He grew listless and disinterested in his work. No new products emerged from the lab, and to make matters worse, the monsoons failed that year, for the first time since Doraipuram had been founded. As the weeks lengthened into months, the family grew restive. They had respected Daniel’s grief for as long as they could, but the truth was that their compassion and empathy were finite. They expected him to pick himself up and go on. Ramdoss and Lily tried to shield Daniel as much as they could, but they knew he would need to start taking an interest in the business and the settlement soon.
In the days of his grief, he spent a lot of his time in the little enclosed veranda behind his bedroom, reading and meditating on death. He read not only the Bible, but also the Upanishads and the Gita, and a couple of commentaries on Hindu and Buddhist scriptures that Narasimhan had left with him. Each text offered him something but there wasn’t enough in any of them to remove the great sorrow that persisted in his heart. Ramdoss often came to sit quietly with him and occasionally he would bring up matters that needed to be attended to. Daniel’s answer was unvarying: ‘Do what you must.’ He had no interest in discussing anything, although he would often tell Ramdoss stories about his childhood, every one of them featuring Charity.
60
All the weddings that had been planned in Doraipuram for the second half of 1930 were postponed until the official year of mourning was over. Among those affected was Shanthi. The groom had been picked, the dowry settled and the remaining arrangements were being finalized when Charity died.
The week after the memorial service that formally marked the end of the mourning period, Lily brought up the subject of Shanthi’s nuptials with her husband. She had tried to sort out all the details, but had run into an unforeseen problem. As there were so many delayed marriages to solemnize, the family had run out of auspicious dates. Shanthi, as the founder’s daughter, would of course have first pick, but it didn’t seem right. There was no hesitation in Daniel’s mind. ‘I want my beloved daughter to be married off as soon as possible, so why don’t we have all the weddings on the same day? The church is big enough and I’m sure we can get the padre some help.’
Doraipuram had never seen such activity. Guests poured in and were billeted wherever space could be found for them. There were clothes to be stitched, pandals to be erected, chickens and goats to be slaughtered, pickles and sweets to be prepared and stored, houses to be decorated, the church readied. Every household was drawn into some aspect or other of the preparations.
Having given his assent to the celebration, Daniel had withdrawn into himself once more, saddened by the thought that Charity would not be present. Lily and Ramdoss left him alone. His bedroom, where he spent much of his time, looked out on to an avenue lined with rain trees, Charity’s favourite. She had personally supervised the planting of the saplings, but she hadn’t lived long enough to see them bloom. This was the first year they were mature enough to do so and for weeks they had been clouded with flowers. Now they had reached the end of their flowering cycle, and the road under them glowed purple with fallen blossoms. One morning Daniel was watching a colony sweeper lazily pushing a broom around on the avenue. He would sweep the area and move on, only for it to darken again with falling petals. But the man was diligent and would return to clear the road, only for flowers to strew it thickly once more. One day, Daniel thought, the downpour would pare to a drizzle, and the broom would gain the upper hand. Wasn’t his grief like that? For months he’d been paralysed, but slowly he was beginning to emerge into the light. He would get there, he knew, his sorrow diluted sufficiently for life to wash it away.
There was a knock on the door and Ramdoss walked in with Chris Cooke. Daniel couldn’t believe his eyes. ‘Thought I’d surprise you, old friend,’ Cooke said. ‘I’m due to retire next year and I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to visit all the places I might never see again . . .’
‘But if you’d told me you were coming we could have ensured that you were met and looked after properly.’
‘Oh, Ramdoss and I have been planning this for some time. As soon as I received the invitation to the wedding, I knew I had to come. This was my last opportunity to see you all. But Ramdoss suggested that it would be even better if it was a surprise.’
‘I cannot tell you how pleased I am that you’re here,’ Daniel said. ‘And how well you look! India must be good for you, I can’t believe you’re to leave after, let’s see, thirty years?’
‘It’ll be thirty-five years, actually, when they finally put me on the ship back home.’
After Cooke had rested and refreshed himself, Daniel and he went for a walk on the beach. The sun lay near the horizon, glowing an impossible red as it sucked the heat from the day.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen more extraordinary displays at dusk and at dawn than I’ve seen here,’ Cooke said.
‘Yes, Father Ashworth used to say that,’ Daniel said. ‘When I was a boy, he and I used to come this way a lot. He’s buried overlooking the sea, you know.’
‘He loved this place. It was a tragic business.’
‘None of us will ever forget those days,’ Daniel said sombrely.
‘Any more caste trouble?’
‘Not around here,’ Daniel said. ‘There are very few Vedhar families left, and they are a peaceful lot. Nationalist trouble flares up every time something big happens in the cities, but most of it takes place across the river. None of that sort of nonsense here.’
They walked in silence for a while, preoccupied with their thoughts, then Cooke said, ‘I was very sorry to hear about your mother.’
‘Thank you for your letter of condolence. I remember it still, especially the comment that her death only meant that she would now always be with me, living within, available whenever I had need of her.’
‘I felt that way when my father passed away. That’s one of the reasons Barbara and I decided to go back. My mother is ailing, and we’d like to be near her. Besides, the children are there now, so . . .’
‘Will you miss India?’
‘Every moment, I think. I try not to think about leaving, and all else being equal, I’m almost sure we’d have retired here.’
‘Aren’t you worried by the political turmoil?’
‘A bit, but nothing’s insurmountable in my view. You chaps want your freedom. Fair enough. But I don’t think you hate us enough to want to eject us completely. Even Mr Gandhi says he has nothing against us personally. I’m sure something can be worked out.’
‘I hope so. Given the choice, I’d prefer the British to stay,’ Daniel said. He had been surprised that his earlier liking for the British hadn’t disappeared entirely. He should have hated them for what they had done to Aaron but after an unrelenting campaign against Rolfe which, because of Cooke, had been swiftly and successfully concluded (the jail Superintendent had been dismissed) he had simply chosen to reject politics altogether. The nationalists, in his view, were no better than the rulers. If Aaron hadn’t been part of the revolutionary movement he might still be with him today . . . And, if it came to a choice between the two, his more or less disinterested view was that the white man was less disruptive.
Cooke was saying, ‘I think both sides could do things better. But with luck things won’t get worse.’
‘I certainly hope so.’
‘Now that my time here is coming to an end, there’s something I’ve been meaning to apologize to you about.’
Daniel laughed and said, ‘But you’ve done me no wrong. On the contrary . . .’
Cooke broke in, ‘I’m sure it hasn’t even crossed your mind, but for some years now I’ve been trying to get you on the King’s annual honours list . . . Given your contributions and support, it would’ve been the least we could do, but every time I’ve put forward your name, Aaron has come up!’
Daniel said, ‘But how good of you, Chris, I’d never have thought . . . In any case there’s no need to apologize. Quite honestly I find such things meaningless.’
They ceased talking for a bit, wordlessly enjoying the sunset, then Daniel said, ‘How are you going to occupy yourself when you leave?’
Cooke smiled. ‘I’m sure I’ll find things to do. We English say we retire to cultivate our garden.’
‘Our version is that we give up everything and head for the forest, although I suppose we’d be lucky to find a decent forest these days,’ Daniel said with a laugh. Cooke laughed with him.
They walked much longer than they had intended to, there was so much catching up to do. When they finally retraced their steps, their conversation exhausted, Daniel realized he would truly miss the Englishman, although for many years now their contact had been limited to letters and the exchange of gifts. Daniel would send his friend an enormous basket of Chevathar Neelams just before the annual mango festival – Cooke had always threatened to attend this, but had never managed to – which he would reciprocate with a bountiful hamper at Christmas. They should have done more together, he thought. He smiled to himself as he remembered how, at Cooke’s urging, he had bought himself a handsome set of the collected works of England’s greatest writers. These had remained, for the most part, decorative and unread in his library. We should have invested more in this friendship, Daniel mused, and now it’s too late.
Two days later the five brides walked slowly down the avenue of rain trees, their saris fluttering like great white moths in the dusk. The sweepers had watered down the dust and their passage scarcely left any impression on the cool earth. Light streamed out of the windows of the church and shimmered on the estuary. Every available inch of space was taken, and the congregation roared out the songs and responses with a vigour never seen before.
Doraipuram is waking to life again, Daniel murmured to himself, just as I am. Amma would be glad. Later, in a gesture that endeared him to the other parents but dismayed Ramdoss, Daniel paid for a joint feast at Neelam Illum for all the couples married that day. The festivities did not stop until dawn ripped the sky apart. In the early light, the back of the mansion presented a hellish sight – all the stray dogs for miles around had congregated there to dispute the ownership of the pile of bones and scraps with the kites, squirrels and crows.
No such confusion marred the entrance to the mansion. Lily, who had impressed everyone with her unflagging energy and organizational skills, had one more surprise in store. Earlier that day Daniel’s new Chevrolet had been sent all the way to Trivandrum on a special mission. The passenger who returned in the car was kept out of view until the time came for Shanthi and the other brides to depart in the late afternoon. Lily refused to let them go until they had participated in the final ceremony of the day – a group photograph under the spreading mango tree on the front lawn. It was the first time such a ritual had been introduced into a Dorai wedding and there was a lot of excitement among the assembled members of the family. But before the historic picture could be taken they drove the photographer to distraction. Every time he dived under the black hood and peered through the shutter, something or other would upset the composition – an aunt’s extravagant pose obscuring Shanthi’s face or a mischievous nephew having to be brought under control. Finally, after much giggling and whispering, the family was brought to order. At the photographer’s command, the patriarch and the elders scowled obligingly for the camera. A blue flash, and the harassed photographer was done.
A month later, when the framed prints arrived at Neelam Illum, Daniel decreed that the picture of his daughter’s wedding day would occupy pride of place in the enormous living room. ‘Without Shanthi, none of this would have existed,’ he said to Lily, as he supervised operations. ‘Her name should have been Lakshmi.’
Just before the photograph was to be hung, Daniel called a halt to the proceedings, and then beckoned excitedly to Lily. Possibly due to the numerous distractions he was faced with, a small portion of the print had been over-exposed by the photographer. Daniel was having none of it. ‘I knew she would be present. Lily, look at this,’ he said, pointing to the light that misted the faces of the people immediately behind his daughter. ‘How could Shanthi be married without her grandmother’s blessing?’
61
When Kannan was born, Daniel had made a conscious decision not to treat him like the heir apparent. Mindful of his own solitary boyhood, and the oppressive weight of his father’s expectations, he decided that his son should be free to enjoy the pleasures of a secure childhood in the midst of an extended family. Accordingly Kannan was left pretty much to his own devices. He dressed the same as his innumerable cousins, slept in the large room in the mansion that had been set aside for boys of his age and wasn’t singled out for any special favours.
It was the best gift Daniel could have given him. Remote from the concerns of adults, and free of the pressures of his surname, life was entirely delightful for Kannan. For a year after Charity’s death, communal celebrations were restrained but that didn’t hold the young boys of the settlement back. They still had enough to keep them going: raids on the mango groves, swims in the river and the wells, re-enactments of Solomon’s great battle on the beach – although Daniel had forbidden this. There were long bicycle rides under the sun that burnt them to an unnatural shade of blackness, fights, hunts for harmless water snakes in flooded paddy-fields, intense games of hockey and football. And during the migratory season, when water birds filled the sky and water, great shoots for duck and teal, the lakes and the river echoing with the thunder of shotguns and rifles.
One morning, a few months after his sister’s wedding, Kannan woke up alone in his mother’s room. He was recovering from the flu, and had been segregated from the other boys. He had slept late, and there was no one else about. He was a little weak but otherwise felt fine. Quickly bathing, and slipping on the combination shorts and singlet which was the standard garment for the younger boys when they were not in school uniform, he wandered out of the house with no set purpose in mind. All his friends were at school, and within a short time Kannan felt bored. It was a bright and sunny day, but the monsoon was about to break, and pre-monsoon showers had left pools of water in every depression in the ground. A large pool that lay just beyond the garden was full almost to overflowing and Kannan was intrigued to see hundreds of tiny shapes moving around under the surface of the scummy green water. Squatting down, he put out a hand and cleared some of the scum away. He could see the tadpoles more clearly now, ungainly creatures with enormous heads and ugly tails. He shifted position a bit, settled himself more comfortably and thrust his hand into the water. When he withdrew it, there were two tadpoles in his clenched fist. Kannan put them on a rock nearby and watched their death struggles with interest. When they had stopped moving, he prodded them with his finger to make sure they were dead. Then he turned his attention to the pond again. He caught only one tadpole this time, almost a frog with well-developed hind legs and a reduced tail. It took longer to die. By the time there were fourteen tadpoles on the rocks, stiff and twisted like burnt twigs, Kannan had begun to tire of the sport. The tadpoles offered no resistance, were much too easy to catch, and didn’t even die flamboyantly. Rising to his feet, he wandered back to the house.
When he entered the driveway, he noticed that his father’s Chevrolet stood alone and unattended at the top of the driveway, its driver Raju missing. Kannan couldn’t believe his luck. Raju, who kept the lemon-yellow machine – all Dr Dorai’s cars were yellow – in mint condition, was a terror none of them would face. That was the only reason the car had been spared the attentions of the dozens of small boys who were obsessed with it.
Every Sunday after church, Dr Dorai allowed three boys and girls, picked as fairly as possible, to accompany him on a leisurely tour of Doraipuram. It was an experience none of them forgot in a hurry. Kannan’s third turn had come a fortnight ago, and he could still replay much of the journey in his mind. His irritating cousin Gopu, only six and therefore utterly without significance, had stood on the rear seat between Kannan and Mary, another cousin he
didn’t much like, terrified that the car would collide with something. Staring intently through the windshield, he would scream ‘Raju, cow’ or ‘Raju, man’ or ‘Raju, neem tree’ as these objects hove into view, at least half a kilometre away, on the die-straight roads of Doraipuram. After enduring this for as long as he could, Dr Dorai had snapped at his son to control Gopu. Kannan had been swift to comply, and had kept his cousin buried in the seat with a neck-hold, and hadn’t allowed him to emerge until the Chevrolet had rolled to a stop. As he let Gopu out, Kannan had pinched him hard for spoiling his ride.
And now here the Chevrolet stood, a vast expanse of yellow trimmed with black, just inviting him to explore its multidimensional splendours without the distraction of strict adults or annoying cousins. He climbed cautiously on to the running board, unlocked the handle and quickly eased behind the steering wheel. He wasn’t tall enough to see through the wind-screen but it didn’t matter, there was much that was thrilling within the car itself: the gigantic steering wheel, the dials with their mysterious numbers and symbols, the horn. For a while he just sat there, enormously pleased with himself, luxuriating in the car’s embrace. Then he thought with a start that Raju might be back soon and decided to derive as much pleasure from the machine as he could before he was removed from it. He grabbed hold of the lower end of the steering wheel and swung it this way and that, making motor-car noises as he did so: ‘Drrr-drr, drr-drr.’ As he sank into the experience, he grew bolder, and began fiddling with levers and buttons. A lever fell and locked, and he froze, but nothing happened and he continued with his play. He noticed another lever that he hadn’t seen before and tugged at it.
As he disengaged the handbrake, the car started to roll down the slight incline of the driveway. Kannan was shocked when the Chevrolet began to move. His first instinct was to open the door and jump out, but that was soon extinguished by the overwhelming terror he felt as the car began picking up speed. He frantically rotated the steering wheel, and pulled and pushed at various levers. He had observed Raju doing something with his feet when he drove, but the pedals were too distant. He slapped at the horn, and the Chevrolet blared once as it veered off the driveway and ran majestically into a neem tree.
The House of Blue Mangoes Page 30