A Fine Family: A Novel (21 page)

With Big Uncle, Tara tried to avoid the subject that had caused such unpleasantness with Bauji several years ago. But somehow she couldn’t help it. In referring to the Code her brother said, ‘You can’t be so naive, Tara, to believe that you can change people’s behaviour merely by legislation.’

‘I know that, but it affects us too. I don’t worry so much for myself, but we have two unmarried sisters. They must get their proper share. And do you know what I think? Bauji is too much of a conservative. I don’t think he is going to do the right thing for his daughters.’ Big Uncle dismissed her fears. ‘Wait, you don’t know Bauji as I do,’ she said. ‘Besides, you are an interested party, and it suits you to look the other way.’

‘Look here, look here,’ Big Uncle protested, but Tara was not to be stopped.

Arjun got a chance to meet Priti again for the second time at the Dasehra celebrations at Anandale.

Since Dasehra fell on Saturday that year, Tara had planned a special festive meal. Karan came as usual, but he wanted to take them all to see the fair. ‘Come, come,’ he insisted, ‘it will be great fun to see Ravana burning, with all his ten glorious heads going up in flames, one by one. And we shall celebrate his death by eating chaat afterwards.’

Tara was afraid of the crowds, but Arjun and Big Uncle were equally insistent. So they decided to go. After an early lunch, they walked up to the rickshaw stand on the corner of Cart Road and Chota Simla bazaar. There they took rickshaws, which transported them over the little hills of Simla down to Anandale. It was the only large flat ground in Simla, situated in the north end of town, at least a thousand feet below the level of the Mall.

Big Uncle wanted his rickshaw close to Karan’s so they could talk. On the way Karan told him that the Simla rickshaw had been invented in Japan in the 1870s, and had rapidly gained popularity all over the East. The British had brought it to Simla; however, it did not catch on anywhere else in India. Perhaps because it required four people to wheel one passenger.

As they passed Lower Bazaar their nostrils were invaded by the smells of grains, spices, fowls, and fruit. Then they turned and came upon an unusual view of Christ Church.

‘Have you ever been inside it?’ asked Karan.

Big Uncle shook his head.

‘You must come with me one day. I will show you a lovely chancel window with a fresco surrounding it which was designed by Kipling’s father.’ After a pause, he added, ‘We can also see the grand bells, which were cast by the English from the brass that they captured from the Sikh cannon during the Anglo-Sikh wars more than a hundred years ago.’ Karan smiled in his typical ironic manner, which seemed to say, ‘Look here, this is really not very important, just trivia to pass the time.’

They crossed Scandal Point, and started moving downwards, towards a cream-coloured, many-towered, red-roofed building called Gorton Castle. It reminded Big Uncle of a castle in a fairy tale with dragons and captives. ‘In fact it is the secretariat of the central government,’ said Karan. ‘And the clerks are the captives and the officers are the dragons.’ Big Uncle smiled. ‘Next to it is the old secretariat, which had burnt down and was later rebuilt on a fireproof plan—all iron and steel skeleton, by far the grimmest building in Simla. A fit place for the captives, don’t you think?’ said Karan.

They soon crossed into the countryside. Arjun pointed out a splendid view of the green valley with snowy ranges in the distance. As they descended further, it became darker, for the Anandale valley was shaded by pines, fir and giant deodars that sometimes grew to 150 feet. They went through a thick forest and heard the deep, low, hollow sound of running brooks. Before their final descent, they passed a small bazaar, where Tibetans and Paharis were squatting on their haunches, smoking in small groups of friends, among the smells, flies, pariah dogs, and other attractions of the bazaar.

They arrived in the middle of the afternoon on the lovely natural plateau when the fair was at its peak. There were innumerable stalls, and hawkers selling trinkets, novelties, and everything imaginable. It was a great gathering of all classes, castes and communities, with plenty of pushing and shoving. The simple hill people were dressed in their holiday best; their red cheeks glowed in the autumn sun. The bigger Punjabis were more boisterous and gaudy in pinks and purples. Some of the Sikh Akalis wore gleaming swords over their long blue robes. In the middle of the green field was a hundred-foot effigy of Ravana stuffed with firecrackers. A number of merry-go-rounds were revolving all at once, swinging men, women, and children round and round through the air. There were snake charmers, performing monkeys, and even an elephant, caparisoned beautifully.

Dasehra, was the autumn festival, which signalled the beginning of the holiday season. It was inspired by the epic,
Ramayana,
which told of the bad but brilliant king, Ravana, of Lanka, who stole Sita, the wife of the good king, Rama. Rama waged a war and won Sita back. On Dasehra, people burnt the ten-headed Ravana to celebrate the victory of good over evil.

As they mingled in the crowds, Arjun suddenly spotted Priti. His heart leapt. By happy chance she turned around at that very moment and looked him directly in the eye. He smiled nervously. She waved to him, smiling back warmly, as if it was the most natural thing to see him there.

Karan led them through the crowd towards Priti and introduced Tara and Big Uncle to Priti’s mother. ‘Amrita dear, these are Lala Dewan Chand’s son and daughter. You know, I grew up with them. Bauji was like my father, and Tara is like a sister.’

‘Of course, of course, I used to hear my father-in-law speak of Lala Dewan Chand. How wonderful!’ said Priti’s mother greeting them.

While Karan was introducing the families, Priti asked Arjun, ‘When are they going to start burning him?’

Arjun was tongue-tied, and could not answer.

‘And this bright young man is Dewan Chand’s grandson,’ Arjun heard himself introduced.

‘That means that our grandfathers knew each other,’ said Priti, beaming at Arjun. His heart was pounding fast. ‘Why don’t you stop and play badminton with us on your way home from school?’ she said, and tilted her head characteristically.

‘Where do you live?’ he asked.

‘I say, you
know
exactly where we live,’ said Priti indignantly. ‘I even know the deodar tree behind which you hide and watch us.’

Arjun’s face reddened. He was filled with shame, and he wanted to run away.

‘Why do you just stand out there?’ Priti continued.

‘B. . . b. . . because I like to watch you play,’ he stammered.

Instead of being angry, she surprised him by renewing her invitation. ‘Why don’t you come and play with us, instead of just standing there?’

It took a few moments before the stunning news penetrated. Then all was not lost, Arjun thought. He felt like a dead man who had been revived.

She turned to say something to her mother, but Amrita was deep in conversation with Tara. He was consoled by the fact that the older people were busy talking amongst themselves, and that no one had heard about his shame. He was also relieved that none of her Green Room friends were present to make fun of him. He looked up and saw her lovely profile against the late afternoon sun. She looked beautiful, he thought, standing on the Anandale plateau, surrounded by soaring deodars, pine and fir.

Meanwhile the actors arrived. They were to play the army of monkeys which had helped Rama conquer Lanka. Rama was at their head. He let off a lighted arrow. It struck one of Ravana’s heads, which immediately blew off with a great bang. Priti jumped, and excitedly pointed it out to Arjun. Her hand brushed his shoulder, and he felt a spark go through his body. He shivered. Slowly, the remainder of Ravana burst into flames, to the cheering of the crowd. One by one, all the heads dropped off.

At the end of the spectacle, Priti and her mother left. Before leaving, Amrita invited them all to her house for a reception at the end of the month. Priti told Arjun that she was going down to the plains for a week, but she would be back by then. ‘You must come!’ she told him as she looked deep into his eyes.

Karan took the others to one of the stalls to eat chaat. The chaat-seller ceremoniously handed out cups of dried sal leaf to everyone; he punched a hole in the hollow wheat balls, and inserted mashed potato, tamarind juice and spices; then he dipped them into an urn of water spiced with cumin seeds, mint and tamarind and served them one by one into their cups. They took turns and kept eating till they were full. Next, they ate flat chips of fried white flour, dipped in whipped yogurt. Arjun’s mouth started to burn from the spices. He drank vast quantities of water, and he felt sick. Seva Ram hardly ate anything at all.

After they returned home, Tara went on and on about Amrita, saying how elegant and charming she was. Big Uncle remarked that Amrita wore her sari in the old fashioned way.

‘Did you notice how she covered her head with the end of her sari?’ asked Tara.

‘Yes, just like the princesses of royal families,’ said Big Uncle.

Seva Ram joked that Tara was invariably impressed by people who were socially above her. Arjun asked Big Uncle about Ravana’s heads.

‘How else do you think he became so intelligent,’ replied Big Uncle.

The next day Big Uncle said to Tara, ‘Well, you don’t have to worry about Karan. He seems to know all the right people, my dear.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Tara and she grew thoughtful. Big Uncle tried to make light-hearted talk about the Mehtas, but Tara did not respond. She was preoccupied and she answered his chatter in a perfunctory way.

‘I say, are you still in love with Karan?’ he said finally.

‘How dare you say that!’ she almost screamed.

‘Hold it, I am your brother. I’m not Bauji. You can be straight with me.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t say things like that. It’s not a joke, you know. I am very happy with my husband and my son. He’s kind and gentle. And he looks after us well.’

‘But that’s not the same thing as love.’

‘Well I can do without love.’ She had tears in her eyes.

‘Look, I didn’t mean to make you cry.’

‘It’s just that I have this pain at the bottom of my heart when I think of Karan. As long as I don’t see him, it is all right. But when he comes it starts again.’

‘Don’t you think it would be wiser not to see him?’

‘No, I can’t help it. Besides you know what he is like. He is here one day and then he vanishes for months together.’

As he watched his sister, Big Uncle was struck by the change in Tara’s appearance. He remembered her before the partition as a pretty, bouncing girl who ran the risk of getting fat. But now she looked slender. Her dark hair made her look young. She wore saris which were not expensive, but she wore them with the careless confidence of a woman to whom it is second nature to dress well. Her features had become finer with age. There was not a line on her forehead or under her dark eyes, and though her skin had lost the first bloom of youth, its texture was as fine as ever. All in all, from an exuberant girl she had become an attractive woman. It was a shame, thought Big Uncle, that she did not go out into society.

A few days later Big Uncle’s vacation came to an end, and he left for Delhi, taking his jovial heart with him.

The rail car came out of the long tunnel into the Himalayan country. Tunnel number sixteen was the dividing point between the plains and the hills. Under the early evening light the earth was covered with pastel shades of green. The white car pulled up at Barog station, and everyone, except two passengers, got out to have tea.

A girl who had been sitting on the other side came over and opened the window in front of Bauji. The cool air poured in. ‘Chinese Set to Grab Our Land,’ screamed a newsboy. Leaning far out of the window, the girl called out to the boy. She spoke louder than necessary, as if he were a great distance away.

The boy, weighed down with books, papers and magazines, hurriedly walked over to her. His face was partially buried in a scarf. It must be cold, thought Bauji. And here was this boy burdened by the useless rhetoric of politicians. It was good to be free and a democracy, but the politicians were a price that had to be paid for this privilege. The girl bought a newspaper and a copy of the
Illustrated Weekly of India.

‘It’s getting cold, isn’t it?’ she said to the boy as he handed her the change. Bauji was bothered by the melancholy news of the Chinese, but he tried to put it out of his mind. Instead he thought of the girl. He thought that she had a beautiful young voice, but it was also a little sad. From the material and the cut of her coat, he surmised that she came from a wealthy family. Her youth and her manner suggested that she was unmarried; her tone of voice was that of someone who was used to getting her way.

The girl shut the window, and pressed her hands to her slightly red cheeks. She moved back to her seat. The tea drinkers returned from the dining room, and the rail car pulled away from the station. It had begun to grow dark outside and soon the lights were turned on inside the car. As a result the windows were transformed into mirrors, and it created a strange atmosphere of forced intimacy. Putting his face against the window, Bauji tried to look out. The sky behind the mountain carried red traces of the setting sun. Individual shapes on the dusky landscape, although still visible, were becoming harder to distinguish. The train climbed the northern slope of the second range into another long tunnel. They came out at the other end in a mountain valley. Sudden faint bursts of colour appeared from the chasms between the mountain peaks.

His gaze returned to the girl, who was now absorbed in the magazine. He was looking at her from an unusual angle, and peculiar emotions welled up inside him. As he stared at her long neck, bent slightly to one side, he seemed to feel the vital memory of the woman he had left behind in Pakistan. However, the more he tried to call up a clear picture, the more his memory failed him. She seemed to fade far away, leaving him with nothing to catch or to hold. In the midst of the clouded past, the neck of the girl in front reappeared—it was damp—and it seemed to push him forward into the future. Suddenly Anees’ eyes floated before him. He gasped in astonishment. The figures and the background were unrelated, sometimes vivid, other times dim, melting together in a strange combination of the past and the present. A light from the outside unexpectedly flashed on the girl’s face, and Bauji felt his chest rise at its strange beauty. The face in the mirror-window moved steadily across the landscape.

He woke up with a start. As he came to, he realized he must have been dreaming. The reflection of the girl in front was still there in the window. He hastily lowered his eyes, feeling guilty for having stared at the stranger. To cover up his embarrassment, he put his face to the window and looked at the darkness outside. At the next moment, he pulled out a large white handkerchief, and cleared the steam, which had gathered on the window.

The bewitching stranger continued to read. From the way her shoulders were gathered, Bauji sensed an independence of nature. The peculiar angle at which her neck was tilted suggested more, perhaps a touch of arrogance. There was a fierce intentness in her eyes, which did not permit her even to blink. It was a cool, piercing beauty, which exerted a strange, unreal power in the mirror-window. Feeling startled, Bauji lowered his eyes again. Although he knew it was improper to stare like this, he consoled himself with the thought that there was no way for her to know that she was the object of his attention. From where he sat he could see what she was reading. Having just completed a short story, she was now skimming over an article on Nehru’s China policy. The man sitting next to her also saw her reading it and he could not contain himself.

‘How dare the Chinese cast eyes on our land!’ he said to her with outrage in his voice.

‘Well, it is disputed territory, isn’t it?’ said the girl.

‘Disputed, my foot! They have tricked us. First they talk of friendship and
Hindi-Chini bhai bhai
and then they want to take over our soil.’ Before the girl could answer, he turned around to face Bauji, hoping to find a more sympathetic listener. Bauji did not want to talk to the man, but he changed his mind because he thought it might be a way to get to know the girl.

‘It is Nehru’s fault for believing them,’ said Bauji. ‘He is too much of an idealist and forgets that the pursuit of the nation’s self-interest is the only responsible course for a leader. Moralizing must take second place. He feels let down by the Chinese because he trusted them. And there’s no room for trust in these things.’

Not finding Bauji sympathetic to his point of the view, the man grunted and turned around in a huff. The girl did not get a chance to say anything because of the abrupt way the man closed the subject. Or more likely, Bauji thought, she did not want to get into a conversation with strangers. The rail car again became silent and Bauji went back into his own private world.

Bauji was startled when the rail car reached Simla. He saw the girl rise. He had been lost in thought for three-quarters-of-an-hour. His private battles against Nehru as well as his secret romance in the mirror-window had disappeared in the reality of the brightly lit platform. Suddenly he spotted Tara and Seva Ram in the distance. He did not wait for them to approach, but stepped out of the carriage with a resolute step. As soon as Tara reached him, she flung her arm around his neck, drew him rapidly to her, and embraced her father warmly. Bauji’s eyes sought out the attractive stranger, who was now on the platform, surrounded by several equally well-dressed people. She obviously belonged to the best society. Standing there, he thought, she was not beautiful, but rather there was a youthful elegance and grace about her whole figure. As he looked around, she too turned her head. Her shining, dark eyes, that looked darker from the thick lashes, rested with cold attention on his face (as though she were recognizing him) and then she promptly turned away. In that brief look, he noticed a suppressed eagerness, which flitted between her brilliant eyes and a faint smile that curved her lips. It was the look of a young lady who is sure of her own beauty, and like all such women a little cruel.

‘She’s very sweet, isn’t she?’ said Tara.

‘Sweet? Do you know her?’

‘Yes,’ replied Tara, as she waved to the girl, who waved back enthusiastically. There was a bustle in the station as the evening train from Kalka was approaching, several hours late. The black and white signal indicated ‘down’, and there was a rush of porters, attendants and people meeting the train. Through the vapour could be seen ill-clad workmen crossing the rails. The engine whistled in the distance. Seconds later the platform was quivering, and with puffs of steam hanging low in the air from the cold, the engine rolled up, the lever of its middle wheel rhythmically moving up and down, and the figure of the engine driver stooping low.

In the confusion of the arriving train, the girl had disappeared in the crowd. ‘Can you guess?’ asked Tara.

‘What?’

‘Who she is?’

He shook his head.

‘Your friend Sanat Mehta’s grand-daughter. She lives here with her mother.’

‘What is her name?’

‘Priti.’