Of Marriageable Age (62 page)

'Well, then, if your heart can take the excitement I'll do it, but then I really will stop, do you hear? No more ifs and buts!'

The tournament was drawing to its triumphant end when a tremendous sound like the clap of a thunderbolt echoed from the gateway. Arjuna and Drona looked at each other, deeply puzzled: for both recognised the sound of a mighty warrior slapping his upper arms, the signal of challenge.

In the perplexed silence that followed the warrior stepped forward, a warrior of long strides and upright carriage; like sun, moon and fire in brightness, he loped into the arena and stood there like a golden palm tree, regal as a lion without fear. He swept his gaze disdainfully over the gathered spectators, and brought it to rest on Drona, standing in wonder with the five Pandava brothers gathered around him, waiting.

Then the newcomer spoke, and his voice was like a clap of thunder, proud and mighty: 'Arjuna! Do not be so proud of yourself. For all that you have done, I can do too, and better!'

Nat read on for ten more minutes, and then he and Deodat debated the merits of Arjuna versus Karna: Baba favouring the classic hero Arjuna, Nat preferring the outsider Karna.

They argued pleasantly, each one putting forward his case quietly and reasonably, and to Saroj's astonishment Baba actually listened to Nat's arguments for Karna. In the old days Baba had bellowed down anyone who dared to disagree with him, even in the most trivial of disputes. Ten years ago this talk would have begun and ended with Baba's categorical statement: Arjuna is the greater, for Dharma is on his side. The voice that now responded to Nat's case for Karna was mild, amiable, and interested.

With a start Saroj realised: Ganesh was right. Baba had changed for the better, he had learned a lesson, and everyone knew it except her. Here was the proof.

She wanted to be angry. Angry at Baba, for having changed beyond the image she held of him; for having had the courage to change, to grow into a bigger, better, more generous version of himself. Angry at Nat, for being here, now, and talking to Baba in a manner that she had never found possible. Angry at them both, for the easy intimacy of their relationship, for their obvious closeness — and for excluding her. Angry, perhaps, at their betrayal of her. These two men claimed they loved her — yet seemed quite happy, now, here, cosy in the sterility of this hospital room, both relaxed enough, Baba in the face of death, Nat, in the face of his failure to win her, to discuss some utterly irrelevant ancient Hindu myth. What about me? she silently cried out.

'Excuse me, miss, are you coming or going? Make up your mind.'

The irritated question was quite rhetoric, for there was no room to go, but only to come; for a lunch trolley, and behind it a nurse, blocked her escape. She had no choice but to step into the room where all that potential hurt and a deep abyss stood waiting to gather her into itself, and where there was no way out.

Two heads turned towards her. Silence cloaked them all. Saroj waited. Let one of them be the first to speak.

It took a while for Baba to focus eyes and mind enough to recognise her. But the result was explosive, so much so that Nat laid a restraining hand on Baba's shoulder to prevent him from bolting upright in bed.

'Saroj! Saroj, it is you! You have come at last! Oh my dear, you have come! Come nearer, come here to me, let me look at you, come, dear, sit on the bed next to me!'

Baba turned to Nat and said, his voice trembling with pride and joy, 'This is the daughter I was telling you about, this is my Saroj, my youngest child, my second daughter!'

He turned back to Saroj: 'Come, dear, why do you stand there, just come, look, here there is room for you, come sit on the bed next to your old Baba, let me look at you!'

He patted the bedside and stretched out the other hand to Saroj, and she had no option but to walk towards him and tentatively let herself sit down, her eyes averted, avoiding, above all, Nat's.

She had never been so embarrassed in her life.

'Look, I'd better leave,' said Nat, and before either of them could react he was gone.

W
HEN
S
AROJ LEFT
the hospital an hour later dusk had descended, throwing a grey pall over the already grey parking lot and the street outside where she joined the queue to wait for her bus. She found herself involuntarily looking around. It was only later, when the bus came and she entered it, and she took her place and sat looking out at the pedestrians as they passed, that she realised she was looking for Nat. She had fully expected him to be waiting for her outside the hospital. She was shocked to register her deep disappointment that he had gone. He had not waited.

61

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

SAVITRI

Madras, 1942

O
N AWAKENING
before dawn the morning after giving birth, Savitri found her mind moving forward, into the days and weeks, months and years ahead. Nataraj… She smiled. He would still be asleep. She wanted to get up, go to him, watch him from behind the glass of the nursery as she had seen other mothers watching, but she was still tired and it was pleasant just to lie there and let the dreams come. Time enough, when Nataraj woke up and cried for her and Sister Carmelita or Sister Maria brought him to be nursed. They had a whole life ahead of them — and now, she suddenly realised, Nataraj had brought David back into her life.

David wasn't dead. No, he was here, right here in her heart; she could feel him as palpably as if he were actually present, sitting at her bedside, smiling down at her, holding her hand, stroking her cheek, or her hair. She closed her eyes. There he was. Tears pricked her eyes. How could he not be here? David was spirit now, and spirit never dies, cannot die — his spirit would be drawn to her, and that was what she could feel right now, enclosing her, warm and comforting. I must hold on to that, she told herself. Believe it with all my heart and all my mind and all my soul, and then it will be true.

David stayed with her for an hour, and then the sky began to grow light. She heard the noises of the home wakening up all around her. Soon Sister Anna would bring breakfast, and they would have a little chat, as always. She looked forward to showing Sister Anna her child.

She got up to go to the latrine. On her way back to bed she passed the open window and voices in the courtyard outside drew her attention. One of those voices was familiar. Too familiar. But she realised it too late.

A car stood in the gateway just below the window, a black car with an open rear door, a driver in the front seat, and a man was just about to enter the car, exchanging words with Sister Carmelita, and she knew that man; it was her brother Mani, and Mani held in his arms a bundle, and the bundle, she knew instinctively, was Nataraj, her baby, her son, her beloved, David's son, her darling, her future, her life.

'Mani!' she screamed at the open window, and Mani looked up, saw her, jumped into the car, slammed the door, and the car was gone in a splatter of gravel, with her baby.

Savitri raced down the stairs, out of the front door, into the courtyard, the street. She raced as far as she could get before they caught her and brought her back, weeping like a madwoman, berserk.

Savitri sent for Gopal, who came to get her two days later. She would have left earlier herself, taken the bus to Madras, but she had no money and no-one would lend her any.

'
Y
OU'LL GET OVER IT
,' Sister Carmelita comforted her. 'They all do. Think of it as the best. He'll end up in a loving Christian home, with two parents, and…'

'How could you?' was all Savitri said, and turned away.

Rude little creature,
thought Sister Carmelita.
Well, what could you expect from a heathen?

'Why did you let him?' Savitri said bitterly to Gopal, after a while. By this time she was numb with the horror of it all. 'Why did you ever tell him about the baby? Why did you tell him where to find me? No-one knew except you.'

'How could you accuse me! I did not tell him!' Gopal replied. He met her eyes and turned away again, unable to bear the accusation there.

'Well, how did he know, then?'

'I don't know! Believe me! Perhaps he followed me when I came here. What do I know?'

O
NLY A WEEK
later Gopal was as berserk as Savitri. The Baldwins were at supper when he burst in, hair dishevelled and eyes wide open and ringed with white, like a madman.

'Paul has gone! Mani has stolen Paul as well!'

Savitri sprang to her feet. 'No! How? When?'

Henry stood up, placed an arm around Gopal and led him to a chair. Gopal sank into it and wiped his brow on a corner of his lungi. He began to weep profusely. Nausea rose in Savitri’s gorge. Not this. Oh, not this. Not Paul too! She moved over to Gopal and laid her hands on his heaving shoulders, and gradually the sobbing ceased, and Gopal began to speak.

'I — I was at work... Fiona was home alone… sitting outside on the verandah at the back. She was reading one of those books. One of those stupid love books she gets sent from England. Oh, how often I have told her not to waste her time with this kind of reading! But no, she insists and this is the result! When she went upstairs again the baby was gone! Gone! Disappeared, stolen! I must go back to her now, we are searching desperately for him, I only came to tell you.'

He tried to stand up but his knees were weak and gave way and he began to cry again.

'My son! My beloved son! He has been stolen by Mani just like yours, Savitri! How could my brother do this to me? My own brother!'

'Did Fiona see him?' Savitri asked. A wave of indignation took hold of her; and cool rationality rose up to replace utter confusion and emotional havoc that had lamed her for the past week.

'If Fiona saw him then we could have him arrested. Surely he has hidden both babies somewhere! We need to get the police on our side. We couldn't do anything about Nataraj because Mani has papers — but this is different! Surely if Paul was stolen and we give the police Mani's name they can arrest him and find out!'

For the first time since Nataraj's disappearance she felt hope. If Mani had taken one baby then obviously the police would see that he had taken the other… If they could get one baby back, then they could get the other!

'Fiona has been to the police but they are not interested. They said to wait two days. She searched the whole neighbourhood, she asked all her neighbours. She asked the vendor outside our home, and he saw the thief but it was not Mani!'

'It wasn't Mani! But I thought…'

'It wasn't Mani himself, I mean. That vendor saw a young boy about twelve years old enter our house with a basket but he didn't think anything of it. The boy came out five minutes later and the basket looked heavy so we know Paul must have been inside it — Mani must have sent that boy but how can we prove it? How?'

'We can't,' said Savitri and her heart sank. Mani, of course, was cunning enough not to incriminate himself. He had taken both babies. He would never give them back.

'But why, Gopal, why? Why does Mani hate us so?' She had asked him that before. Now she asked him again, and added, 'Why does he hate our babies who have done nothing to him?'

'Those babies are both half Lindsays. The Lindsays are English — white, foreigners. They are an abomination to Mani. It is an abomination for him to have them in his family.'

'But they are innocent! They are his blood relatives! You Indians place such value on family, on sons, why…' cried June.

Gopal looked at her in pity. 'You English, in your delusion, you believe you are superior to us Indians. But for the orthodox Hindu you are without caste, and contact with you is pollution. Unclean Lindsay blood has polluted pure Iyer blood. This is how Mani's mind works. This is why I did not want to live in Madras with Fiona. This is why I tried to keep my marriage a secret from Mani, and the birth of my son. It is my ambition that brought me to this place, my career... Oh, if I had known...'

'But what will he do with those poor babies? He won't... he won't harm them?' Savitri choked on the last words. She had used a mild word instead of the terrible one she had thought, and which she would never ever speak out loud. Gopal did not reply. Her question hung unanswered in the air.

T
HE BACK SEAT
of the bus to Bangalore was already full but the man with the bundle headed straight for it and squeezed himself in between two other passengers who wordlessly moved aside to make room for him. The bundle was tied at the top. He placed it on the floor behind his feet, under the seat. He removed the cloth wound around his head, rolled it into an untidy ball, placed it behind his neck on the wood of the seat, and settled himself for sleep. It would be a long drive. All through the night. His employer had said it would be all right. He had administered some powder, he had said, and there would be no noise. There had been no trouble up to now, not in the first bus, though he had been anxious once when the bundle had moved and the man next to him had looked curiously at him. That was why he put it on the floor this time. So no-one would see. But in the dark who would see anyway? The powder would work for about five hours, his employer had said. That gave him quite enough time. He would arrive at the house just before dawn, when it was still dark. This house was in a city, his employer had said, not in the country like the other one. They even had a flap in the wall where one could place the bundle inside the building and leave without anyone seeing, expressly for cases such as this one. His employer knew all these things. His employer was a clever man, and cunning.

He patted the pocket on his shirt (the new shirt his employer had given him as part-payment) to make sure the letter was still there, the letter he was supposed to leave for this one. He had left the other letter with the other bundle. He wasn’t quite sure if it was the right letter; though the envelopes had names written on them the man couldn’t read but it didn’t matter anyway. One baby was very much like another. His wife had been sad to give up the first one. She had suckled it for two weeks; she had wanted to keep it. But his employed said no. He brought another baby and told him what to do and paid him. So he had followed directions. One baby here, one baby there. One letter here, one letter there. Who cared? Satisfied, he fell asleep.