A House Called Askival (23 page)

THIRTY-FOUR

In Shanti Niwas, Ruth opened the battered shoe box on the coffee table and untied the ribbon. The letter on top was the first she had sent home at the end of her first week in boarding. Aged six, she was not able to write much and the page was dominated by a drawing of a princess. Above it, in thick lead pencil, she had scrawled, ‘dir MomndaD hauUryu iAmf Yn' Underneath the picture, the word ‘rUTh' was almost obliterated by a storm of hug and kiss signs. The whole thing was rather smudged. On the outside, Miss Joshi had written, ‘Ruth is settling in very nicely.'

She put the letter down on the table and picked up the next one. Near her, in the kitchen area, Iqbal was humming as he chopped vegetables for pakoras. James had gone for his weekly Bible Study at Paul Verghese's house, Firclump, and had refused an escort, despite his bent hobbling, now with two sticks.

A pale light filtered into the room from a sun beginning to emerge at the end of monsoon. It was like a delicate queen recovering from flu, appearing on her balcony, still wrapped in blankets of cloud, raising a limp hand and a smile for her subjects, but with little strength.

In the cool, Ruth crossed her legs on the sofa and tucked them under her shawl. The letters were much the same for the first few weeks: a
large picture – usually princess, bride or fairy – a few illegible words and an occasional cover sentence from Miss Joshi, who had inspected the inside. ‘Ruth is getting better at dressing herself.' ‘Ruth is learning to eat up all her food.'

The week Miss Joshi's inspections ceased, however, the golden-haired heroine was crying. Her enormous tears flew to the far corners of the page and the writing beneath said, ‘i HAT it hir!!!!!!!!' Miss Joshi had written on the outside, ‘Ruth is a delight in the dorm.'

Folding the letter, she remembered her first night in boarding. After James had gone and the bearer rang the dinner bell, the twenty Lower Dorm girls ran to the sinks and shoved their hands under sputtering blasts of cold water. Hannah helped Ruth, trying to get her to use soap, though Ruth could see that no-one else did. Sita was one of the quickest and shouted, ‘Last one's a smelly pig!' as she shot down the stairs at the front of the pack. Hannah and Ruth were the last and arrived to a howling of
Smelly pigs! Smelly pigs! Oink, oink, ha, ha!
till Miss Joshi appeared, swishing in her socks and chappals, and clapping her hands for silence.

After grace, they filed across the dinner hall to the servery where a row of bearers in white jackets and topis stood behind stainless-steel vats of food. Hannah gave a plastic tray to Ruth and meekly held out her own to the first bearer. Dinner that night was Meat and Potatoes, a greasy concoction of mutton bits floating in a soupish gravy with chunks of vegetable. That was slopped into the main compartment and a spade-full of mashed potato thwacked beside it. Then into one of the corner slots of the tray went some long-boiled cabbage and into another a wobbling slice of iridescent jelly.

‘
Thora, thora
!' the girls cried.
Just a little bit, just a little bit!
Everything that hit the tray had to be eaten and the scraped dish inspected by Miss Joshi before it could be pushed into the washing-up hatch.

‘This is yummy,
na
?' said Sita, shovelling forkfuls into her mouth.

Ruth rested her head on her hand and stared at the food.

‘Come on, Ruth,' Hannah cajoled. ‘You have to eat it or you'll get bawled out.'

Long after everyone else had gone upstairs, Ruth was still sitting at the table with Miss Joshi beside her. The dorm mother had gone beyond gentle encouragements: ‘Come on, sweetie,' and lies: ‘It's delicious,' and threats: ‘You won't get any Candy Cupboard on Sunday,' to sharpening her final weapon: ‘I'll have to write to Mummy and Daddy and tell them you've not been a very good little girl. They won't be at all happy about that, now will they?' Blackmail usually worked where all else failed, but so far it was just producing twin trails of tears down Ruth's dirty face.

Iqbal poured oil into his
kadai
and turned on the gas, his eyes slipping to Ruth. He saw her smile over some of the early letters, and then go quiet. Some she held onto for a long time, before adding them to the growing pile on the table. As she read, she tugged on a curl of hair just above her right ear. He dropped balls of battered pakora into the hot oil and checked his
dekchi
of spiced chai. As he cooked he sang an Urdu ghazal by Faiz.

‘
Why have you tattooed yourself with these wounds?'

His voice rose and swelled and dropped and trembled, his cheeks quivering, lips soft. Lifting the freshly cooked pakoras onto a plate, he poured some chai into a mug and carried them over to Ruth. She was lying down on the sofa, the shawl up over her mouth, tears dripping off the end of her nose.

Iqbal nudged some of the letters aside to make space for the mug and plate.

‘
Lahore pakore
,' he said, ‘
aur garam chai
.'

Ruth didn't move. Iqbal returned to the kitchen corner and sang on as he added more pakoras to the
kadai
.

‘
When the night has passed
,

A hundred new roads will blossom
.

You must steady your heart
,

For it has to break many, many times.'

He had nearly finished frying them all when Ruth sat up and spoke, her gaze fixed beyond the window.

‘Iqbal?'

‘Yes.'

‘Have you seen these letters?'

‘Of course not. Your father is not showing me your private things.'

She was quiet for a while, then picked up the chai and sipped it.

‘I want you to read them,' she said.

Iqbal poured his own chai and leaned back against the kitchen bench, looking at her. She turned to him, her face wobbly and blotched, eyes a bright wet green.

‘So you will know my story.'

‘Yes. Of course.' He slurped his chai. ‘In exchange for one thing.'

‘What?'

‘You read the letters about your mother.' He pointed to the box in the corner of the living room that she had not opened. ‘The ones sent to Doctor-ji after she is going home.'

THIRTY-FIVE

The bus crept into Mussoorie in the grey dawn of Sunday morning. Nearly everyone was asleep, flopped against windows, bags, each other. They began waking on the rutted bumps of New Road, feeling stiff and cold but at once flushed with relief at the sight of the school. Ruth wiped her mouth with the back of a chapped hand, hoping Manveer hadn't noticed her dribbling. He opened his eyes and smiled at her.

‘So!' said Abishek, appearing from a seat further up, grinning, his hair sticking out in tufts. ‘The Virgin Veeru has just slept with a whole busload of girls.'

Sita hurled her book at him.

That night was Compulsory Chapel. It rolled round twice a semester and was deeply resented by most who weren't Christians and an embarrassment to most who were. This was largely down to Mrs Cornfoot's toe-curling solos, or Chaplain Park preaching for too long, or someone giving a testimony that reduced the teller to tears but half the students to sniggers. It was better when Mr Haskell led it, filling the hall with candles and music and his slides of India, but he was not in charge tonight. Indeed, he was barely speaking. He stood at the entrance to Benson Hall stone-faced, ticking off names on his clipboard.

The students arrived in clouds of scent and pheromones. The girls wore dresses with shoulder pads and floppy bows, or shalwar kameez in jewel colours, or smartly tailored trousers, high-waisted and narrow at the ankle. Most had handbags, glossy hair-dos and lashings of makeup, and they twittered as they sat in the foyer to change from running shoes (for the trudge up the hill from the dorms) into high heels. The boys that hovered around them like moths had metamorphosed from their usual grubby jeans to a crisp display of pressed shirts, gelled hair and clean teeth. Although officially begrudged, Compulsory Chapel provided unique opportunities for mating rituals which were seized with enthusiasm.

As the flocks of hormone-charged teenagers settled into their seats and the first hymn struck up, Mr Haskell noted two names not ticked on his list.

Ruth and Manveer had met on the path up to Chapel and fell behind the others. He offered to carry her shoes. Dove grey with bows on top, their purchase had been the high point of Ruth's previous furlough in the States. She had hardly believed she was allowed them, but Ellen had just nodded and smiled and let her take all the time in the world choosing. As Ruth paraded up and down the shop, she'd seen her mother's gaze drifting to a pair of red kitten heels. She'd stroked the patent leather, but realising Ruth was watching, just laughed and put them back with a thump.

‘Will you look at those! Ridiculous!'

Ruth's shoes were getting a bit tight and scuffed now and the rubber cap on one of the soles had fallen off so she made an uneven sound when she walked:
clomp, click, clomp, click
. But she knew there would be no new shoes till the next furlough – apart from Bata chappals and the frumpy things made by the
mochi
in the bazaar – so she treasured these. As did Manveer, it seemed, from the way he carried them. They walked slowly so as not to ruin the effects of intensive grooming.

Ruth had spent most of the day sleeping and fantasising about him.
The danger he'd been in made him even more attractive to her, and in the afternoon she'd got up, thighs aching with desire, and gone to the toilet where she'd rubbed herself into a mouth-gaping spasm of pleasure. Flopped back against the wall, feeling the familiar rush of heat and guilt, she'd wiped her finger on a square of toilet paper and flushed.

After her shower – still dripping slightly under her frayed dressing gown – she'd stood before her open cupboard and agonised. Sita's advice was not as expansive as usual and she was preoccupied with threading her moustache. So Ruth set off, rubber chappals flapping, down the concrete corridors, from room to room, begging, rummaging, trying things on, taking suggestions, rejecting suggestions till finally, minutes before the dinner bell, her outfit was complete: her own grey cotton twills (bought the same day as the shoes, and a tad short now) with a white frilled blouse (made by Farooqi Tailors in the bazaar to copy the latest Laura Ashley), a scarlet cardigan (knitted by Grandma Leota) and an elegant charcoal coat (borrowed from Sita, as were the nylons, though she had seemed a little reluctant about the loans, stressing that the coat was new, pure wool and very expensive.) Ruth styled her hair into a soft, curly halo and (in long-established defiance of parental ban) applied dramatic make-up: green eye shadow, thick black lashes and lips glossed to a hot cherry. The finishing touch to her deviant glamour were the new nails, matching the red and gold bangles that had been bought specially for the part of Maya.

Now, with Manveer at her side, she was glad she'd made the effort. He shot her shy, approving looks and said she looked nice. In turn, she thought him more handsome than ever in black trousers and turban, a pale pink Oxford shirt and a down jacket.

‘How you doin?' she asked. ‘Must be pretty shaken up.'

‘A bit. But I was so bushed and so relieved to be back I just crashed.'

‘Me too,' she said. ‘I had the weirdest dreams.'

‘Like what?'

‘I'm not saying.' She smiled.

‘Why not? Come on, tell me.' He gave her arm a soft punch.

‘No way, man. Too embarrassing.' She playfully pushed the hand back but let her fingers tangle in his.

‘Oh, I bet I can guess.' He was still holding her hand. There was no one else on their stretch of path.

‘What then?' she teased, stepping closer to him, her face lifted.

‘I'm not telling.'

‘Manveer!' She swatted him. ‘Tell me!'

He tucked her shoes under his arm and captured her flailing hand.

‘Ok, ok,' he grinned. ‘After chapel. I'll walk you back. You tell me yours and I'll tell you mine.'

‘No. Now.'

‘We haven't got time.'

‘Then ditch chapel.'

He looked shocked. ‘It's compulsory.'

‘I don't care.'

‘But you're Christian!'

She took a breath. ‘Not any more. I don't give a damn about that now. I just want to talk.'

‘Could be big trouble,' he said, searching her face. She knew he was careful about rules. There were great expectations on him. Family savings, family reputation, family dreams.

‘It's just skipping chapel,' she murmured. ‘What's the worst thing that can happen?'

He continued up the hill, drawing her with him, walking in silence. As they came out of the trees at the school buildings they stopped to look south. The sun was a vivid ball with a train of fire-lit clouds. Below it lay the dusky ridge of the bazaar and the Winter Line, a belt of red and gold that stretched across the sky, dividing the light above from the well of black below.

He tugged on her hand. ‘Where d'you want to go?'

In Benson Hall, as the final chords of the hymn faded, Mr Haskell leaned across a couple of stiffly coiffed girls and touched Sita on the arm. She turned to him, huge brown eyes cool in her sculpted face.

‘Sita, do you know where Ruth is?'

She raised one eyebrow.

‘Or Manveer?'

Her eyes narrowed. On the stage, Mr Park was tapping the microphone and starting to speak, so Mr Haskell dropped his voice to a whisper.

‘Any idea where they might have gone?'

They moved quietly up the forest path, slipping like shadows through the trees. Behind them, the sun slid through the Winter Line and disappeared into the dark, leaving the sky gaping, haemorrhaging colour. Feeling their way with their feet as the light dimmed, they talked. About why she wasn't a Christian anymore and the fear on that bus trip and how sad it was about
The Gospel of Jyoti
. Manveer said he admired Mr Haskell's talent and passion and hoped the Oaklands performance would compensate for the loss of the Delhi ones, but Ruth just murmured yes and changed the subject. As they walked, they held hands like their lives depended on it.

It was a steep climb to the top of the hill and then long and dark round the back
chakkar
. They walked quickly past the graveyard, giggling as they recounted the stories (mainly Sita's) and felt their flesh prickle. When they got to Askival it was waiting, silent, and full of shadows. They stood on the south veranda looking down at the lights of Dehra Dun, a blaze of fallen stars on a black lake. The air was so cold and clear it brought a sharpness to everything: the silver rim of the moon, the smell of pine, the pure notes of an owl. Ruth shivered and he pulled her into the folds of his down jacket, her back against his chest. He smelt of freshly ironed clothes and a grown-up aftershave, although he never shaved. His beard tickled as she rested her head into his neck.

‘Manveer,' she whispered.

‘Mmm?' He tightened his arms around her, lowering his face so his cheek brushed hers, the folded edge of his turban against her ear.

‘Show me your hair.'

For a moment he was perfectly still. Breath held. She wondered if she
had broken some rule. Were Sikh men not supposed to reveal their hair? Or not to women? Or not to non-Sikhs? Then she felt a rush of warm breath on her neck and a tight squeeze of his arms.

‘Ok.' His voice was husky. ‘Just don't laugh.'

She twisted round. ‘I would never laugh at you, Manveer.'

He studied her face, then undid the pins on his turban and lifted it off. Underneath there was the cotton
patka
in a top knot, which he unravelled, revealing the dark coil of his hair, held in place by a small wooden comb. Ruth reached up and tugged the comb free.

‘My
kanga
,' he whispered. ‘Keep it safe.' She slipped it into her back pocket and unwound his hair till it fell in soft, curling sheaves down to his chest. As she teased out the tangles, he slipped his arms around her waist, eyes resting on her. She met his gaze, and drew back the hair from the sides of his face, breathing in the smell of shampoo and sandalwood. He pulled her closer, lowering his face as she lifted hers, till they closed their eyes and kissed. Just one, light and brushing, electric, kiss. Then another, and another. Gentle, soft-pressing kisses, faces stroking against each other, noses bumping and lips beginning to part. And then the deeper tasting, the stronger pressure, the hunger and giving and the flood of feeling in breasts, navel and thighs. Ruth had never felt anything like this. Anything so sweet and yearning and deep as Manveer's intoxicating mouth. Anything so thrilling as him whispering that he had never kissed a girl before, and he never wanted to stop.

So they did not stop. They kept kissing and holding and feeling, hands moving softly under the thick folds of jacket and coat. And they continued kissing as they tugged shirts up, slowly, inch by inch, and touched cold fingertips to warm skin. And they kept on kissing, as their hands slid like blue flame over liquored backs. And still they did not stop as he stroked over her bra and then under it, both of them moaning as he found her nipples. And there was certainly no stopping once she discovered the line of hair that lead down from his navel.

They lay tangled together on the dirty floor of the living room, Sita's coat spread beneath them, his jacket above. They were still as tree roots.
Just the breathing and the blinking of eyes, the soft fall of his hair across their skin. Outside, the pine trees were hushing and whispering in a light breeze. The moon was higher, brighter, a curved and gleaming blade against the black.

As a small gust of wind blew into the room, Ruth flinched and tucked her legs up under the jacket, pushing her icy feet between Manveer's thighs.

‘Yow!!' He yelped and pulled back. ‘You are frozen!'

‘I know,' she laughed, tugging him close again. ‘Aren't you?'

‘No. I've never felt so warm.' He kissed her. ‘But you should probably get some clothes on.'

They sat up and found their underwear, using it to wipe the sticky spillage from their thighs, then tossing it to the side. Sita's coat was a mess. Their trousers were cold, the fabric hard and unyielding as they tugged them on, shirts and socks gritty from the floor. Ruth brushed pine needles and dirt from Grandma Leota's cardigan and could feel it unravelling on one sleeve. She buttoned it up.

‘Do you need help with your turban?'

Manveer was feeling around on the floor and didn't answer.

‘I think you left it on the veranda.' She went out and found it, lying like an empty bowl beside a pillar. The
patka
was beside it. ‘I've got a brush if you want,' she said, stepping back into the living room and reaching for her bag. She fumbled and searched, then tipped it out onto the floor, makeup, wallet and brush falling along with a crumpled hanky and a couple of dusty joints.

‘Oops,' she giggled, but he didn't seem to have noticed. He was squatting beside the fireplace, holding something, his hair spilling over his shoulders like the delta of an inky river.

‘What's that?'

‘My
kirpan
.' He drew a small knife out of a leather sheath.

‘A penknife?'

‘No. Didn't you listen in RE?' he teased.

‘Probably not.'

‘The Five Ks?'

‘Oh yeah, your long hair and stuff.'

‘Exactly. The hair is
kesh, kanga's
in your pocket—'

‘
Kara's
on your wrist,' she said, touching his steel bangle.

‘
Kachha
is a mess,' he pointed to the wadded underwear on the floor and they both laughed. ‘And this is
kirpan
.'

‘Shit, I didn't know you had that on you all the time.'

‘It was always just a ritual thing, you know, a habit, like combing my hair or putting on socks. I never really thought about it until today. After that bus trip and all. When I put it on, I felt so much anger… and hate.' The knife glinted as he turned it. ‘I wanted to kill all those people who were killing my brothers. Who tried to kill me.'