Train to Delhi (15 page)

‘We'll take it,' Gautam said, pleased with the itinerary. He felt too awed by this creature to get into an argument with him.

‘Then may I have the sixty, please?' the shopkeeper stretched out his hand, like a performing monkey, asking for a handful of peanuts from one of the spectators.

‘The entire sum in advance?'

‘Of course.'

As Gautam paid up, Bhole leapt out of the shop, like a wild animal, beckoning his customers to follow him. A few yards down the lane, a swarm of beggars surrounded them—one-legged, armless, blind and those who were carried about in wooden trawlers by their partners. But they buzzed off the moment Bhole shouted them away.

Gautam and Haseena had to squelch through a patch of marsh before they got into a small, elegant boat, with a plank across the sides and two cushioned seats. A special arrangement indeed, Gautam thought. As the man undid the moorings, the boat lurched into motion. It was now gliding on the russet waters of the Ganges, occasionally ploughing through clusters of flowers, offerings of the living to the dead.

Above their heads, the sky hung bare and austere in the afternoon sun, whose reflection shimmered in the river like a golden bowl.

‘Are you from Delhi, sir?' Bhole asked.

The bull's-eye! How could this man place him so correctly? But then, Gautam thought, he must have handled thousands of pilgrims from all over the country—from south, east, north, west. He felt scared lest the man should probe him any further.

Gautam was, however, now primed to parry off any further questioning.

‘Yes.'

He thought a snappy, monosyllabic answer may discourage the man from getting any deeper into conservation. But hardly had he reclined against his cushion when Bhole broke into words again: ‘We'll be at the Triveni in a few minutes.'

‘Good.'

Well, Gautam thought, so long as the man talked like a tourist guide, he could endure him; but the
panda's
loquacity was picking up.

‘Newly married, sir?'

Ah, the primal assault! But by now Gautam was ready for anything.

‘Yes.'

‘So I've bagged it again.' He grinned, showing his gold teeth and sausage-like lips.

Now exulted, he pressed on, jerking his boat out of an obstinate whirlpool: ‘What caste, sir?'

‘Tripathi!'

Gautam knew it was coming, so he had it all worked out. He decided to feign Brahminism—just the bit he knew the
panda
would relish most.

‘Ah, high-class Brahmin!' the man said, gleefully. ‘Then you'd perhaps let me also do a prayer for you, at the Triveni.'

‘Certainly.'

‘Only five rupees extra.'

‘That's fine.'

As the boat swung into the Triveni, the
panda
let it swirl around for a while.

‘Now the prayer, sir?'

‘Sure, go ahead,' Gautam said, feeling tempted to add, ‘spit it out—quick.'

But Bhole came up with another question.

‘Your father's name, sir—and yours?'

‘My name is Lalit, Lalit Tripathi, my father is Girdharilal, my grandfather was Kishorilal, and I think my great-grandfather was Banwarilal. I guess this'll do.'

Gautam concocted an entire genealogical tree to give the irrepressible creature a mouthful of names to roll over his tongue.

‘And your wife's name?'

‘Seema, her mother's name is Kaushalya, her father's Kanhiya Kishore Pandey … I guess this would take care of her side too.'

‘Splendid!' Bhole exclaimed. ‘I feel very impressed, sir. You know, I've seen people who can't remember even their …'

‘Father's name,' Gautam interjected, smiling.

As the
panda
began to chant mantras, interpolated with all the names doled out to him, Gautam recalled the other prayer he'd heard at St. John's, a few days ago. Father Jones and Bhole—what a contrast! While the
panda
was chanting away, Gautam's eyes caught the sharp borderline between the two rivers—a sort of silken ribbon separating the russet brown of the Ganges from the bluish green of the Jumna. He also filled up his bowl with the holy water.

Suddenly, the chanting ceased. Gautam wished he'd given this man some more money and a longer list of names so that he could have flowed on, like the holy rivers. But, having done the prayer, Bhole turned to him with a wry smile.

‘Look at the colours, sir—the brown and the blue,' he said. ‘The blue you'll remember was the colour Lord Krishna got from the great Naga when the reptile hissed out at him.'

‘Yes, I know the story,' said Gautam; then, looking straight at Bhole's face, he asked, half-mockingly: ‘What colour is the Saraswati that flows invisibly underneath these two rivers?'

The
panda's
forehead wrinkled up; he'd never been asked this question.

‘White, I think.'

‘Why?'

‘The colour of purity, chastity …'

Gautam marvelled at the
panda's
nimble wit.

He then dipped his right hand into the Ganges and his left into the Jumna, feeling as though he was holding the two rivers within the palms of his hands. But it was the mythical Saraswati, flowing on in the subliminal zones, that really excited his imagination.

‘How one wishes,' said Gautam, ‘one could touch the Saraswati as well.'

‘We can never touch things that are pure and invisible—God and Saraswati,' Bhole said, ponderously. ‘But, now everything is being tainted.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Muslims have descended upon us like locusts, defiling our temples, our sacred rivers … The other day, a Muslim couple visited Mother Ganga, masquerading as Hindus. But I got them in the end. Pushed them both into the river near the fort,' Bhole said, rolling his bloodshot eyes menacingly. ‘I can always sniff out a Muslim.'

Startled, Gautam tried to look away, while Haseena blanched with fear.

‘Last week, some Muslims threw a cow's head into the Hanuman Temple, near the Sapru Bridge …'

‘Oh, that's too bad.' Gautam could mumble only a mild protest to appease the
panda.

‘But they paid heavily for it,' the
panda
said. ‘We slaughtered two Muslim mohallas.' Bhole's eyes were flashing.

‘Now the Muslim ringleaders are hiding away in Mohalla Kashana,' said Bhole. ‘But we'll get them there too—sometime next week.' Then, looking at Gautam: ‘Shouldn't a Brahmin like you also pray for us?'

‘Sure,' Gautam replied, though inwardly shaken up.

Turning to Haseena, Gautam noticed that she'd gone death-pale.

‘Is your wife unwell?'

‘Yes,' he replied, helping Haseena rest her head on his right shoulder. ‘We've had a long, tiresome train journey, you know. I must take her home immediately. Will you hurry up, please?'

‘Certainly,' Bhole answered. ‘But it's now just a few minutes to the fort. You shouldn't miss it.'

‘I think we'll cut the fort. Some other time.'

‘It's right there on the way, sir,' said the
panda.
‘You may have a quick look at it from the Jumna. A great fort built by Ashoka, but desecrated by Akbar, the Muslim bastard. If only we could snuff out all the Muslims from Allahabad, bring them to this fort and butcher them here. That's how we wiped out an entire British garrison during the Mutiny.'

Gautam now realized how the rogue had worked himself into another tirade against Muslims.

Although Haseena had come to, her body was still quaking as though she had the shivers.

‘But Ashoka's edict inside the fort preaches a different gospel, I think,' Gautam tried to soften up Bhole. ‘Doesn't it exhort man to be tolerant and forgiving?'

‘All that's gone now,' the
panda
snarled. ‘In any case, Ashoka lost his head when he turned Buddhist. And are Buddhists Hindus at all?'

So the man had swept off Ashoka too under the carpet. Gautam wondered how the
panda
could talk of spiritual purity and massacre in the same breath.

Gautam and Haseena returned to the bank, their nerves totally shattered. They felt as though they had waded through a river of blood. Like a chamaeleon, Bhole had revealed diverse facets of his self—tough-muscled oarsman, Hindu priest and bloodhound. ‘Three-in-one!' Gautam mumbled to himself, repeating the
panda's
own phrase.

Bhole stepped out and began to pull the boat manually to the wharf; then he beckoned the couple to follow him through the marshy patch. But as Gautam tried to help Haseena out of the boat, it lurched, nearly throwing her off into the water.

‘Watch your step, Haseena!' Gautam cried out.

Hardly had he uttered the name when Bhole sprang to his feet, like an incensed animal. Menacingly, he drew close to Gautam.

‘Is she a Muslim?' he barked.

‘What do you mean?' Gautam asked, utterly confounded.

‘What was the name you just called?' The
panda's
mouth was agape like a cobra's, its deadly fangs poised to strike.

‘Seema, of course.'

Instantly, Gautam recaptured his mental agility.

‘Haseena was what I heard, man,' the
panda
blared. ‘And that name rings a bell …' He knitted his brows as if he was straining hard to recall something.

‘Bholeji,' Gautam thought it prudent to address him respectfully, as a gesture of appeasement, ‘surely, I should know my wife's name … I've never heard the other name. Who is Haseena? … Could you imagine a Tripathi going about with a Muslim?'

Gautam even tried to laugh it out, but he felt a cramping sensation in his stomach. Haseena kept looking about blankly, pale and shocked. Only vaguely did she feel that Gautam was fighting hard to retrieve the situation.

Bhole stood there petrified, finding it difficult to disbelieve what he had heard earlier. His eyes kept probing Haseena's face. She almost cowered under his ghoulish gaze.

The only thing that perplexed the
panda
was the kumkum on her forehead. And there stood Gautam in his white dhoti and kurta, holding the bowl in one hand and Haseena's arm in the other. They didn't look Muslim, surely. Or were they masquerading?

Before the man could say anything more, Gautam took out his wallet.

‘Here's another tenner—for the prayer, Bholeji,' he said, very ingratiatingly. ‘We need your blessings for a happy married life.'

The man put out his right hand limply as if the tip didn't really excite him, his eyes still lingering on Haseena's face.

Although Gautam and Haseena tried to walk away composedly, inwardly they felt chilled with fear. What if the man got them from behind? They knew they must move on confidently till they merged into the crowd of pilgrims and beggars.

Gautam felt he would be turned into a stone if he dared look back—like Lot's wife.

As he dropped Haseena at the tea-stall, he said, ‘Let's not meet for three days—till we get over this shock.'

She just kept silent.

16

A
S
Shyama answered the door, she was surprised to see a foreigner standing on the porch—tall, golden-haired, elegantly dressed in a three-piece suit.

He enquired: ‘Is Mr Dhawan there, please?'

Although the maidservant didn't know any English (except such words and phrases as ‘sorry, please, yes, no, thank you, good morning and good evening'), she instinctively grasped the question. She would have readily responded with a ‘yes, please,' had Sonali not showed up at the door.

‘Please do come in,' Sonali said, surprised to see a white man.

‘I'm sorry to barge in like this,' said Bob Cunningham.

From his accent, she understood he was an Englishman. How she wished some of her neighbours had seen her ushering into the house a distinguished looking Englishman. He was obviously a friend of her husband's. But shouldn't Berry have mentioned something about him? If she'd known about his visit, she could have put on her gold-embroidered sari and some special jewellery, though the French chiffon she was now wearing appeared sparkling too.

She looked about—thank God, the house wasn't too untidy. Fortunately, she'd got it done just that morning, otherwise she would have felt embarrassed over the smudgy glasspanes and orange peels strewn all over the floor. As for the piles of old newspapers and rags on the porch, how very lucky of her to have sold off the entire lot only last evening—at twenty paise a pound.

Sonali threw a side-glance at the visitor. Does it matter if a white man has his bath daily or not? Doesn't he always look clean? She caught herself imagining this man in bed, making love to his wife. Hair golden brown all over, body scented … she reined in her thoughts. Not for a Hindu wife to let her mind run wild.

Sonali led him to the drawing room.

‘Hello, Bob!' Berry greeted him, almost jumping out of his chair, putting down his glass of rum on a side-table. ‘What a surprise!' Then, pointing to the rum, he said: ‘This is my afternoon round. How about joining me?'

‘Too early for me,' Bob replied. ‘Look, you don't have a phone, and I didn't note your address the last time I dropped you here.'

‘Ah, the explanations and apologies,' said Berry. ‘Back to your Englishness—appointments, phone calls. You're welcome here any time, Bob.'

‘Still …'

‘And that's my bride,' Berry said, turning to Sonali. ‘Married seven years now, still my sweetheart.'

‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Dhawan.'

Bob understood Berry was laying it on too thick.

‘Well, I'm in a hurry,' Bob's eyes returned to Berry. ‘I just came to ask you, Mrs Dhawan and Gautam …'

‘Sonali is the name,' interjected Berry.

‘All right,' Bob resumed. ‘I should be delighted if both of you and Gautam could come to my party next Saturday.'