The Onus of Ancestry

by Arpita Mogford

  The airline bus was not available; the passengers were put in several taxis and despatched to various hotels. She liked Nairobi, the Kenyans were friendly people.

  They were brought to a hotel in the centre of the town and she was given a room which was adequate. She would probably need it only for a few hours, with a bit of luck. She had left her case at the airport, just taking the briefcase and the overnight bag with her, and decided to have something to eat at the hotel coffee shop.

  The coffee shop was on the terrace of the hotel and commanded a splendid view of the town. She chose a table near an enormous potted plant, ordered coffee and sandwiches, and sat admiring the view before her. Then she took a writing case out of her briefcase, to catch up on some correspondence. She chose a postcard out of a few she had picked up at the airport to send to Dia. The girl loved receiving postcards from Dwita’s ports of call, and pinned them all up on a board in her room. Concentrating on the card she became suddenly aware of a presence next to her – the feel and fragrance of that presence she knew well. After all these years her heart lurched the same way – she felt weak-kneed and afraid. She raised her head very slowly, taking as long as she could over it, and their eyes met. There was nothing she could say that would sound right or adequate. “Would you like to sit down?” was all she managed.

  “I may as well – I can’t leave until my plane decides to take off.”

  “Are we on the same plane then? Bound for London?” He shook his head.

  “How are you?”

  “Well – thank you, and you? I see you are still flying around the world.”

  “Yes – just the same. Just a little older, a little more tired, that’s all,” she said, a sigh had escaped her. He looked tired too – drawn and pale, dark rings formed shadows round his eyes, his hair had a few streaks of grey. He looked a little thinner, otherwise the same Christopher.

  “What are you staring at, Dwita? Do you not recognise me any more?”

  “You look just the same to me.”

  “And you – are you happy? Still enjoying yourself?”

  “Happy? That is not a word in my dictionary any more – you may say content, perhaps tranquil some of the time. I have discovered a new formula for tranquillity for the hopeless and the helpless.”

  “You mean the tranquillity of fatalism?”

  “What you cannot fight, you accept.” She looked at him with steady eyes. “Tell me, are you still working hard, flying around like me?”

  “Yes, that’s my life. The boys have set me free, they don’t need me any more. Jean-Claude is an aspiring architect. He found himself an assignment in Brazil and left a few months ago. Brent has been called to the Bar, he seems to have found good chambers in the City. Have you seen Diana lately?”

  Dwita nodded silently.

  “She reminds me of you – the same pride, the same aloofness. There is even a strong physical resemblance.”

  She wondered if he knew.

  “Well, perhaps I see too much of her, more than is good for her, you know?” She threw it more or less into the air. He looked hard at her and she dropped her gaze.

  “I have known for a long time, Dwita – the Parkinsons could not fool me. But I was afraid to ask you lest you were not aware yourself.”

  “I too knew in my subconscious, but Rusi confirmed it formally in a letter just before he died. I always felt a strong inexplicable attachment to Dia, but somehow could not bring myself to believe that professional conspiracy could be taken so far. However I now feel what they did to me was for the best. Dia was given a chance in life that she could not have had with me. The memories connected with her father would have lingered as an indelible reminder of the past. Christopher, please promise not to breathe a word of all this to Dia, even if I am no longer there.”

  “Of course I will not. Diana is a wonderful girl, but like you she is far too independent and wants a career for herself.”

  “There is nothing wrong in that – the important thing is to find love and to keep it.”

  “But you did not believe in keeping it, how can you expect it of her?”

  “I had no choice, Christopher – you must see that my presence only served to complicate things for you. I decided that I had no place in your life except as a usurper. I did not enjoy my role of adulteress or ‘the other woman’.”

  “You did not think of asking my opinion in all this?”

  “I took a coward’s way out. Please forgive me if you can.”

  “No, I won’t forgive you so easily. Your leaving me like that may have restored me to the family in principle, but you took my peace of mind with you and turned me into a restless wanderer like yourself – and unfortunately I do not have your detachment or fatalism to live it with tranquillity.”

  “Christopher, I have never succeeded in doing things quite right. I married Nishith to do right by my mother, I gave away Dia to do right by her and all the others, I gave you up to do right by your family – but all to nothing. Would you call that fatalism or is it more like incompetence? A good Hindu would call it karma or maybe prayashchit – atonement – but I am not even a good enough Hindu to find solace in its expedient philosophy. I do not believe in anything or anyone any more. My past has quietly dropped away, my present is dubious, and who knows what the future holds anyway?”

  “Dwita, give up your vain pursuits and this solitary existence, and come back to me – come back for both our sakes before it is too late.”

  “You speak like Barun – he wants me to go back to India, you want me to return to you and England. Perhaps the time has come to choose a new way of life, a different place, I don’t know where… ”

  “How long are you planning to be in London this time?”

  “Only a few days – the Sheikh is coming down as well. We are planning a meeting to decide on a major reorganisation of resources for some of his companies in Europe. Then I am sure he will despatch me to the next destination without delay.”

  “Why do you still work like a maniac, Dwita? Is it money?”

  “Not any more – I have enough to last a lifetime and more. But what else would I do?”

  Christopher looked thoughtful and Dwita checked her watch, aware it was growing late.

  “Chris, we really must find out about that plane, and I must ring London.”

  “I don’t much care, no one is expecting me.”

  “I do, Sultan is expecting me. You wait here, I will go and find out.”

  It turned out that her plane was nearly ready and she could expect to be taken to the airport shortly. There was no point in telephoning London then. She heard her flight being called by the airport driver.

  “Goodbye Christopher, I must leave now. I cannot run as I used to before. I suppose I am losing speed and motivation with age.” Christopher looked at her strangely and did not say goodbye.

  Although it was Saturday the next day, Dwita had to leave early to meet up with Sultan, who had summoned his troops to his hotel suite to pursue his business objectives. Dwita knew Sultan well, holiday or not, work would be resumed. She had guessed right and Sultan had ordered lunch in the suite and the meeting carried on until early evening. They were asked to report again on Monday. Dwita was relieved the next day was going to be free – it was surprising, as being an Arab, Sultan was not used to the idea of Sunday being a rest day. However on this occasion he was visiting a relative who happened to own a house somewhere in Surrey. Fawzia was not with him, nor any of his other women. Hence he was at a loose end.

  “Dwita, have dinner with me tonight?” Sultan generously extended an invitation to her.

  “I am sorry, Sultan, I am already doing something.” She had made up her mind to visit Dia that evening.

  “Why do you not postpone that to tomorrow?”

  “Sorry, Sultan, cannot make tonight.” She smiled to make her refusal less blunt.

  “It is special, is it? I have always been curious to find out how you spend your time away from us.”


  “Do you wish to catch me out or something?”

  “No! I’m just curious. You have always been perfectly behaved – far too proper for someone single and unattached.”

  “Maybe I am not so single, nor so unattached as you think.” She laughed.

  “Sometimes I hope that is the case. You have been working non-stop well over a decade with me and earlier with Rusi, you have hardly stopped or taken leave, where do you find all this steam?”

  “I am getting a little tired these days – maybe I should think of retiring soon.”

  “And leave me? Not a hope. Retire! You make me laugh. You have another twenty years to go. You cannot be old because you think so, you have to look it too.”

  “They say you are as old as you feel – I feel a hundred.”

  “Look, my dear, there is no easy escape from Sultan. I can let you off dinner tonight and perhaps let you have a few extra days in London, but that is the extent of my generosity.”

  “You mean, I could have a few days leave here?”

  “Have two weeks if you like, give yourself a break. Go to the South of France and stay at my villa in Cannes, so that when I see you you feel twenty again and no thoughts of retirement plague your mind.”

  “Thank you, Sultan – and in return you may be my guest for dinner on Monday night. You can meet Dia again.”

  She thought she could use those few days leave to have the ‘medical’ done, she was still not feeling quite herself. The nagging pain in the stomach kept returning from time to time.

  A couple of days later Dwita had just returned from her appointment with the specialist recommended by her doctor. He had been worried and amazed that Dwita had failed to consult anyone earlier. Was she not in pain, he had asked.

  Yes, she was, but she had tried not to pay much attention to it. She had been far too busy to give it much thought – at this he shook his head in disapproval and said he suspected that the womb was infected and the infection could very well have spread. She ought to have exploratory surgery, and he could not be sanguine as to what he would find. It should happen “immediately” he said sternly, but she had asked for three weeks’ grace so that she could return to Abu Dhabi to organise her affairs first. She would go through it alone – it would be very unfair of her to burden anyone else with her illness, she thought. Dr Mitra was no longer alive to lend a medical ear to her predicament, but the specialist had agreed to make all arrangements. She also wished to go to Calcutta for a few days, in case something happened to her. She was worried; she was not used to being ill or an invalid.

  She sat back in the armchair and pondered – her womb, she fancied rather morbidly, had revolted finally after all these years, against abuse and rejection. It seemed so strange to have this train of thought when she loved so dearly the result of her conception. Why could she never, to this day, come to terms with the assault committed on her so long ago? Why had this sense of total rejection outlived the conscious acceptance of Dia and of her fate? Why had the repugnance woven itself so inextricably into the very essence of her being that she still failed to shake it off? She had never been able to drive away the abhorrence that haunted her; the sheer vandalism of Nishith had planted itself within her. Fortunately she had been able to dissociate Dia from that particular nightmare of her subconscious existence, even if she had not been able to forget her past. It was perhaps her guilt that had prevented her from seeking marital fruition beyond the simple right to love – that fulfilment, she felt, was not for her to enjoy. It had been another reason too why she had desisted from claiming Dia as her own or exerting any definite maternal rights on her, despite sometimes yearning for her to have been a child born of love, the kind of love that she shared with Christopher. The only consolation was that Dia had found a new lease of life, unblemished and unscarred. Dwita could have given her only an inheritance of a very uncertain future.

  But now the seeds of repugnance had blown and erupted – as if to swallow her in a mark of Nishith’s final vengeance. Perhaps surgery would rid her of the past, cleanse and sanctify her inside and out, she thought. There would be no trace of sacrilege left in her, only the memory of the love of one man and a child would continue to sustain her.

  She had made up her mind in the last few days that she was going to make her base in England. If Sultan agreed to post her to his office in London, she would continue with him, but he had to see her less in the role of troubleshooter. But she did not wish to let Sultan down – he had been a kind employer and a generous friend.

  She was anxious to keep her illness to herself too – she was so used to coping on her own, solving her own problems that she was almost ashamed to share her burden with anyone, even those she loved. She was used to suffering in solitude, and others’ sympathy somehow embarrassed her. Her mother had now come to understand this better and though they were in regular touch now, closer than ever, Parna had learned not to pry into her daughter’s privacy, or put pressure on her to find out what she did not wish to divulge; Dwita had a pathological need to appear intact to the outside world.

  As planned Dwita had returned to her flat in Abu Dhabi, greeted by Raghu’s traditional consolation of a restorative gin and tonic. Her interview with Sultan had been quite difficult. He had not taken her seriously at first when she asked for medical leave.

  “Sultan, I am serious, I assure you. I need surgery in the immediate future. Before then I wish to visit my family in India. I have asked for three weeks before having the operation, to tie up the loose ends here and fit in a visit to India. Afterwards, I will need at least six to eight weeks’ medical leave.”

  “So I virtually lose you for three months! Oh, Allah – who can I find and rely upon at such short notice?”

  “Sultan, whilst we are on the subject, may I add something else? I think this will offer you the time and opportunity to think in terms of a substitute–”

  “What substitute? Whose substitute?”

  “Mine, of course. You must think of a substitute in case I drop dead one day. I might die under the surgeon’s knife–”

  “Allah forbid! Dwita, don’t talk like that.”

  “But Sultan, we must be practical – I cannot be here for ever,” she pleaded, almost laughing at his stubbornness.

  “Why is it so important suddenly to think of leaving Sultan?”

  “I am not asking to leave you, I don’t want to – but I am asking you to be sensible. You must find someone who can replace me here.”

  “You wish to leave Abu Dhabi?”

  “Yes, I do. I would really like to be based in London. I wish to see more of the people who mean a great deal to me. You see, my surgery may be successful or not, but it has certainly brought back to me the truth of mortality, the finite aspect of the eternity we delude ourselves with.”

  “Dwita, are you hiding some part of the surgeon’s diagnosis from me? Has the surgeon told you something we ought to know?”

  “I am not hiding anything – in fact I know very little and he is going to unravel the mystery for himself when he has opened me up.”

  “And who is going to take care of you afterwards? Have you told John Parkinson?”

  “No – I have told no one except you and I want you to promise Sultan, that you will keep this to yourself. Swear by Allah.”

  “Insha’Allah, Dwita, as you wish. But Fawzia and I would like to be there when you go into hospital.”

  “No, Sultan – please. I shall ask the hospital to telephone you as soon as it is over. I wish to go through this alone. I have a feeling that I will need to be alone, when they have done with me.”

  “Allah should have made you a man.”

  “Not all men feel like me, you know.”

  “I hope Allah will look after you. You have been like a sister to me and Fawzia, we will do our best for you. And remember that the company will collect the bill, so you go and get the best you can out of your surgeon and hospital.”

  “Thank you, Sultan. You have always
been good to me. I could not do better than you for a brother. I have always valued you and Fawzia as my dear friends.”

  “When do you leave for Calcutta?”

  “In a week’s time if I can tie everything up satisfactorily in the office here. I hope to spend a week to ten days in India, then I can look up the offices in Bombay and Delhi for you. I will get back to Abu Dhabi, then leave for London thereafter. Raghu can have his leave then.”

  “What will happen to him if you leave here?”

  “He will want to go back to India, I think.”

  “I can always absorb him, you know. He is a good chap.”

  “Yes, very good and reliable. I am not sure if he would want to stay here without me. I will find out and let you know.”

  She had spoken to Raghu subsequently and he had said that he wished to return to India and be with his family for a while. If she came to India, he would come back to her. They agreed on a pension that would keep him well provided. She had also settled a generous sum on him in her will. He was of course a well-to-do-man in his own right these days and had invested his earnings sensibly in a house and land. She was able to complete her work and clear her desk in time to keep to her schedule of departure for India.

  CHAPTER XIX

  She lay on the bed in a London clinic, alone and unknown, as she had been once before many years ago. So much had happened since then, and she remembered vividly those days from her bleak suffocating past, that had robbed her of her rightful present and future. Lying here now she did not feel competent or inclined to account for the last two decades and more of her life, which seemed to have slid past rather more rapidly than she had realised. What had been gained or lost in the process was far beyond her own costing capability. Time had eluded her and she had managed it rather badly, as her professional counterparts would no doubt allege. She only knew that she had been able to keep her head above the height and formidable strength of its surging waves which had threatened to swallow her all these years. She had somehow survived, kept her sanity. Time’s onslaughts had not been able to dislodge her will and absolute determination.