Of Marriageable Age (24 page)

For following the miracle word had spread of
Thatha
and his healing powers, and there had been a sudden rush of patients to him, but they were all turned away.

'Why won't you heal my friends?' said Mrs Lindsay.

'I cannot, madam,' said Savitri.

'Yes, you can, it's just that you don't want to, isn't it? Because it's all a question of willpower. Isn't it now?'

'No, madam. If you want it to happen it won't happen. It only happens if you don't want it.'

Savitri knew very well the meaning of the word 'intention', but it was beyond her to use it in this context, to explain that
intention
is the tiny stream through which the mighty river which is the Gift cannot flow; that the Gift is as much greater than willpower as the sun is greater than a lamp-flame, and must work according to its own wisdom, and that being so, turns back when puny willpower is at work. She couldn't explain it, for at seven years of age she had not yet the words.

And so Mrs Lindsay didn't believe her. Mrs Lindsay believed it was all a question of Savitri's
will
; and that her will must be coaxed and coddled and pampered, and one day, yes one day, she would harness the Power to that will and become a true Master — no, a Mistress — and she, Mrs Lindsay, would be her protectress.

Hadn’t she always known there was something special about the child? Hadn’t she had that feeling, right from the beginning? It was intuition. And then there was Destiny — the Destiny of Savitri's birth, right after David's, and her friendship with David. Destiny had placed this special child in her, Mrs Lindsay's, hands. All the child needed was guidance. And she, Mrs Lindsay, was there to give it. The child had Powers. They must only be developed with her help. It was pre-ordained.

Between them, through the means of bribery, flattery, authority, written contracts, threats and outright commands, the Lindsays successfully prevented Savitri's marriage to the clubfooted cook. Savitri must stay in Fairwinds, and continue her education with Mr Baldwin, and be properly guided by Mrs Lindsay. The child, the Admiral and his wife agreed, was Special. It was the first time they had agreed on any matter for many, many years, and that was another miracle worked by Savitri's presence.

18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

NAT

Bangalore, 1956-1960

N
AT WENT
to boarding school in Bangalore. For the most part, he hated school. He was not the most brilliant of pupils, not through lack of intelligence, but because of the way he had to learn his lessons, by rote, reeling off entire passages out of textbooks without making a single mistake. He passed through stages of rebellion, boredom, apathy, laziness, lethargy, and spells where his mind just refused to comply, wandering into far-off regions where the words he'd tried his best to memorise just filtered through his brain and, when he tried to retrieve them, were lost entirely.

As a matter of fact, Nat was distracted. Seriously distracted. Nat had discovered Girls.

N
AT HAD GROWN
up with village girls. When they were very young they played alongside the boys and it seemed there was not much difference, but the older they grew the more it became clear that there was a very major difference; that girls were a species apart, slowly fading out of sight and into a world of their own where boys were not admitted, into a world of women where men were not permitted.

In fact, there was a very precise moment when a girl became part of this secret female world. She simply disappeared into her home for several days, and then that same girl who till now had run and jumped and played on the streets like a half-child but helped her mother with housework and child-care like a half-woman, re-appeared. And she no longer wore her long gathered skirt and little waist-length blouse and shawl, but a sari; and she sat enthroned in womanly silence, garlanded in jasmine and rose, and men, fathers of sons, prospective sons-in-law, came to appraise her and talk to her father about weddings and dowries, and now it was said of her: she is
of marriageable age
. And from now on she lived in a secret, intimate, feminine world and only one man would ever be permitted to enter that world and to know her: her future husband.

I
N
B
ANGALORE
, Nat met girls of quite another species. Armaclare College was for boys only, but Nat was popular. He arrived a country bumpkin, but learned quickly; his agreeable temperament, his charm and his good manners easily found him friends. His schoolmates invited him home for the weekends. He became a welcome guest at their stately homes, where he met their sisters and female cousins, not to mention their mothers and aunts. He was their pet; their darling; they pitied him for his worldly ignorance (growing up in a village! as a peasant!), admired him for his wheat-coloured skin, and spoiled him silly.

Most important of all, he met the Bannerji girls.

The Bannerjis were devout Hindus, but Western-oriented. Their eldest son Govind was in Nat's form, a day-boy, heir to a stupendous fortune in the emerging computer industry, who had several sisters all of whom Nat had the pleasure of meeting the first time he went to their magnificent bungalow in a cool green and flowery Bangalore suburb.

Five sisters, two elder, three younger — one still a child, but with a sublime promise shining in her eyes — each one prettier than the next! Each one with skin as soft and lush as a rose petal, dark long eyes containing secret upon secret, the soft silk of their saris flowing like water around their slender, supple forms.

And these girls, for all their perfection, did not keep themselves apart as did the village girls. They talked, laughed, argued with him, joined him in easy banter, played tennis with him, and wrapped him gently around their little fingers. They had all been to England several times and possessed a sophistication and worldly knowledge that dwarfed him. They also possessed a quality beyond intelligence: a gleam of wisdom lit their eyes, and they looked into his in a way the village girls never had, seeing all, exposing his soul, daring him to approach their femininity, to lay down the prickly armour that separated them from him, laughing at him for his shyness, beckoning him on even while their purity held him at bay. His instinct was to bow before them. To prostrate himself. As if only in laying down the flawed, coarse dominance of manhood he could melt into and know the immaculate bliss and greatness of the feminine, denied him as penance for that very coarseness. They were Goddesses.

Nat's mind hovered constantly before the image of perfect femininity. No wonder he could not get a grasp on logarithms.

D
URING THEIR LAST
year at Armaclare College, Govind married a girl he had been betrothed to for years, and Nat was invited to the wedding, held in the plush Royal Continental Hotel. The bride was of the same unapproachable beauty as Govind's sisters. She kept her eyes lowered throughout the ceremony and when Nat was introduced to her later she graced him with the barest of glances from beneath long sweeping black lashes. Yet in that one slight glance was a spark that again made Nat ache to know Woman and her inner secrets, to pace the holy fire with such a bride, his cloth tied to her sari, rounding it seven times, uttering their sacred vows, entering the union that would lead to highest, blissful Love.

G
OVIND WOULD BE LEAVING
India around the same time as Nat. He was going to America, to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. His wife would be staying here in Bangalore and attending the Musical Academy, for she was gifted in the veena, the traditional instrument of South India. After the wedding ceremony she gave a short performance on this instrument, sitting on a rich carpet before the hundreds of guests and letting a rippling river of music flow out of the tiny hands that barely seemed to touch the strings over which her fingers danced. Tears of deep emotion wet Nat's cheeks, and he envied Govind with all his heart, for this bride with the power to open such depths. When he next returned home he asked his father if he himself could not possibly be married before he left for England. He asked his father to find a bride for him.

Doctor looked at him with surprise and mirth in his eyes.

'You want to marry already, Nat?'

'Why
already?
Many of my friends are already married. I'm about the only boy in my form who isn't at least engaged.'

'Even the English boys?'

'Well, no, not them. But I'm an Indian, Dad, and we have different customs.'

'Yes. The English boys will probably wait a few years, and then marry a girl of their own choice. I thought that would be the way you'd be doing it.'

'But . . .' Nat wanted to repeat that he was an Indian, but then he remembered that his father was, strictly speaking, an Englishman, a
sahib
.

'Which way is better, Dad?'

'Which way do you think is better?'

'Well . . . the Indian way is certainly easier. I mean, I wouldn't know how to go about finding a girl and persuading her to marry me. What if she likes someone else better? What if her parents disagree? What if . . .'

'Once you get to England you'll find most of these problems dissolving and you'll probably wonder how you could ever have wanted anything else, Nat. Because you'll actually realise it's not so hard to fall in love with a nice girl. Nothing easier, in fact. It's finding the
right
girl to love that'll be hard. Your hormones will probably have a lot to say about that and they might make some bad mistakes. That's a risk we'll just have to take.'

'So why don't we do it the Indian way? Govind's wife . . .'

'You were quite taken with her, eh? You'd like a girl like that?' Nat nodded, not looking at his father.

'Anyone particular in mind?'

Nat, encouraged and all at once hopeful, let the faces of the four elder Bannerji girls pass before his mind's eye. In particular he saw their eyes, each carrying a different message. Pramela's eyes laughed, and seemed to mock him, playing with him, yet hinting at depths he could not fathom. Sundari was gentle and warm-hearted and spoke not with her lips but with her eyes, which were liquid with eloquence. Ramani could talk the hind leg off a donkey. In her eyes shone the light of intelligence. Radha kept her eyes modestly lowered but, once you got a fleeting glimpse into them, they drew you into a place too secret for words…

Each one was — he searched his mind for a comparison — an orchid, a rare, unique being radiating a mystique that foiled his fumbling senses, whom you could never possess but only adore, if you were lucky enough to win her. Each one contained in herself a wondrous, special universe he could spend a lifetime discovering. He'd be happy to marry any one of them. He was ready and poised to love any one of them, to make any one of them the focus of his life. Any one of them could help him find his wholeness. True, Sundari and Pramela were already married and Ramani would be married in a year; that was irrelevant. He
could have
married any one of them. They were all fascinating. In fact, he had never met a girl who was not, in some way, fascinating. Femininity itself fascinated.

'I don't mind,' said Nat. 'Whoever you think best . . .'

Doctor roared with laughter. 'Nat, I've managed to make an honest-to-goodness Indian out of you. I just wonder how long you'll stay that way, once you cross the great divide . . . No Nat, I'm not going to choose a wife for you. Sorry, I just can't do it, I won't. I'm still too much of an Englishman. The Indian way is fine for Indians, might even be fine for you. But I want you to have a
choice.
If, after you've had the choice and can't find a suitable girl, you still want me to choose for you, then fine. But you have to remember: a Hindu family like the Bannerjis won't take you as a son-in-law. A Muslim family will want you to convert first. A Sikh? A Parsi? They all have their prejudices, their customs, and the parents will want you to adapt. And they certainly won't send their daughter to me, to keep for you till you return! I'd advise you to look for a lovely English rose when you get to London. And wait till you've finished your studies. Marriage would distract you too much.'

'But I want to marry
now
,' Nat objected. 'I can't wait . . .'

And the years ahead of him, stuck inside his coarse maleness when there was so much to discover, when there was this great need for Woman, this great ache for her . . . it seemed a hurdle too high for him to take.

He arrived at Heathrow with the intention of finding a suitable girl and marrying her as soon as possible. A bride full of secrets waiting to be uncovered.

19

CHAPTER NINETEEN

SAROJ

Georgetown, 1964

'
S
AROJ
! Saroj, the bridegroom is coming, come to the gate!' said Ma, just behind Saroj's shoulder. 'Oh, and Ganesh, I was looking for you, you should be waiting too, to receive the bridegroom...'

Ma led Saroj away. She was reluctant to go.
The bridegroom's coming…

A shudder passed through her at the words.
The bridegroom.
This man, chosen by Baba, approved by Ma, whom Indrani had never seen, riding toward the house now on a white horse to claim his bride…

Saroj could hear the distant drums as the bridegroom's procession, several streets away, made its slow way forward. It was a quaint tradition, brought by Baba from India, and practised only by Roys, having long died out among other Indians. But Baba had revived the custom among his own; so whenever you saw a bridegroom on a decorated white horse with a little nephew sitting behind him for fertility, and men playing drums and
shehnais
dancing around him, you knew it was a Roy wedding; that somewhere, a bride waited in trepidation, just as Indrani waited now in an upstairs room, surrounded by aunts and great-aunts fussing around her, adjusting her sari, painting her hands, scenting her hair, re-arranging her jewellery as if she were a paper doll to be decorated, and chatting all the while like a gaggle of geese. Saroj broke into a sweat.