The Onus of Ancestry

by Arpita Mogford

  I believe I have wronged you and my confession now will not absolve me of my guilt, I know. But because I am religious at heart, and I believe in God, Heaven and Hell, I cannot leave without confessing and without asking your forgiveness – please forgive me if you can.

  You are the only daughter I have known, and all I have done I have done with good intentions. Please try to forgive me and remember me with love and not hate in your heart.

  The letter had not surprised her. She had long felt that Rusi had nursed some anxiety in his heart where she was concerned. She had also been conscious of John and Jennifer’s unease. All along she had known that Dia was bound to her inexplicably with too many strings; from the first meeting their two hearts had formed a bond which extended beyond normal friendship. She somehow knew that Dia was hers, but never had the courage to establish ownership. Yet she also knew they had been right to give Dia a real chance in life, at the cost of depriving her of her rights. Nishith mattered so little to her now; it was just as well his daughter had grown up away from his identity and influence. The memory of that night no longer disturbed her conscious existence, realities of everyday living had dimmed remembrance of her time with him. He was a ghost from the past who no longer haunted her. She was happy for Dia, she did not grudge her the unstinting love and care she had received from her adopted parents.

  Yet there was a splinter in her heart, which was that she would have to share her life with Dia not as a mother, not even as a relative, but only as a loving friend. She had no rights in the matter. Could she continue to live thus for the rest of her life and not share the knowledge with Dia? The answer must be yes – she would never do anything to shake Dia’s security. Once again her destiny was to love, but not to expect a daughter’s love in return. She only hoped that now she knew, John and Jennifer would not shut her out from Dia’s life. She had made herself lose Christopher – now Dia could be taken from her. Was such terrible loss to be her destiny?

  She returned to Abu Dhabi from Bahrain and submerged herself once more in her work. It was not difficult to do so in a place where all the others did the same. People seemed to be there just to slave away their lives until their skeletons were wrapped in gold leaf, ready to disintegrate from physical fatigue and mindless exhaustion. She had become one of this procession of gold-seekers with no other life.

  A few days later, a letter arrived from the Parkinsons – a letter of apology, explaining the reason and circumstances of their decision. Janet had told them of Rusi’s letter to Dwita. They concluded by saying that they fully acknowledged Dwita’s rights and would accept her decision, for Dia was really hers. But perhaps looking at Dia, and considering the effect upon her of such a disclosure, Dwita would hold off, at least while Dia was still so young. Also, the girl was now by far their greatest interest and solace, losing her would be quite unthinkable. Could they hope that Dwita would agree to share with them the love and care of her as before, without her knowing any more than she already knew? There would come a time when it was right to tell her, but not now.

  Dwita was grateful to John and Jennifer for all they had done for her in her predicament, and once again the tradition of her upbringing came between self-interest and ingratitude to an elderly couple who had been good to her when she had no one to turn to. By their action they had given Dia a clean lineage and saved her from the sorrow of a tainted past, and Dwita’s maternal love could hardly replace that – her claim would put back on Dia’s shoulders the curse of the Duttas, the fear of insanity inherited from her real father. She could not do this to her daughter just to establish her maternal rights. In the end did any mother win or keep her rights? Look at Parna – she had tried to do the best by her daughter, but in the process she had brought her misery, wrought more harm, and practically snapped the bond between them. Her conscious exertion of rights did not mean she won, she only ended up by losing most of those rights. Dwita did not want that where Dia was concerned. She never wanted to have to exert the ‘right’ to love her and be loved. In all this, she only questioned the ethics of their decision, questioned their right – Bijit Mitra’s and John and Jennifer Parkinsons’ right – to have carried this deceit through without involving Dwita. She concluded that they probably knew they would not stand a chance in a law court for social justice, but that they stood a good chance in the law court of humanity and could therefore be granted a maternal pardon.

  A few months later a letter from Rusi’s solicitors arrived which came as a total surprise to Dwita. It informed her that he had left her a substantial endowment in his will. She had not expected it. After considerable thought she made up her mind to buy herself a pied à terre in London which could offer a refuge from her past. Would it be difficult to be near Christopher and yet not be entitled to see him or speak to him? No. She could not weaken now and make it hard for both of them. Besides, Christopher had kept away from her all this time, why should he change his mind simply because she was in London oftener than before? Having a place in London could make life easier for her, and when Dia grew up, she could always have it to use. Dwita needed a corner to herself, as her mother’s home in Calcutta could not be considered her own. London was the best haven of anonymity, one hardly ever bumped into friends or acquaintances at its airports or on its streets – in its friendly but impersonal bosom you could lead a nameless, faceless existence.

  CHAPTER XVII

  Dwita was basking in one of those white-painted chairs in the garden of the Sacre-Coeur, in Paris. She had just paid the old lady for two seats. The other was vacant just at the moment, because Dia was busy with her camera, shooting everything in sight. She gazed up at the sun-kissed dome of the house of worship – its pure whiteness soothed her mind. It did not have the expansive magnificence of Notre-Dame, its superior architecture or generous proportions, but it had a rare beauty all its own. It had the intimate charm of a small-town French cathedral. She looked at Dia as the girl darted happily about, and felt at peace with the world.

  They had shared a few holidays together since that day when they had made their pact at the school – short and long ones in England, on the Continent and in the Gulf – but so far she had not collected enough courage to take her to India. She felt it would be too difficult to deceive her mother or Barun. Dia had just finished her O Level examinations and they had decided to spend a week in Paris, sight-seeing and gourmandising. It was so good to see her enjoying herself. The Parkinsons had never made any attempt to prevent the shared holidays and Dwita had never attempted to impose her maternal rights. Her visits to London were always rushed, as her work hardly ever allowed her more than a few days leisure at a time.

  To Dia, she was a friend in whom she could confide. John and Jennifer were now older and preferred to spend more time in the quiet of the country, whereas Dia pined for the excitement of London and what it had to offer. She came to Dwita with all the pangs and problems of growing up. Dwita saw that Dia was emerging as a beautiful girl – her pretty oval face, large liquid eyes veiled by long thick eyelashes and a pair of thin arched brows above them would ensnare many male hearts. She was not as tall as her mother, but had inherited her mane of thick hair, the wayward hair Maheshwari had once combed so lovingly.

  When Dia visited her in Abu Dhabi, Fawzia had said, “Dwita, Diana looks so much like you she could pass as your own.” Sheikh Sultan had commented, “You are so fond of that girl, Dwita, you love her as your own. You should have adopted a daughter even if you did not wish to marry again – this is no life for a young woman.”

  “I am not young anymore, Sultan.” They had dropped formalities long ago and used each other’s Christian names. “Who will marry me?” she had said laughing.

  “You take that armour off just for once and see – you will soon find out. At the moment, the men are too scared to come near you – me included! We have a nickname for you here, did you know that? ‘The indomitable iceberg’.”

  “What a coincidence – do you know I was called an icebe
rg once before, though not indomitable. After all these years, it is good to know, Sultan, that someone can hold you at bay. Remember all those years ago when you thought I would be incompetent and incapable because I was a woman? Have I proved myself to you now and managed to clear the name of my sex with you and your Arab friends?”

  “Certainly you have to me, and some others – but to win them all is not possible as yet. We still have a long way to go. A lot of us cling to our old beliefs and prejudices. Our religion makes it hard for us to emancipate our women.”

  “I do not agree with you there – it is your interpretation of your religion that has affected your community and crippled the chances of your women. In God’s eyes men and women are equal, their physical differences impose constraints on both sexes, not just on females. I wish we could create a world where our social, racial and religious differences did not keep us apart as human beings. I have left my country with this particular sadness in my heart.”

  “What sadness, Dwita?”

  “You see India was once united, we lived and fought together. We had our differences, but they were not important enough to separate us altogether. We could still continue to live as varying members of a joint family. But the Raj saw to it that our image of unity was cut apart by the carving knife of imperialism; it is the ineradicable scar left by a departing jilted lover, who was mean enough to make sure if he could not have his prize, she should not remain whole or untainted.”

  “But what about nowadays, are things changing?”

  “No, we still continue in the same incomprehensible way – look at all the wars we have waged with each other, and the unscrupulous politicians of our country have used that as a weapon of their success or excuse for their failures.”

  “Do you still miss your home, your country, Dwita?”

  “Yes, I do, all the time. But I cannot accept what I see there. The same diseases are no doubt present elsewhere in the world, perhaps even in your part of the world, but I can bear to be unaffected by them as they are not of our making. But I cannot do so in the case of India – the country of my birth and upbringing… You only heard of the emergency in 1976, but I was there for a while at the time, and I saw what the collected malice and ambition of those in power did to a whole nation. It was unthinkable for those of us who heard stories of the struggle of the freedom fighters, of their patriotism and of their sacrifices. All this became a thing of the past. Now Indians oppressed Indians, the senseless shame and rabid immorality of the situation was inconceivable. I nearly decided then not to return.”

  “Have you not been back since 1976?”

  “No – not yet. But I hope to one day.”

  “I am sorry Dwita, but I think you feel too strongly – in this day and age, one has to be a little amoral, and learn to overlook.”

  “You may be right, Sultan, but I still feel unable to compromise where my country is concerned.”

  *

  She was far away, lost in her own thoughts when Dia returned to her seat in the gardens, saying, “I have finished the whole roll of film! I must get another this evening.”

  “Oh Dia, not again – at this rate you will have a suitcase full of them and we will have to leave behind all those lovely clothes and shoes you bought here!”

  “No, don’t worry, we can throw away that nasty fat file instead, which I have seen lying in wait in that case of yours. No work for you here, I warn you–”

  “My dear, dear girl, I was not going to do any work while I am here with you. I carry it for safekeeping and also as you know Sultan is always in hot pursuit of facts and figures. My head is too small to hold all of them.”

  “Dwita, I would like to work like you, and wander round the world.”

  “Well, mm – that sounds good – but Dia, though my life may appear very exotic, I would not like to recommend it entirely to you or any one for that matter. Anyway, my love, you have plenty of time to decide, but when you choose, fallible as we are, try not to make a mistake that you cannot repair.”

  “One should be able to unmake most mistakes.”

  “That is the confidence of youth speaking – once I thought that too – but now I think some cannot be unmade.”

  “Dwita, can I ask you something?”

  “Yes, fire away.”

  “Why did you never marry again?”

  “It was not possible.”

  “Because of your career?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Did you know Uncle Christopher well?”

  “Yes, I think I did.”

  “And now?”

  “I have not seen him for some years.”

  “Was it because of Aunt Julia?”

  “Dia, my love, what makes you ask all these questions suddenly?”

  “Well, I have always wondered – do you know I still remember the day you drove away from Oleander last and you never came back – and we also never saw Uncle Chris very much afterwards.”

  “Does he not visit any more?”

  “No – never. He comes to us in London, but not that often. He seems distant and less cheery. I believe he travels all the time and when he is at home spends all his time in his study. I believe they hardly speak to each other. It is such a shame. My parents are different, we are so close to each other, and always do things together. It is so much better to be like that.”

  “Yes of course–”

  Dwita suddenly felt weak inside and it must have shown on her face for Dia said, “What is the matter? Have I said something wrong?”

  “No, of course not, you are quite right.” She tried to sound light-hearted. Her feeling for Christopher was still an open wound that caused pain if pressed. She kept putting new bandages over it, but a little blood always seeped through.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Dwita was returning from Calcutta. She had gone back after several years at Barun’s request. He had assured her that things were better in India – the dark days of Emergency were over, the country was limping back to normal. She had spent a few days with her mother and met Barun frequently to catch up on the years they had missed. He was now quite the business man in his sharkskin suit, moccasins, gold rimmed spectacles and a Dutch cheroot always stuck between his fingers. The aching nostalgia of Harvard was a thing of the past. He was the fun-loving most eligible and most sought after bachelor in Calcutta’s highest social circle. His telephone never stopped ringing, invitations never stopped arriving, he was never left alone to brood or fester. But he was still the same Barun underneath all the shine and glitter as far as Dwita was concerned. Barun always dropped his mask in front of her. Her arrival had caused flutters yet again in the maternal hearts of Calcutta – they thought Barun was in danger of being enticed and abducted by this stranger. When Dwita was leaving Barun had said, “The disquiet of the matrons will now be set at rest – but what about me? How long will you go on being a butterfly, never resting for long anywhere? Ask your Sheikh to set you free.”

  “My Sheikh is not my keeper, Barun, he bears no responsibility for the sentence on my head. If you like, I am my own prisoner. I have condemned myself.”

  “Then come back, Dwita. I said it before, I say it now – I will keep repeating it until you return.”

  “I have a home in London, why don’t you come and visit me there? I can show you London. I am quite a good guide you know.”

  “Are you ever there yourself?”

  “Sometimes. I try and make it as often as I can – I miss Dia otherwise.”

  “You have always wanted what you could not have, never what you could.”

  “Yes, that has been my mistake all my life.”

  “Can you not undo it now?”

  “Some mistakes made cannot be unmade, dear friend… Now, let us not part on such a morbid note. Pay me a visit soon.”

  She had taken a flight to Bombay to connect her to Nairobi, where she had some work to do. Sultan’s network of enterprises had expanded now to Africa. His business interests were manifo
ld, across the northern and southern hemispheres. For Dwita the pace and extent of her suitcase existence had also grown rapidly. Raghu complained that he hardly saw her these days and hence had very little to do. He might as well retire, he said, though Dwita knew that he would never willingly leave, the money was too good. But she was becoming very tired of travelling and had not been feeling well lately. She avoided thinking about it and tried to carry on as usual, thinking she would see a doctor soon. There was this nagging pain inside her which bothered her at times.

  She spent a few days in Nairobi dealing with the problem that Sultan had entrusted to her care. She also managed to reorganise the management structure to suit local employment regulations and helped recruit some Kenyans into key management posts to establish a more balanced personnel structure within the company. It was for such skills that the Sheikh always insisted on her presence at senior management recruitment exercises in all his companies around the world. He said Dwita had ‘a nose for right people in the right jobs’. After completing the work in Nairobi, she was due in London for another appointment and Sultan was to meet her there to be briefed on her recent activities.

  However, she had been unexpectedly delayed in Nairobi. The aircraft developed technical trouble and it was announced that the passengers would have to be taken back to a hotel for the day. Dwita was a little concerned about her next appointment – then she shrugged and said to herself, “Over a decade in the Gulf and you still agitate about schedules?” The man in London would no doubt understand. She could try to telephone from the hotel in due course, once she knew more about the anticipated delay.