A Fine Family: A Novel (17 page)

Like most Simla showers, it was brief. The sky cleared before they reached home. The trees looked refreshed. In the light of the dim street lamps, the raindrops sparkled on the leaves. Many years later, when they were old and uselessly wise, their thoughts would go back to this day with insistent regret.

Seva Ram was startled by these new feelings. That night he twice woke up. He looked at Tara as she lay asleep, and again he seemed to be seeing a new person. He felt the same uncomfortable sensation of pleasure and guilt. He got out of bed, walked to the next room and looked out at the dark night. He had touched a forbidden delight and he was astonished to be alive.

The next day he took her back to the same spot and he talked about himself. In the sharp, exhilarating air he told her about how he had first encountered the guru. ‘It was during my college days in Lahore. I used to go for a walk by the canal. One morning I saw a tall, bearded man, dressed completely in white. He had a young companion with him. When he passed me, he smiled. It was a radiant smile full of warmth, which appeared to say, “Why haven’t we met before? I have been waiting for you.” It was like love at first sight. I was drawn by the goodness and serenity of his smile, and I followed him. It turned out that he was staying in a modest house not far away from my hostel. He went inside, but his young companion came up to me, and invited me to return at six o’ clock that evening. Before I could say anything the boy was gone.

‘Weren’t you afraid to go?’ asked Tara. ‘Anything could have happened.’

‘I was curious. Besides I was deeply attracted. So I went. I was led inside by the same boy, and I sat down on a cotton durrie. Soon the room filled up. There were about two dozen people, mainly middle aged, none of whom I knew. The guru came at six. After a long silence he spoke in a soft voice, as if he were talking to each one of us individually. He spoke for about half an hour. When he said something profound, he smiled in a self-effacing way. The room was filled with his serene presence. He quoted from a number of mystics of different religions—from Nanak, Kabir, Tabriz, St. Teresa. He said that the truth lay within us, and we did not have to visit temples or mosques or churches to find it. Nor did we have to renounce the world and go off to the Himalayas. We merely had to learn to control our ego. Meditation helped us to do that. When we acted without selfishness, then our actions were pure, and our soul or our separate self was freed to become one with the universal self. I did not listen very carefully because I kept watching him. I was struck by his friendliness and his sincerity. I felt that I had found a friend, and I was happy.’

There was a long silence. Tara had listened in rapt attention. She looked alternately at the sunset over the distant snowy ranges, and at the face of this short, earnest man at whom she had laughed when she had first seen him in Lyallpur. She was drawn to his warm, shy smile, which lit up his entire face. Inside that small frame she suddenly saw a very large man with powerful convictions, which could shake the world. If Simla was a little insubstantial, as all dream-filled places are, this man beside her she felt was certainly very real.

A few weeks later, on a biting cold evening at the end of January 1948, Tara and Seva Ram heard over the radio that Mahatma Gandhi had been assassinated. Tara looked at Seva Ram with tears in her eyes. Seva Ram was relieved to learn that the killer was not a Muslim, but a Hindu fanatic, incensed by Gandhi’s continued pleas for tolerance towards Muslims. Had it been a Muslim, the country would have been plunged into another civil war. Soon Nehru’s voice came on the air:

. . . The light has gone out of our lives and there is darkness everywhere. . . Our beloved leader. . . is no more. . . A madman has put an end to his life, for I can only call him mad who did it, and yet there has been enough of poison spread in this country during the past years and months. . . we must root out this poison. . . The first thing to remember now is that none of us dare misbehave because he is angry. . . In his death he has reminded us of the big things of life, that living truth, and if we remember that, then it will be well with India. . .

In the evenings everyone in Simla went to the Mall no matter what the season. Between five and seven o’clock the thing to do was to get dressed and take a stroll from the Ridge to the end of the lower Mall in order ‘to eat the air’. It was a delightful winding stretch of about a mile, along a gentle slope, with glamorous shops and smart cafes. One went there to be seen and to see others, and every evening was a veritable fashion parade where men, women and children vied with each other in the elegance of their clothes. The colourful display of women’s silk saris was especially striking, but even the men strutted about in the latest cuts from London. The Punjabi on the Mall felt the same emotions that a fashionable Parisian must have felt when strolling on the Champs-Elysées (or Deauville) at the turn of the century.

Seva Ram used to often meet Tara on the Mall after work. They would meet at ‘Scandal Poin’, which was everyone’s meeting place, where the Mall divided into three avenues, the broadest one called the Ridge, leading towards the bandstand and Christ Church; a lower one which went past the Madras Coffee House to Cecil Hotel and the Viceregal Lodge; and a higher one which went to the magnificent timbered General Post Office and the Army headquarters. One evening as Tara stood waiting for Seva Ram, she heard her name repeated by a familiar voice. She turned around but could not immediately spot its owner. But the mocking nasal tone was unmistakable, and her heart skipped a beat.

‘Karan?’ she whispered to herself.

‘Tara!’ said Karan, emerging out of the crowd.

She was shocked at how much he had changed. He had shaved off his beard, and the gaiety in his eyes had been replaced by a more searching look. His oval face had rounded out at the edges. He had put on a little weight since she last saw him in jail, but he was still slim. His hair was shorter, and he was less youthful-looking. Although he had lost some of his earlier dash, the good looks were still there. The most dramatic change she thought was in his eyes. Instead of the earlier spontaneity, she perceived a subdued irony.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘What are
you
doing here?’ she asked almost simultaneously. They both laughed.

‘We are posted here in Simla,’ she said blushing.

There was an uncomfortable pause.

‘What about you?’

‘Me? Oh, I am eating the air on the Mall,’ Karan replied with a laugh.

‘I don’t mean now. You know what I mean.’ She looked flustered, and she reddened as she noticed the unfamiliar, cold irony on his face.

‘I teach philosophy. Six months here and for six months in a college in Delhi.’

Tara was shocked. She had expected him to have become a junior minister in the government or to have attained some equally exalted position, as many of the bright young men had, who had fought in the Congress movement. However, his cold, ironical manner prevented further questions. She felt sorry for him.

‘I’ve missed you, Karan. I’ve often thought of you.’

‘Have you, really?’

‘Of course.’ After a tense pause she said, ‘I have a son.’

They exchanged family news. They talked about Bauji, Chachi, and the others. They spoke about the partition. Tara noted a surprising absence of the idealism which used to be such a marked feature of his life in Lyallpur. She kept searching in his eyes for a hint of his old mischievous playfulness. Instead she found a stiff, cold cynicism, which was cleverly disguised by excessive politeness. She thought he would say something about Independence, a cause for which he had passionately fought and even gone to jail. But he remained silent. Did something happen in jail? she wondered. What was he really doing in Simla? She couldn’t believe that he had given up everything to end up as a lowly academic.

‘Isn’t it terrible about Gandhi?’ she said.

‘I was there,’ he said, trying not to make a big thing out of it.

‘Tell me, what happened?’ she asked, full of excitement.

‘I was at the prayer meeting at Birla House. Gandhi was always punctual and the meetings began promptly at five p.m. But he was ten minutes late that day. As he walked towards the congregation, accompanied by his two grand-daughters, the crowd parted to let him pass towards the dias. A young man stepped forward from the crowd, folded his hands and bowed to him. Then he pulled out a revolver and fired three shots in quick succession. At the second shot Gandhiji fell, with the words
‘He Ram’
on his lips. Within minutes he was dead.

Tara had tears in her eyes. As she wiped her eyes, she said, ‘I must confess to you Karan, that I found his constant preaching of Hindu-Muslim unity a bit irritating. I know he was “India’s greatest son since the Buddha”, but what about us, who have lost our homes and our relatives because of the Muslims? Chachi was shot by a Mussalman. Do you think I can forget that?’

‘Let’s not look backwards, Tara.’

‘I know, I know. Karan, isn’t it great to be free? I feel such a sense of hope in the future.’

A quarter-of-an-hour later Karan left just as unexpectedly as he had arrived.

The chance meeting with Karan had an unsettling effect on Tara. But it was not as profound as it might have been. Initially she was in a daze. He had again woken a dormant sensuality within her. As unrequited feelings surfaced, she again felt restless with desire. However, the excitement quickly subsided, and she was proud of not losing control of herself. This encounter she felt was different from the previous one in the Rohtak jail. She did not feel the same kind of pain. He had aroused pleasant feelings in her, certainly, but she was not tormented as she had been at Rohtak. She attributed this difference both to a change in Karan as well as in her transformed relationship with Seva Ram. Whereas at Rohtak Seva Ram had been a stranger, now he was a familiar figure, whom she was learning to love and respect. He still irritated her, and he was too distant to call a friend, but there was no longer any question of her loyalty.

Tara felt pleased with herself as a consequence, for this meant she could see Karan without feeling guilty. She had found her moorings and they appeared to be sufficiently strong. Nevertheless, she was sensible and did not rush into another meeting. She allowed three weeks to pass in which she thought further. She resolved in the end that she would not see him alone. She wanted Seva Ram to get to know Karan and to like him. She wanted him to become a ‘family friend’. Having cleared her mind, and having gained confidence, she wrote him a letter inviting him for lunch the next Saturday.

Karan arrived early on Saturday. He came before Seva Ram returned from his office and Arjun from school. Tara felt nervous and there was a certain uneasiness between them during the first few minutes. He behaved like a stranger, and this infuriated her. He was stiff and extremely proper. She even detected a hint of superiority in his attitude, and a derision for her humdrum middle class life. Gradually, however, he relaxed and she went back into the kitchen as he pulled up an easy chair into the gentle sunlight. While she prepared lunch inside, he sat savouring the intricate sounds of the Himalayan mid-morning. Soon Arjun arrived and Karan quickly made friends with him.

‘Sh. . . hear that?’ said Karan.

‘What?’

‘That sound.’

Arjun was puzzled.

‘Listen!’ whispered Karan.

Arjun shook his head.

‘Listen again,’ said Karan urgently.

Arjun’s face lit up this time, and he nodded. There was no mistaking the honeyed notes which went up and down the same scale.

‘That is the Himalayan cuckoo,’ said Karan triumphantly. There was a pause. Just then the bird flew to the next tree. Both of them watched it carefully.

‘Do you know that tree?’ whispered Karan.

Arjun shook his head.

‘It is a deodar tree,’ said Karan and he smiled.

They were silent again. Arjun went back to playing by himself on the grass. Karan’s eyes moved, glancing from Arjun playing at his feet to the sunlight playing on the deodar’s branches, and beyond to the motionless contour of the hills. Each of them was absorbed in his own world, yet quietly united by their nearness. Karan seemed to relate better to younger people. The ironic mask seemed to drop away and he became more spontaneous.

Their silence was again interrupted, this time by a humming sound. Both of them looked up, and Arjun pointed to a swarm of bees in the wisteria flowers. Karan said, ‘If you learn to listen, you will hear the sound of the universe.’

Soon Seva Ram arrived, and they sat down for a leisurely meal outside on the lawn. Although he said little, Karan seemed to be at ease. Tara too began to relax. He seemed to be interested in Seva Ram, although the conversation did not flow easily. She watched Karan’s exquisitely shaped aristocratic hands as he talked. She noticed that when the conversation turned to himself, he looked amused and laughed in an ironical, self-effacing way, and gently steered it in a different direction. She watched his black, expressive eyes. Although he had lost some of his threatening good looks, he was still very handsome. He gazed intently at Seva Ram. It was a searching gaze, as if he expected to find some answer. She sensed that he wanted to ask her husband about his spiritual life, but he was reluctant to do so.

‘What do you do all day long?’ she asked him.

‘I have my lectures.’

‘And?’

‘And I read,’ he said.

‘And?’

‘And I play the sitar.’

‘And?’

‘And that is all.’

They laughed.

‘But who do you meet?’

‘Oh, I have a few friends, but mostly I spend the time by myself.’

She could tell that he did not want to talk about his friends. ‘What do you read?’ she asked instead.

‘I have been reading the Upanishads.’

Seva Ram was impressed.

‘Doesn’t it get boring?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he said with an ironical smile.

‘But what is it going to lead to?’

‘Wisdom, I hope,’ and he laughed.

‘It doesn’t seem very practical,’ she said.

‘You sound just like your father. It reminds me of our conversations in Lyallpur,’ he said in a tone of carefully disguised scorn.

The mention of Lyallpur suddenly transported Tara into the past. She pictured Karan sitting beside Bauji in the courtyard of their house, and she ached at the memory. She felt the tears rising. He sensed her discomfort and changed the subject.

‘You are right, though. It is not very practical, but it is very exciting.’ Suddenly his face became animated. ‘You cannot imagine the thrill, Tara, of reading the Upanishads in the original. It makes you feel as if you are walking on air.’

He had got up and begun to pace up and down. Tara noticed that Karan’s ironical manner seemed to recede for the first time. This was the old Karan, she felt. She looked into his eyes and glimpsed a hint of the earlier sparkle as the mask was lifted momentarily.

‘But can you spend your whole life doing this?’ she asked.

‘A whole lifetime may not be enough to know what I want to know.’

‘What do you want to know?’

He smiled, and continued in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone, ‘I want to know what happens to us when we die; I want to know whether there is a god or not; where we came from and where we are going; whether we decide our own actions or if they have been decided for us.’

‘But people have been asking these questions for thousands of years. How will you find an answer?’ she asked.

‘Seva Ram has found an answer,’ he said.

‘Then why don’t you ask him? He will tell you.’

Seva Ram smiled and looked away uncomfortably. There was a pause.

‘When are you going to find a proper job?’ Tara asked. ‘It is all right to talk like this when you are in college. But now you are grown up. You should think of having a family and earning a proper living.’

‘But I have a job,’ he said.

‘I mean a proper job. We are a free country now and there are so many opportunities for a bright young man. So many things to do. This is the land of hope. The future is in our hands, Karan. It’s not right for you to withdraw into ancient philosophy.’

‘What do you suggest?’ he asked coldly.

‘You could still sit for the IAS. You were in any case going to sit for it before partition when it was called the ICS. I don’t know why they need to change names. It still means joining the civil service and ruling the country. The only difference is that earlier you had an English boss, now you will have an Indian politician.’ As Tara began to sound more and more like Bauji, Karan gently withdrew. He became subdued. The mask of the cynical man of the world returned. Tara knew that he had inherited money from Chachi. There was thus no pressing need for earning more, but it didn’t seem right to her that Karan should be stuck as a provincial lecturer.

‘With the English gone, there are many shoes to fill. And many more jobs will come with Nehru’s socialism. You don’t want to remain a college lecturer for the rest of your life. A man must not do less than what he is capable of.’

Karan laughed. However, it was not the natural, expressive laugh of his youth. It was the affected and formal response of a cultured socialite. Tara suddenly felt embarrassed. His manner made it clear that he thought it inappropriate to continue this conversation.

Tara suggested they all go for a walk, and the men readily agreed. Saturday afternoon walks were now a part of the routine of their life in Simla, and Tara wanted to show Karan the picturesque spots around their house in Chota Simla.

The town of Simla occupied a spur of the lower Himalaya, and ran in an east-west direction for six miles. Chota Simla was situated at the south east end of Simla, sloping directly south of the Monkey Peak of Jakko. It was sparsely inhabited and thickly wooded. Around Chota Simla they had two favourite walks, one of them with fine views of the mountains above, and the other leading off in the opposite direction overlooking the plains below. The former went towards the village of Mashobra. Tara was tempted to suggest the Mashobra walk, but for some reason she did not. Instead, they took the opposite walk along a rivulet, which was dry except during and after the monsoons from July to October. They wandered amongst the deodars with the afternoon sun penetrating through the trees. They stopped to look at a stray poppy here and an aristocratic rhododendron there. The winding path narrowed. They passed strangers on the way, people whom they did not know, but with whom they exchanged smiles. They met Tibetan women with high cheekbones and slit eyes who were adorned with gold and silver nose-rings and ornaments made of goatskins, which they plaited into their hair above their foreheads. Their men looked wild and unkempt, with long hair falling over their sheepskin jackets. They met hill traders whose mules brought honey, nuts and apricots from the drier lands beyond the Sutlej river. They were as happy and carefree as they could get as they walked on that lazy Saturday afternoon.