Train to Delhi Page 4

  Gautam snatched another glance at his father, who sat there glum and anxious, his forehead wrinkled, his chiselled chin drooping. Was it a gnawing awareness of some nemesis overtaking him? Or, because Jesus was about to claim his only child by offering him the bait, not of social security but of easy divorce.

  ‘Is there anything bothering you, Dad?’

  ‘No, nothing whatsoever,’ he replied. But his voice came loaded with poignancy: ‘You know, Gautam,’ he resumed, ‘I’ve done some hard thinking during the past few days … Maybe Christ too was a yogi, a real karma yogi.’

  He nodded his head as if to underscore his words.

  Ah, the recantation! Gautam at once realized that he was listening to an indulgent father who’d surrendered his soul to the devil. Indeed, there came in the life of everyone a moment when one would seek any desperate justification for one’s lapses.

  Gautam merely smiled.

  ‘I know you are amused,’ Shamlal said. ‘But I do mean it, really. Well, if the Resurrection is an absurd fantasy according to the Hindus, how do you explain the equally inconceivable phenomenon of our yogis burying themselves underground for days together, then emerging with their heartbeats normal, their vision clear as crystal?’

  ‘But Christ died on the cross, nailed and bleeding till the end. Stone-dead he was when they pulled him down.’

  ‘No, my dear, Christ didn’t die on the cross,’ said Shamlal. ‘He was left there unconscious by the Romans as ‘stone-dead’ and buried later. But now I earnestly believe that being a yogi, he had controlled his organs, had sort of anaesthetized himself before they nailed him on the cross. And since he went into a deep Samadhi, a yogic trance, he felt no pain—nor did he really die, so, he rose from his grave after a brief spell of what I think was a kind of subterranean meditation. That was the Resurrection!’

  ‘It appears I’ve lost you both to Jesus Christ.’

  It was Gautam’s mother who interjected in a mocking tone. She was intrigued by her husband’s ingenious interpretation of Christ’s rebirth. She’d always admired his brilliance, his unrivalled supremacy in polemics, but wasn’t he now arguing like the devil himself? It was indeed a great relief for her to know that her son would soon get his divorce. But beyond that point, she thought, all such talk was blatant hypocrisy.

  Mrs Radha Mehta’s Hindu orthodoxy could never let her accept the notion of Jesus Christ as a yogi. She’d already decided to bring her son back to Hinduism after the divorce was settled. She would let her son stay with Jesus for only a year, the safe period, as counselled by his lawyer. In fact, she was excited at the prospect of looking around for a suitable bride for her son—someone who would be truly devoted to him.

  So, rather bored by this theological dialectic between father and son, she gently reminded them of the important broadcasts that evening by Lord Louis Mountbatten and Jawaharlal Nehru. Without waiting for the father and son to stop, she moved into the other room to turn on the radio.

  First came the well-known announcer, Melville de Mellow: ‘Please stand by for an important broadcast by His Excellency, Lord Louis Mountbatten, the Governor-General of India.’

  A moment’s pause, in which one could hear the faint rustling of papers. Then came on a voice—suave, deep and commanding—with each word rolling out in a clipped British accent.

  Mountbatten started off with his homage to the great Indian heritage, particularly its religious tradition of tolerance and forgiveness. Then he exhorted the new India to live up to these lofty values: let all communities live in peace and enjoy the fruits of freedom. Discreetly avoiding any reference to Pakistan, he urged all Indians to now arm themselves for a much tougher battle—for peace and prosperity. Finally, he thanked India for the respect and affection she had shown him—which symbolized the new bond of friendship between India and England.

  This speech, with its poised rhetoric and staid urbanity, impressed Shamlal Mehta. In another frame of mind, he would have sensed some insidious motive—a member of the royalty trying to perpetuate the Empire through the subtlest form of diplomacy. And wouldn’t the oblique operation of proselytization derive sustenance from the chief executive of free India—a Christian?

  But, sitting there, facing Gautam and his mother, he said: ‘The best of Englishmen! Surely Nehru or Patel couldn’t have run the country’s administration on their own. Agitational politics is one thing but the capacity to rule quite another.’

  Gautam, however, said nothing. He merely tried to anticipate his own paper’s reaction to this speech.

  The voice that next took the air was Nehru’s. He started with a sharp thrust: ‘This is not the freedom we’d fought for—this is not the India of Mahatma Gandhi’s dreams! When will the Hindus realize that this country is not theirs alone? Can we forget the great sacrifices made by such national leaders as Maulana Abul Kalam Azad and Khan Abdul Ghaffar Khan? The Father of the Nation is at present in Noakhali, nursing the wounds of our Muslim brethren. But here, in this historic capital of India, this city of ancient splendour, we’re indulging in senseless violence.

  ‘Let there be no ill will against Pakistan; we wish that country peace and prosperity. But if our frontiers are threatened, we shall fight to the last. So let’s not waste our energies in mutual destruction. We have hitched our destiny to the stars; we have miles to go and promises to keep. Let’s march together, hand in hand—resolute, unflinching and fearless—till we mould the India of our dreams. Jai Hind!’

  ‘That’s our young prince—a sort of Hamlet,’ said Shamlal. ‘Cambridge-educated like Mountbatten, but too flamboyant, too poetic, too impractical. I hope he’ll learn to run the administration.’

  Gautam’s mother beamed at her husband’s somersault. Turning towards her son, she said: ‘Isn’t your father completely sold out to the British? Next time he may argue that Jesus was not Jewish but English!’

  ‘That’s a naïve woman,’ said Shamlal. But his eyes glistened as they rested fondly on her face. ‘How can you make her understand anything?’ Then to Gautam: ‘You must be terribly tired. Why don’t you go to bed? I’ll settle up with your mother in my own way.’

  But before his father moved off to his bedroom, Gautam looked at his face closely. Such a striking resemblance with Abdul Rahim—the same arched eyebrows, the same chiselled chin and nose.

  ‘Oh, the dead man’s letter!’ Gautam suddenly recalled.

  He reached out for his jacket, hanging on a peg above the divan, and fumbled for the letter in its inner pocket. Yes, there it was. Smoothing out the blood-stained paper, his eyes caught the last words: ‘Sometimes I wonder why our British rulers chose to leave us to these Hindu bloodsuckers.’

  How very ironic, Gautam said to himself, that both communities were still looking to England for help.

  He put away the letter, muttering to himself: ‘Tomorrow, I’ll write to his wife.’

  Lying in bed, he began to compose the letter mentally. How should I break the news? Who was Salma? Haseena’s sister, presumably. And where exactly was Haseena in Delhi? He conjured up the image of an abducted Muslim girl, held under duress somewhere in the capital. Supposing he had a sister kidnapped and carried away to Pakistan! He also thought of the Sikh driver’s two sisters … He jerked his head as though to shake off these gruesome images. Thank God, he didn’t have a sister.

  In the other room, the light had been turned off. And then the sound of a creaking bed, a fervent kiss, mute whispering.

  ‘Don’t be silly—not tonight …’ That was his mother’s voice.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Can’t you see he’s still awake?’

  ‘I’ll wait.’

  ‘I said, not tonight.’

  ‘I thought you’d also like to celebrate. Isn’t Gautam getting his divorce?’

  His father pressed on, his voice throbbing with passion.

  ‘You know once I say no—that’s it,’ his mother replied. ‘And I’m not really in the mood. Not after your impassioned rechri
stening of Jesus as a Hindu yogi … Maybe next Thursday.’

  ‘Oh God, what a tyrant!’

  But a few minutes later, Gautam again heard the bed creaking. This time there were no words spoken, only muffled breathing, deep and intense.

  So his father had had his way after all, Gautam understood.

  Old lovers! Of course, even at fifty-nine his father was sinewy and full-blooded. For hadn’t Gautam’s mother fed him daily on creamed milk, almonds and Chavanprash? And she had herself, at fifty-three, never forsaken her nail polish. And daily she rubbed her cheeks with orange peels to lend them a fresh glow.

  Lying in bed, as Gautam peered out of the window, he saw the moon sailing into a forest of clouds, like a lonely traveller. Under its silvery shine, the boulders looked like primordial mammals resting on their broad haunches, grinding their jaws.

  5

  ‘Is he there?’ Gautam asked, as Shyama, Berry’s maidservant, answered the door.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she replied, ‘but still in bed.’

  ‘Well past ten, and still sleeping?’ he said, walking straight over to Berry’s bedroom.

  ‘He kept working late last night,’ Shyama said, as she followed him demurely.

  ‘And Memsahib—is she up?’

  ‘She didn’t return last night. She’d gone to see her ailing aunt and stayed back there,’ Shyama chattered on, ‘because of the curfew … We had a big fire in Pahar Ganj …’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  Berry, Gautam thought, must have had a free night, with Sonali away and Shyama alone in the house—and much too willing.

  He again glanced at this woman and noticed that she was wearing one of Sonali’s Kanchivaram saris, and through the translucent blouse were visible two ripe breasts, unencumbered with any brassiere. Her long hair tumbled over her shoulders, down to her swaying hips. Her cheeks rouged, a large moon-shaped kumkum on her forehead, she walked about with a tantalizing swish.

  ‘Would you care for some coffee, sir?’ she asked, a proprietary ring in her voice as though, till Sonali’s return, she was mistress of the house.

  ‘Later,’ Gautam said, as he knocked at Berry’s bedroom. ‘Let me first shake this lazy thing out of his dreams.’

  ‘Is it you, Shyama?’ came Berry’s languorous voice.

  ‘It’s Mehta sahib, sir.’

  That was very discreetly done, this ‘stirring’ up of her master, Gautam thought. He turned the doorknob and walked in.

  ‘You indolent thing, dreaming away so late.’

  ‘Hello, Gautam,’ Berry said drowsily, as he gathered himself up in bed and threw his massive body against a couple of large, feathery pillows. ‘That’s a nice surprise. Couldn’t get any sleep last night—a terrible fire in the neighbourhood and the beastly shouting …’

  ‘Or was it the play in bed?’ Gautam jibed, whispering. ‘Working away late in the night? How very ingenious of you to send Sonali away …’

  ‘Take it easy, Gautam,’ he smiled, rolling his tongue over his lips, leeringly.

  ‘Smooth operator! One of these days, I’m going to tell Sonali everything.’

  ‘But dare she complain?’ Berry asked, his hairy chest, like that of a large ape, emerging from under the covers, his hand reaching out for a cigar on the side-table. ‘She knows,’ he added, ‘that if she creates a scene, out she goes. A wife should be broken into complete submission from the very beginning, otherwise she can give you hell.’

  ‘You sound like a lion tamer.’

  ‘Or would you rather have me end up a sulking, suffering cuckold—like yourself?’

  As Gautam winced, Berry realized that he’d hurt his friend.

  ‘I didn’t mean to …’ he said, now caressing Gautam’s hand. ‘In a sense, we are both kindred souls. If you’ve been the victim of adultery, my wife has killed me with her unalloyed devotion. That stumpy, insipid creature! So you see, we are both fellow-sufferers.’

  But even this facetiousness didn’t take the edge off his previous barb.

  Yes, Gautam thought, it was all his own fault, his over trustfulness, his utter spinelessness. How Berry had always fought back in life, tenaciously, valorously. Even now his chief engineer was hell-bent on suspending him on some trumped-up charge, just because Berry wouldn’t cringe before him. What if he couldn’t move up the professional ladder? Wasn’t he willing to retire as a mere assistant mechanical engineer?

  ‘You know, Berry, I almost came over to see you last evening, but now I realize that would have been a rude intrusion.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Shyama could have waited in the wings for a while … A friend always comes first. I never mix up my priorities.’

  The servant came in with two coffees on a silver tray. ‘Look, how well she takes care of me,’ said Berry.

  The woman blushed, threw the flap of her sari over her breasts and withdrew briskly from the room.

  ‘That was Sonali’s sari, wasn’t it?’ Gautam asked.

  ‘Yes. But why shouldn’t she wear it when the mistress is away?’

  ‘You are a rascal.’

  ‘Maybe—but a benign one.’

  Then after a moment’s silence, Berry said: ‘Well, you haven’t come to the point. How did it go at St. John’s? Weren’t you supposed to meet the bishop yesterday?’

  ‘That was what I came to tell you—something I’ll be saying for the third time: first to Sarita, then to my father, and now to you … I guess I have hooked the old priest—that gullible Englishman.’

  ‘Bravo!’

  ‘But the real fun is that the man also thinks he has hauled in a big salmon. He deserves to be honoured with a title on the new year—an MBE at least, if not an OBE!’

  ‘I bet he hasn’t been here long enough to plumb the Oriental mind—so devious, so scheming, so ruthless.’

  Gautam now narrated in detail his encounter with the bishop, and the incident relating to Abdul Rahim.

  ‘I wonder where Haseena is in Delhi,’ was Berry’s first response. ‘I should like to rescue her from her abductors.’ There was a lustful glint in his eyes.

  ‘You’re an unmitigated lecher,’ Gautam said smiling, sensing his intention. ‘Your entire life revolves around one axis—woman.’

  ‘But what greater pleasure is there than to hold a woman’s breasts in your palms? Then to descend into that deep, dark cavern where eternal peace resides … The rest is all maya, mere illusion.’

  ‘Oh, your irrepressible eroticism!’

  ‘Call it whatever you like,’ said Berry. ‘It keeps you from sulking—and sane and healthy.’ Then, after a moment’s pause: ‘You know I made love to Shyama last night while the timber shops were blazing away in the neighbourhood. Oh God, this woman certainly knows how to swing.’

  ‘Another Nero! That’s what you are. But no more of this.’ Gautam paused. ‘I need your help. Will you come to St. John’s next Thursday as my witness?’

  ‘As your bottle-holder?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any time, anywhere.’

  ‘Thank you … Then ten o’ clock—at the church.’

  ‘But look, if that woman chooses to back out at the last moment, there’ll still be another way out,’ Berry said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Islam. It offers you four wives—that woman plus three.’

  ‘But that won’t do. I’ll still have that albatross around my neck.’

  ‘She’ll then be just one of four.’

  ‘You’re in high spirits today,’ said Gautam; then, looking at his watch, ‘I must get moving now. It’s almost eleven.’

  But as he was about to leave, Shyama breezed in.

  ‘It’s Purnima, sir. She wants to see sahib at once.’

  ‘Purnima!’ Gautam exclaimed, almost blanching with anxiety. ‘Oh Jesus, what’s up now? What if that woman has already changed her mind?’

  Quickly Berry changed into his dressing gown, and sat on a sofa chair.

  As Purnima appeared at the door, looking p
ale and worn out, Gautam erupted.

  ‘What’s the matter? … How did you know I was here?’

  ‘Sir, I first went to Anand Parbat and was told …’

  ‘Okay,’ said Gautam sharply. ‘Will you spit it out? Chasing me round the world like a detective.’

  ‘Rahul’s dead, sir!’

  ‘What!’ both Gautam and Berry exclaimed, in great surprise.

  ‘Died last night, about three o’clock. Sudden haemorrhage or something.’

  A sombre hush fell over the place. Gautam’s face went livid; he kept staring at Purnima, as though finding it difficult to believe what he’d just heard. He’d loved the child dearly, spending hours with him in the nursery—brought him toys, candies. And now he was gone.

  ‘But I saw him only last evening, you know,’ Gautam said, biting his lips. ‘Is the body still there?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she answered. ‘Memsahib thought you might like to see him before he was taken away.’

  ‘Is there nobody else around?’ Gautam asked her, suddenly realizing that the other man might also be there.

  ‘Nobody else will be there, sir, till noon.’

  Gautam knew that the woman was only being discreet. ‘Nobody’ was obviously Mohinder. He understood that after his earnest offer of remarriage, Sarita must have felt impelled to make this gesture.

  Then came the child’s last words ringing into his ears: ‘Daddy, when will you come back again?’

  ‘I’ll be there, Purnima.’

  6

  On his way to Darya Ganj, Gautam dropped into a wayside mailbox the letter he’d written to Abdul Rahim’s wife. He felt as though he’d been caught between two deaths—the old man’s and Rahul’s. Wasn’t he poised precariously, like a spider, between two ends of a cobweb? A burnt-out young man around thirty! Could he again pick up the threads of his life at this late stage? He knew he was becoming a manic-depressive. He should heed the tonic advice of that daredevil, Berry, he told himself, and grab his share of happiness.