A Fine Family: A Novel (10 page)

As he neared the drawing room, he heard the hum of busy voices. At the door he took in the all-male scene. His guests were predictably formed into three circles—each determined by natural professional affinity—the academics, the bureaucrats and the lawyers. Each cluster was in animated conversation on the same subject: When would the British leave India? Would they split the country in two when they left? Should India support them in their war with the Japanese in the East?

When Bauji was spotted, many eyes turned to him in warm greeting, and the carefully glued groups began to loosen. Soon after Bauji, Karan also entered. As expected there was a rush towards Karan, and the conversation became livelier.

‘Do you really believe the British will leave India?’ asked Big Uncle of the English judge.

‘Unquestionably,’ replied the retired judge, who was well known for his pro-Indian sympathies.

‘What about
you,
Judge? Do you look forward to returning home?’ asked Bauji.

‘Home? What home? India is my only home. I was born here, brought up here. Except for one miserable three-month visit, I don’t know Britain at all.’

‘Aren’t you disappointed by our reaction to the war in the East?’ asked Big Uncle.

‘I think the surrender of Singapore in September was a staggering blow to British prestige in India,’ said the judge. ‘It opened up the Bay of Bengal to the Japanese navy.’

‘And we don’t seem to understand that
we
are threatened by the Japanese,’ said Bauji.

‘And why should you?’ asked the judge. ‘Indians are already under an alien ruler. Why should you feel that one foreigner is worse than another?’

‘We don’t support an Axis victory, Judge,’ said Karan charmingly. ‘We merely want to be neutral in a conflict that doesn’t concern us. If Churchill were merely to hint at the unconditional freedom of India, we would be ready to fight the Japanese tomorrow.’

‘With what?’ sneered Big Uncle. ‘Gandhi wants us to fight them with non-violence.’

‘I am sorry to admit Sir, that I take pleasure at Britain’s present discomfort in the East,’ said Chachi who had just walked into the all-male gathering. ‘I applauded the successive fall of Hong Kong, Philippines, then Malaya, Indo-China, Thailand. We were amazed at the speed of the Japanese advance. It means that the colonial empires are flimsy structures built on pillars of rotting clay.’

‘The English people are weary of the Indian Empire. But Churchill continues to confuse them with the Muslim question,’ said the judge.

‘But there is a Muslim question, isn’t there?’ asked a silvery voice at the back. Everyone turned around to look at the distinguished Sir Mirza Khan, who was one of the few Muslims in the gathering. A soft-spoken, highly successful lawyer, he was one of Bauji’s oldest friends. But Bauji had been disappointed to note a growing communalism in Sir Mirza’s outlook over the past six months.

‘It is partially our creation, I am afraid,’ said the Englishman. ‘The Hindu-Muslim problem became a problem as a result of the distinctions we began to draw in the last century. It worsened when your reformers and revivalists attempted to modernize India, and unintentionally they created a gulf, because each went back to his own philosophy. To counter the English challenge, the Hindus turned to the Vedas for inspiration and the Muslims to the Koran.’

‘Yes, yes,’ impatiently admitted Chachi. ‘But why must you equate one-fourth Muslims with three-fourths Hindus? Or rather why can’t you treat all Indians as one?’

‘Islam says that Muslims should be ruled only by Muslims,’ said Sir Mirza firmly.

‘Come, come, Sir, we both know that the Hindu-Muslim conflict has little to do with religious tenets. The real basis is economic and social. It’s a struggle for power and the opportunities which political power confers,’ said Karan.

‘No, young man. The differences are religious and cultural. The English are rightly concerned to protect the minority from the potential tyranny of the majority. We would prefer the English to continue in India rather than turn it over to the Hindus,’ said Sir Mirza.

At this point, realizing that the conversation was on delicate ground, Bauji tried to intervene, but he was too late.

‘I always thought that the Muslims were anti-national. But I didn’t believe it till I heard it with my own ears this evening,’ said Chachi provocatively.

‘Look here, look here,’ Bauji tried to placate the Muslim barrister, but the damage was done. All eyes were on Sir Mirza who smiled, bowed, and walked out. Bauji ran after him and caught up with him just before he reached the main gate. With his considerable powers of persuasion and the warmth of his personality, Bauji succeeded in inducing Sir Mirza to stay. Arm in arm the old friends walked towards the ladies under the smaller shamiana.

There Sir Mirza quickly merged with the silks and scents of a group of middle aged women, whom he had known all his life and who were willing to be charmed by his wit and easy manner. Bauji noted from a distance that his attractive silver-haired colleague had changed considerably in the past few months. As he had become more fanatic about his religion, he had lost his sense of humour. He had almost completely forgotten to laugh at himself, a quality that Bauji prized more than any other in his friend. Earlier, Sir Mirza was always ready to amuse and to be amused, often at his own expense. If this is what faith did to one, Bauji wondered, then he wanted to have none of it. Faith, to his mind was a stiffening process. It made one rigid and to that extent less human. Each human being was unique and thus his faith should be unique. Millions of people believed, but each one had to believe by himself. Above all, faith was a hope or a wish that god might exist. As with all wishes, why should not this one be special with each one. Where was the room in all this for organized religion? It was the continuous voice of one’s own conscience and one’s own reason that should make one believe, not that of others. In fact that which was believed by everyone, all the time, had every chance of being false.

Leaving his mollified friend behind, Bauji returned to the main shamiana. Bauji greeted friends and smiled charmingly at the ladies as he passed them. He was relieved to note that all was well: the wedding party was still absorbed in the serious business of eating the sumptuous feast; Bhabo was gossiping with the Khanna ladies on a sofa; people were moving about serving food and drinks with quiet efficiency; and two gaudily dressed Muslim musicians in a corner were unsuccessfully vying for attention with their shenais.

Suddenly Bauji thought of Tara, and he decided to go inside the house. He was astonished to find her sitting quietly all by herself in her room. She was absorbed in examining her painted hands.

‘Why are you alone, child?’ he asked. ‘Where are the other women and all your friends?’

‘I threw them out,’ Tara replied crossly.

‘A bride is not supposed to be alone on this day.’

‘An unhappy one is.’

‘What is wrong, my dearest?’ he asked tenderly. He took her colourful, gaily-patterned hand, and he sat down beside her. She burst into tears and threw her arms around him.

‘He is here,’ she said, between sobs.

‘Who is here?’ he asked.

‘Karan,’ she whispered, and he understood the cause of her misery.

‘He came to see me,’ she said.

‘In here?’

She nodded. There was a pause.

‘I asked him to take me away,’ she slowly added.

‘You did what!’ said Bauji incredulously. This was going too far, he thought. And he shivered.

‘He said he had to go back to jail,’ she said.

‘Of course he has to go back. Do you think he has time for your romantic foolishness?’

‘It is not foolish,’ she protested.

‘What else is it!’ He found himself getting angry. ‘A daughter of mine on her wedding day, behaving in this disgraceful way.’ He looked into her tear-filled eyes. And he couldn’t sustain his anger any longer. ‘Hush, my dearest,’ he said as he put his arm around her. ‘Now put these impossible ideas out of your head. Remember he is your cousin and you must love him as a brother. Soon you will meet your husband and learn to respect and love him, and all will be forgotten.’

‘I have just met him. And I don’t like him.’

‘You have merely seen him. There is a great difference between seeing and knowing. It has always been this way and in the end it is for the best. Trust me.’ He got up to leave. ‘I’ll send in your friends.’

On the way out, he turned round, and asked, ‘Does anyone else know? Did anyone hear you speak to him?’

She shook her head.

‘Where is Anees, Bauji? I need her.’

‘You know very well that she left for Lahore this morning, my child,’ he replied.

‘I need her to tell me that it is all right. I need her to teach me to like him. I need her to help me forget Karan. Why did you send her away?’

‘I did not, Tara.’ He wondered if she realized how much
he
needed her Muslim friend.

‘How do I look, Bauji?’ she asked suddenly.

‘You look beautiful, Tara. A beautiful bride.’

A troubled Bauji emerged from Tara’s room. He felt relieved that no one else had heard her speak to Karan. As a man of the world, he knew that it was important to avoid a scandal. However, he was also concerned about how Tara felt. It was bad enough for her to be marrying against her will. Certainly all the women he had known had been married in this way. The girl was obviously nervous and afraid to leave the house in which she had grown up. It was quite natural. This fear was understandably mixed with an anticipation over the first real relationship with a man. Girls from good homes were brought up to believe that it was the only way. Why then was Tara behaving in this manner? Was there something wrong in the way he had brought her up? She had obviously picked up these ideas in college. Bhabo had warned him not to give the girl too much education. But, surely Bhabo was not right. Tara had always been a spirited girl, and had invariably done what she believed in.

He was soon back in the main shamiana. He looked around and found that the festivities were going well. The boy’s side had finished eating, and the girl’s side had sat down to eat. People were animatedly talking and eating and enjoying themselves. It couldn’t have been better organized. Instead of being satisfied by the success of his arrangements, Bauji could feel ill humour creeping slowly over him. The faces began to appear ugly, the arrangements grotesque, and the whole spectacle absurd. The incident with Sir Mirza, and his daughter’s grief were beginning to affect him. Again he started to feel hot and weary. He wanted to get out of his stifling formal clothes, especially his tight-fitting turban. He felt a loathing for himself. He took out the gold watch from his pocket and saw that it was still early. He decided to go out for a breath of fresh air.

In the opposite corner, Bauji saw a group of giggling young girls, all distantly related, from his village. He was struck by their unhealthy pallor and sickly appearance. Unlike Tara’s educated girl friends from the city, these girls were overdressed, and unsure of themselves; they were socially immature, and inclined to be hysterical. He couldn’t blame them for many of them had been child brides, and had remained emotionally in disciplined. Since marriage they had lived within the confines of the joint family of their child husbands in a borrowed Islamic style purdah. Ever since they had arrived into their new and unknown families, they had been subjected to every form of humiliation until they had become pregnant. Since they were children, this did not happen for several years, and meanwhile they were taunted and unceasingly reminded by every form of innuendo that their sole duty was to conceive a son by their husbands. Their only response was passive obedience. Since they were not allowed to go out, they did not get fresh air and sunshine, and this explained their unhealthy colour.

As he was walking out of the shamiana, Bauji also noticed how utterly ill-made were the faces of his distant family members; even worse, how ill-shaped were their bodies. Because of eating roti and ghee, starch and fat, day in and day out, everyone over thirty was over-weight, and some were positively obese. Since they tended to put weight on their faces, they appeared even more deformed. And what he overheard from their bloated mouths was dull, commonplace and awkward conversation. His melancholy had changed to black gloom. He drank a glass of tepid water. Instead of refreshing him, it seemed to increase his bitterness.

He was relieved to be alone in the dark street outside. He raised his hand, but he could not feel even a hint of breeze. He thought to himself: what kind of land is this? Half the year round it is unfit to live in—you sweat all the time and the temperature doesn’t go below hundred in the shade. If Indians find it hard, why do foreigners want to live in this inhospitable land? He was distracted momentarily by the thought of Mughal princes sensuously lounging about in shaded pavilions amidst their fountains, their languid women and their cushions. Indignation gradually displaced this fleeting Mughal vision, as he recalled the shameful way he pretended to himself on countless evenings that a breeze was blowing when he went for a walk. Instead of reviving him, the walks usually left him tired and sweaty. From March the hot season began, with the mean temperature rising at the rate of ten degrees per month. In May, when the thermometer ranged between 95 and 115, a desiccating, scorching wind started to blow. And there was no relief till the end of June when the south and east wind finally ushered in the monsoon rains. Both the Mughals and the English had disliked the Indian heat, and both had worked out elaborate ways to make themselves comfortable. The English built hill stations or built bungalows with extremely high ceilings and the Mughals surrounded themselves with gardens and running water.

These thoughts calmed him and he decided to return inside. On the way back, he passed by a group of his poor relations from the village, who sat quietly in a corner apparently not feeling the need to converse, and content to observe the festivities. Theirs was not an awkward silence (as it might have been with the drawing room crowd); they appeared to find happiness merely in being together with their own kin. He felt heartened by this observation, and from melancholy his mood slowly turned to compassion for his people. He saw faded aunts, stupid cousins, ambitious nephews and conceited nieces. Each one thrown into the world. Simple people trying to enjoy one night of frail happiness between their exhausting unhappy days. He felt protective towards them. They were all part of himself. His people seemed to give him strength and helped him fight off the last remnants of his gloom.