‘I knew his grandfather. He wasn’t allowed water from the same well as me. Can you imagine, a neighbour you live beside all your life, but we couldn’t drink or eat with him?’ He squeezes my hand again. ‘That is one thing you British did. By making everyone equal before the law, theoretically at least, you dealt a heavy blow to caste. But these things were by-products, not the goal of your rule.’
I glance at Briha, whose head’s in danger of spinning off, so vigorously does he nod approval.
‘Did you ever meet any British people when you were growing up?’
He shakes his head. ‘But once in the movement I did.’
‘Yates, Hobson and Gilbert?’
Nayakwadi breaks into another chuckle. ‘All three, yes.
Gilbert I came into closest contact with. Twice he nearly caught me. I must say he was persistent. He caused us problems.’
It’s partly gratifying to hear this. ‘How did you meet?’
‘The first time I was in Kameri, for a meeting with Bhauri Patel, my lieutenant. Someone must have betrayed us, for suddenly there were police outside. Patel’s wife led me immediately into the women’s quarters, where I put on a sari. I was much slimmer then,’ he guffaws. ‘The police ordered everyone into the yard while they searched the house. They had to be very careful about touching women, so I stayed in the middle of the group and pulled the edge of the sari across my face and prayed no one would notice. No one did,’ he concludes with a rumbling laugh.
This man is fun. ‘And the other time?’
‘I was at another friend’s in Eitwade. It was after dark. Again, Gilbert suddenly arrived. Nobody heard him coming.’
Is this the incident recorded in Modak’s No Place, when ‘Bill’ walked for two miles in his stockings?
‘I couldn’t play the same trick again, there weren’t any women around. Instead I ran into the courtyard at the back. There was a very high wall, no possibility of escape. Only the well and a banyan tree. I knew I’d be caught if I climbed into its branches, so I jumped over the side of the well. Just in time, because suddenly I heard a great grunt and someone landing in the courtyard from the other side. Gilbert had come round the back and somehow got over the wall.’
‘Didn’t he hear the splash?’
Tears of laughter squeeze out of Nayakwadi’s eyes. ‘I’d climbed down the roots. It was a very old tree and they’d broken through the side of the well. I worked my way well inside them and held my breath. I could see a torch playing over the branches and then this shadow reached over the well. The light shone on the water. I was close enough to Gilbert to hear him breathing. Then he cursed and the light disappeared. I stayed down there, hanging in the roots, while the house was searched. I heard a constable saying, “He can’t just have disappeared, the sahib was covering the back.” ’
Nayakwadi calls for more tea. ‘Ah, I enjoyed my duels with Gilbert,’ he sighs.
I’m touched by his tone. Respect, even affection, for Bill from one of his most redoubtable opponents.
‘What do you think of the Raj now?’ I ask.
‘All in the past. I feel no bitterness.’
‘And India today?’
For the first time, Nayakwadi’s expression clouds. ‘India today?’ He shakes his head, before decrying the chronic corruption, incompetence and self-serving of the political elites.
‘The ordinary man suffers badly, in terms of education, health and justice. Here in Walwa is better, because we established a sugar co-operative to give the farmers a fair price. The profits go to improving everyone’s lives, not just the few. This community centre’ – he gestures round the room – ‘was paid for by us. And the school. Dalits, Muslims, Christians, all are welcome. But many in the surrounding villages still have no electricity, despite the dams their taxes pay for. And there are so many landless still. These are the real battles facing India.’ He shakes his head. ‘Not this stupid warmongering with Pakistan.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘All engineered by the capitalist classes. If there was no poverty, people wouldn’t care which country they lived in, what gods others believed in.’
I wish Nayakwadi had been at the lecture yesterday. He radiates such moral authority. And so much humour and warmth. I could get very attached to him.
‘How do you see the struggle of the Parallel Government now?’
‘We need another one,’ he answers straight away, with a mischievous grin.
I feel obliged to ask him, too, about the accusations of atrocities against his movement.
‘Well, mistakes were made,’ Nayakwadi acknowledges. ‘Some people were wrongly accused, unjustly persecuted. But it was a war, and sometimes decisions had to be made very hurriedly. It doesn’t detract from the good that was done. Especially if you can admit your mistakes afterwards and say sorry.’
I’m deeply moved by the meeting. I feel I’ve heard wisdom, distilled by decades of experience, of learning, of action and of self-interrogation. Nayakwadi strikes me as a man of luminous integrity, with the kind of values I most admire. What a shame he and Bill were on opposite sides. Even more so that Bill couldn’t make this journey with me. Still, Nayakwadi’s half-admiring, almost affectionate account of his opponent is something solid to counter-balance the trip to Chafal. Especially as there’ve been no allegations of the kind Shinde and Lad made.
When we get back in the car, I thank Briha for his patient interpreting. ‘By the way, we kept calling him “Anna”. What does it mean?’
‘Father,’ he responds. ‘But less formal.’
Daddy, daddy, daddy, I mutter under my breath.
Kanishka’s party is a soothing distraction to round off a tumultuous day. Briha drops me at the hotel to change and while waiting for him to return, I buy a bag of bright-dyed candies for his boy from the shop next door. The flat’s in a modern three-storey block, ten minutes away on the back of Briha’s Honda. There are already quite a few people, though I’m disconcerted to find all the men are in the front room and the women in the kitchen. Class appears to make no difference to the gender segregation I’ve encountered throughout my trip. Briha takes me through to meet his wife, a very shy, pretty woman who hands me a plate of dal, rice and vegetable curry, with an iced bun and a piece of cake wedged incongruously either side. My host then proudly points out the recently completed terrace off the kitchen, where one or two men are smoking, before leading me back to the living room. In one corner a video plays. His wedding, Briha explains. But their little boy holds centre stage today, seated against a bolster, dressed like a miniature maharajah, surrounded by friends. He wails when he catches sight of me.
‘It’s your colour,’ Briha chuckles, ‘he’s not used.’
While his mother comforts the boy, Briha insists on tying a long-tailed cinnamon-coloured Kolhapur turban on my head and everyone applauds and wants photographs. I’m sure it looks ludicrous with cut-offs and sandals. Then the blessing takes place. Trays of food are circled round Kanishka’s head, and he’s offered spoonfuls while guests throw rice over him. Self-possession restored, the boy’s as gracious as a little prince. Then everyone sings ‘Happy Birthday’, followed – to the same tune – by ‘May God Bless You’, before Briha cuts a cake, garishly decorated with miniature funfair fixtures made of icing. It’s heartening. In modern India, some dalits, at least, are entering the middle classes. Things have moved on from their predicament under the Raj, described so poignantly in Anand’s Untouchable or Nayakwadi’s story about his helper’s grandfather.
Later, I chat with a couple of Briha’s colleagues who were at yesterday’s debate on terrorism, some civil servants and IT types. One approaches with hands full of sodas, inviting me to help myself.
‘Many Marathis in London, yaar?’ he grins.
‘Don’t know I’ve ever met one. Plenty of Gujaratis and Sikhs and Tamils.’
‘Those types are everywhere. Especially here in Maharashtra,’ he adds in an aggrieved tone. ‘Traders. We Marathis are sol
diers and artists and administrators. Gujaratis and Sikhs, they will always cheat you. As for Tamils …’ I’m afraid he’s going to spit. ‘Never trust one. They will eat the food off your table in the evening and stab you in the back the following morning.’
Remembering ASP Shinde’s comments in Satara police station about the problem of local chauvinism towards those from other parts of India, I escape to the terrace. It’s shaded by a gigantic jackfruit tree, stars blinking through its leaves. I lean against a concrete pillar and gaze at them, thinking about Nayakwadi’s closing remarks. Did Bill ever acknowledge his mistakes or feel remorse about the past?
At his father’s call, the boy makes his way down from the roof of the four-storey block of flats where they’re living in Dar es Salaam. It looks onto Selandar Bridge, which divides the older part of the city from Msasani Peninsula and Oyster Bay, where the new African ministers and diplomats live. The boy never wanted to live in a city, but he’s enjoying it now. From here it’s an easy walk either to the beach or the Italian ice-cream parlour and bookshop off Independence Avenue. And the flat roof’s the perfect place to practise football on his own, when he can’t bribe Lindsay to play in goal, the parapet walls perfect for angled passes and thunderous shots. His father’s promised a kick-around after the fancy-dress party at the Gymkhana Club.
The boy’s got his Shaka, King of the Zulus, outfit ready in his bag, with lion-claw necklace and zebra-skin armband, though he’s had to make do with a Maasai spear, stabbing sword and short shield. Since discovering King Solomon’s Mines, he’s become obsessed by all things Zulu. Everyone else is going in some kind of British army uniform, Marine Commandos, Guards, SAS. The boy’s worried about his raffia skirt. Will everyone laugh?
‘Look, old chap, Shaka didn’t racket round in a jockstrap or shorts,’ his father reassured him that morning. ‘Let them have a taste of your assegai if anyone gives you gyp.’
The author preparing for a fancy-dress party c. 1958
He’s already on the stairs as the boy reaches the landing, juggling a tennis ball in one hand.
‘Come on, I’ve got your stuff. Want some water?’ He offers the Gordon’s Gin bottle, sweating with condensation from the fridge.
When he’s finished drinking, the boy leaps down the stairs, two and three at a time. ‘Race you.’
‘Hey, that’s not fair, I’m carrying everything.’
The boy goes back up, but his father shoos him away with a laugh.
‘Careful on the second floor.’
The tiling’s being relaid and there’s only rough cement for the moment. He’s already tripped once and grazed his elbow.
Placing the boy’s holdall and his sports bags on the seat behind, his father settles behind the wheel.
‘Did you remember Neil’s goggles?’ the boy asks. ‘The Jenkins are going snorkelling off South Beach tomorrow.’
There’s an impatient sigh. ‘We’re late.’
‘I promised, dad.’
‘Well,’ his father replies, singling out the right key on his fob, ‘run back up, there’s a good chap.’
The boy leaps back up the stairs almost as quickly as he descended. He loves the way his golden body feels. He never seems to tire, however hot it gets, however long he plays football. He wants to play for the Gymkhana Club when he’s older, like his father. Perhaps in a few years they’ll turn out together. Goalkeepers last longer than outfield players, he knows that, and his father’s still fit as a flea.
He opens the door to the flat quietly as he can. His mother takes a nap in the late afternoon. So it’s a surprise to find her in the kitchen. To his horror, she’s crying, misery scored in a deep line between her eyebrows. The boy freezes. She says nothing as she turns, tears running silently down her face.
‘Mummy, what is it? What’s the matter?’
She steps forward quickly and hugs him. It’s not something she often does, so the boy knows this must be serious. Behind his back he can hear her sniffling into the paper tissue she always carries. Despite himself, he hates the way she does that. Why can’t she use a proper handkerchief like other mothers?
‘It’s nothing. What did you come back for?’
‘Daddy forgot Neil’s goggles.’
‘Better get them then.’
Unsure what to do, the boy finally breaks away and darts into the bathroom. By the time he returns, his mother’s wiping her eyes.
‘You sure you’re OK, mummy?’
‘Yes,’ she sighs, to his guilty relief, ‘run along now or you’ll miss the party. I stitched up the raffia skirt for you.’
‘Alright, old chap?’ his father says as his son slams the passenger door of the Land Rover.
The boy stares straight ahead. ‘Mummy’s crying,’ he eventually mutters. Will his father cancel the outing now?
‘What?’
His son nods.
‘Stay here.’
His father’s gone more than half an hour. The boy tries to understand what’s going on. He’s hardly ever seen his mother cry. Last time was several years back, when he nearly dashed his brains out with a stone-hammer which bounced up like a rubber ball from the rock half-buried in the drive in Manyoni. He’d been helping the masons build the new veranda. The blow stunned him for several minutes and removed a perfect square inch of skin above his eyebrow. Like the mark below his left knee, where he fell from a tree, he’s now proud of the scar.
What can it be? Ever since he saw his father kissing Viva Balson, the boy’s kept a wary eye out. But that was ages ago. The boy still sees Eric and Viva when they drop off or collect their kids from school. But so far as he knows, his father hasn’t seen the Balsons since they left the Ngorongoro Crater.
Eventually, his father returns, looking thoughtful. When he gets into the driver’s seat, he doesn’t say anything for a while. Then he turns to the boy as if suddenly remembering he’s there.
‘What is it, dad?’
To his alarm, his father leans forward to rest his forehead on the steering wheel. For a moment, his shoulders heave. The boy repeats the question. When no answer comes, he slides across the seat and puts a hand on his father’s arm. There’s another shudder before his father looks up again.
‘Have to try harder,’ he whispers.
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s difficult for mummy now. Ames has gone to school in England. I’m at the office all day, and you and Lindsay are away at St Michael’s most of the time. And no Kimwaga to help.’
There isn’t room in the flat. It’s the only black mark against Dar es Salaam, that and the fact they can’t keep dogs. Tunney and Dempsey have stayed behind in Tabora until his father knows how long they’ll be in Dar es Salaam. The Emperor Haile Selassie has offered his father a five-year contract to open the first national parks in Ethiopia and everything’s up in the air.
‘That woman who comes is useless. Mummy has to do it all again herself. She spends too much time on her own.’
‘Why doesn’t she come to the Club?’
‘She doesn’t want to.’
‘Should we try to help more?’
His father smiles gratefully.
He says nothing as they drive into town. At the entrance to the Gymkhana Club the boy sees his friends milling around, inspecting each other’s uniforms. His father suddenly turns to him.
‘Look, old chap, I’ll just drop you at the party if you don’t mind. I’m going to head home now. We’ll have a kick-around another time.’
‘Shall I come back, too?’
‘No, everyone’s waiting for you. I’ll pick you up later.’
A hand powerful as a bear’s squeezes the boy’s for a moment before reaching back for the bag containing the fancy-dress outfit.
‘Bayete, Nkozi,’ he salutes as the boy turns back on the veranda of the Club.
CHAPTER 13
Like Father, Like Son
‘Poel will be here in the next couple of days,’ Rajeev affirms, during his early morning cat
ch-up call. ‘He’ll see what he can do, once he’s back in the office. You’ve time to visit Ratnagiri, then. Nice place, like Goa fifty years ago. I think you deserve a little break, no? Gather your strength before Mumbai?’
It makes sense. A chance to see another of Bill’s postings, the last before he left India. There simply isn’t time to get up to Nasik or Ahmedabad this trip. And since I’ve missed Bhosle, it’s unlikely I’ll be able to clarify whether Bill was ever in Sindh.
There’s no ‘Volvo’ from Kolhapur, so it’s the local country bus, hot and sticky, people packed in the aisle and a strong whiff of poultry from the coop cradled by the woman across from me. To begin with, I’m diverted by my neighbour, an eighty-year-old veteran of the Mahratta Light Infantry. He’s on a pilgrimage to the great temple at Ganpatipule, north of Ratnagiri – preparation, as he puts it, ‘for going upstairs’. His mischievous tales about the mishaps of military life have me in stitches. Until, that is, the bus begins its descent to the Konkan littoral; with steepling crags and plunging ravines to either side, the constant squeal of brakes prevents conversation. We lurch against each other as the driver spins his wheel like a ship’s captain, one way then the other, to the vehement klaxons of lorries coming the other way and the clucks of scrabbling chickens. The veteran places a finger in each ear and closes his eyes with an anxious expression, as if we’re headed ‘upstairs’ sooner than planned.
Finally we reach the safety of the coastal plain, where it’s much sultrier, air hazy and saline as we approach the ocean. The landscape’s also very different from up on the Deccan plateau, orchards of cashew and areca palm, mango, banana and endless emerald paddy fields. On this final leg we’re shown a video, perhaps as a reward for our fortitude. It’s an irritatingly enjoyable Bollywood musical in which an over-loud song with the punchline ‘I’ve got your number’ is endlessly repeated by actors seemingly trained at the Benny Hill Academy of Innuendo. The attendant squeezes jovially through the press in the aisle, offering an acidic cologne which my neighbour slaps gratefully on his hands and neck, as if purifying himself for his pilgrimage. Will this next stage of my own quest provide further enlightenment? And will there be expiation? After Chafal and the nationalist leaders, I sense my trip may be beginning to wind down. If only I can get to hear Bill’s own voice before I leave India. Everything depends on Poel, unless by some miracle some of his confidential weeklies have been preserved in Ratnagiri.
The Setting Sun Page 24