the name ring out like a church bell. ‘Mala Patnaik!’
‘Any other Indians coming?’ Berry asked.
‘No. Only my compatriots. All packed up to return home—to London, Liverpool, Glasgow …’
‘So it’s a sort of farewell party.’
‘Yes, the play’s done.’
‘You know, Bob, they did a marvellous job here. I do feel sorry for them. I’m sure they’re going to miss this bloody, hot country.’
‘Miss?’ said Bob, ‘… they’re already feeling very low. A poor life awaits them out there. Meagre pensions, no servants, freezing winters—and the fog, the deadly, yellow fog.’
‘Sounds ghastly,’ said Berry. ‘Then it was better here in spite of the heat and dust.’
‘Any time. One can always beat down the heat with ceiling fans, khus-khus, and a little dust doesn’t do you much harm,’ Bob said, spraying himself with some perfume. He continued: ‘I’m glad I’ll be staying on for quite a while … An occasional meal at Neel Kamal and now friends like you and Gautam. Thank God, I’m not a bloody civil servant. I’m in business here, you know.’
‘From here you may start another cycle,’ Berry teased, though he felt touched by Bob’s reference to him and Gautam. ‘That’s how it all began, didn’t it? … First you came in as traders, then hung on—to rule.’
‘Aren’t we already working on the idea of equal partnership in the British Commonwealth?’ He smiled.
‘The same old game of diplomacy!’ Berry said. ‘No other nation can ever beat you in that, you know.’
‘You got it, old boy,’ Bob said. ‘But, look, I forgot to mention that Bill may also join in, though for a short while only. You know, he’s like a gynaecologist who may be called away to deliver anywhere, any time.’
‘Who’s Bill?’ Berry asked, a little confused.
‘Bill Thornton, your ringmaste
r, of course.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Berry said, feeling exultant at the prospect of meeting the great administrator, whose name he had used to manipulate rail reservations for Gautam and Haseena.
They both now came down the steps. Stepping into the dining room, Berry saw a beautiful young lady giving directions to a bearer. In a corner of an oblong table had been arranged spoons, forks in circular and pyramidal patterns, while at the centre stood a cut-glass flower vase. On a side-table, near a window, were placed several bottles of drinks.
‘We’ll have cocktails up on the terrace,’ Bob said, ‘and then come down to eat.’
Mala turned to see them coming in.
‘This is Mr Birendra Dhawan, I guess,’ she said, in a voice that was husky and sensuous.
‘There, you see, she knows you already,’ said Bob. ‘Knows everything about you and Gautam.’
‘And you’re Mala Patnaik,’ Berry smiled. ‘I hope he’s said only nice things about us.’
‘Of course.’
Berry now looked closely at Mala. She was beautiful indeed—arched neck of a swan, limpid eyes of a doe and a mole on her left cheek. Even though her complexion was dark, her fawn-coloured sari had toned it down. Round her neck, she wore a fragile gold chain with a pendant of onyx. But what attracted Berry most was her ebony hair, rolling down her shoulders in a wave. Each time she moved her head, her long hair swung like silken tassels. Berry wondered how much sex there was in a woman’s hair. Her choli, a couple of inches above her navel, revealed her belly down to the waistline. She resembled an Ajanta woman.
‘And what has he told you about me?’ Mala asked, her doe-like eyes dilated.
Before Berry could say anything, the doorbell rang. Looking at the wall clock, Bob said: ‘Here they come! Pat on the stroke of the hour!’
The guests trooped in, almost in a procession, as if the same omnibus had unloaded them at Bob’s gate, although each couple had come independently by private car or taxi.
There was Colonel Roger Lucas, formerly of the Third Gurkha Battalion, flaunting his perky brown moustache, and his roly-poly wife; Mr James Griffith, OBE, former deputy defence secretary, in his crisp Burton-tailored suit and his whippety wife; Dr Max Taylor, former medical adviser to the Ministry of Health, with his pallid wife; and Mr John Green, MBE, retired district magistrate, Ghaziabad, and his olive-complexioned wife. The last couple ushered into the lounge was the prematurely retired Major David Foster and his young pretty wife.
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