A House Called Askival

by Merryn Glover

  TWENTY-TWO

  Late March 1947 was Evangelism Week at Oaklands. The students had been organised into teams to tackle the various tasks associated with this annual event. Some had painted large banners with verses such as ‘Jesus is Lord!’ and ‘No One Comes to the Father but by Me’ and these were hung from the balconies around the quad and plastered along the corridors of the High School building. Senior Choir, under the tutelage of the luscious Miss Lawrence, had polished their suite of hymns and the Drama Club had put together a play on the life of William Carey, first Baptist missionary to India. James was in both performances, indeed was throwing himself into all aspects of the week with urgency as he was still trying to restore his reputation after the fiasco with Private Patsy the previous year.

  The guest speaker for the campaign was the Reverend Enoch Peterson, a senior Mennonite missionary with a long history in India and an equally long beard. He had started growing it on the ship to Calcutta and combed it daily, reciting The Lord’s Prayer in Bengali as he did. A moustache, however, had never been allowed to sprout and his upper lip was as soft and sensitive as a petal. A deeply scholarly man and beloved of the Bible, the Reverend Peterson believed he could not preach his own Scripture to Hindus unless he was prepared to listen to theirs, so had spent much time discoursing with Brahmin priests and scholars. ‘You have not truly understood another religion until you are tempted to convert,’ he taught. And had he felt tempted? Well, that was to be the subject of his talks at Oaklands: Seeking the Unknown God. The first night was tantalizingly – and controversially – titled Christ the Sadhu.

  But there was a problem. Another spiritual teacher was in town that same night, holding a meeting in the bazaar: India’s Holiest of Holy Men, the Great Soul Himself, Gandhi-ji. News of this visit was creating a stir amongst the students, especially the Indians. Verghese and James carried their polite request to the Principal’s office at 8am on the Monday. Could interested persons please go? No. The Principal was very clear: all Oaklands students were expected to attend Reverend Peterson’s talk or stay in the dorm doing homework. If anyone was discovered in the bazaar there would be no mercy.

  Verghese strode out of his office with James scampering to keep up.

  ‘That,’ said Verghese, stabbing a finger towards the Principal’s door, ‘tells you everything you need to know about why India must have her freedom! How dare he tell me – an Indian, with Christian parents fighting for liberation – that some foreigner’s message is more important than my own country’s prophet!’

  ‘Well…’ fumbled James. ‘He’s not saying—’

  ‘The arrogance of you all!’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You American missionaries are no better than the British. You think you can come here and tell Indians how to live. Even in the church, for godssake! We’ve had Christians here for a lot longer than America or Europe, yet you think you bring Jesus like some big new idea!’

  ‘Gheesa… hey, man… no.’

  Verghese turned and strode off, James at his heels again.

  ‘Please!’ called James. ‘Don’t take it out on me, man. I’m not like that.’

  ‘Yes you are,’ Verghese fumed. ‘You’ve never said it, but you think it. You can’t help it. It’s in everything you missionaries do. You’re better than us, higher up, further on and you’re here to give hand-outs to the poor Indians because we’re too stupid and backward and heathen to do it for ourselves.’

  ‘No way!’ James felt heat rising up his neck. ‘That is not it at all.’

  ‘Well why are you here, then?’

  James stared at him. ‘Maybe,’ he started slowly, through his teeth, ‘because you could do it for yourselves but you haven’t.’

  Verghese spat.

  Assembly that morning was brimming with evangelistic fervour and James had to join the choir on stage for To Be a Pilgrim but felt so sick he could only mouth the words. He couldn’t see Verghese anywhere and couldn’t concentrate on Reverend Peterson’s opening address. Through the day he tried to sit next to Verghese in class and at lunch, but his friend either moved to another seat or refused to look at him. Finally, in their last period Biology lesson, James could no longer bear it and decided to risk everything. As they waited in stony silence for their dissection frog to die, he scribbled a note and pushed it across the bench. Verghese flicked it to the floor, but James picked it up and pressed it open in front of him. Verghese gave it a cursory glance and looked away. Then he turned back, slowly, and read it again. His face was unmoved at first, but then he looked up at James, his eyes piercing, questioning. James nodded. Verghese broke into a huge grin, tipped his head and gave a low whistle.

  ‘All right, man,’ he whispered. ‘You’re ok.’

  Gandhi’s prayer meeting was in a field near Paramount Picture House where the road split, one branch wending down towards Dehra Dun, the other running along the ridge to the Mall and the Savoy Hotel. Oaklands students rarely went that far in the bazaar where the spirit of a fading raj still lingered like a dowager at the ball. There were still fancy-dress parties at the Savoy, but muted by the recent war and the coming independence, and the music drifting from the bandstand outside the library was more wistful. No more Land of Hope and Glory but a lot of Abide With Me. And though most of the promenading couples on the Mall were still British, they felt privileged if they were joined by the dashing Mr Nehru in his home-spun and topi and his impeccable civil disobedience.

  A whole hour before the meeting, the field was already teeming. People were milling about, piling off rickshaws, standing around in knots, buying food, chasing children, calling and chattering. James and Verghese pushed their way through the crowd to a space at one side, but as more and more people arrived they were jostled and crushed till James found himself wedged between a clutch of young nuns and a large man with a verdant moustache. Verghese was right behind, hands on James’ arms, chin pressing into his shoulder, his voice a low, intense murmur as he explained how the wheels of independence were turning unstoppably now, but how his parents feared the country would break apart before it could break free.

  At last there was a flurry of excitement from the back, then a hush as Gandhi appeared, lean and upright, with a small group of women surrounding him. They helped him onto the dais at the front, setting his notebook in front of him and his spittoon to one side. He sat cross-legged in his home-spun white dhoti, wrinkled and bony, hands pressed together in Namaste. His face was a beacon, a wide smile creasing his cheeks and revealing his few jutting teeth and a radiant warmth. He inspected his large pocket watch then set it beside his notebook.

  ‘That’s the only bit of modern technology he owns,’ whispered Verghese. ‘He is passionate about time. Every second belongs to God and should be lived for God.’

  A large man in white kurta pyjama started playing chords and little runs of notes on a harmonium. There was something rippling and generous about him, the way his big soft stomach quivered and his oily hair fell in ringlets to his shoulders, his plump fingers slipping easily across the keys. The other hand pumped the bellows of the harmonium as he lifted his shiny face, closed his eyes and began to sing.

  ‘Jodi tor đak shune keu na ashe tôbe êkla chôlo re…’

  The audience echoed back. ‘Êkla chôlo, êkla chôlo, êkla chôlo, êkla chôlo re.’

  ‘By Tagore, you know,’ hissed Verghese. ‘One of Gandhi-ji’s favourites. Amma and Appa sung it with him on the Salt March.’ He joined in till the end, his tuneless voice right at James’ ear, his breath on his cheek.

  ‘It’s in Bengali,’ he said at the end. ‘You know what it means?’

  James shook his head.

  ‘If they don’t answer your call, walk alone, if they’re afraid and cower in silence facing the wall, open your mind and speak out alone.’

  He would have continued, but a hush fell over the crowd as Gandhi began to speak. His talk that night was of his conviction that ahimsa – non-violence – was the only right wa
y for India to win its freedom and the unity of its religions.

  ‘Non-violence implies love, compassion, forgiveness. If I am a follower of ahimsa, I must love my enemy. The practice of ahimsa calls forth the greatest courage.’

  James’ Hindi was fluent but it was the language of kids and the bazaar and not sophisticated enough for Gandhi’s discourse, so Verghese gave a whispered translation.

  ‘Poverty is the worst form of violence and to forgive and accept injustice is cowardice. One must be the change one wishes to see in the world.’ Beside James, the large man with the moustache was swaying his head in agreement and James could smell the paan he was chewing and the oil in his hair.

  ‘Those whom God has made one, man will never be able to divide.’ Gandhi went on. ‘For I believe with my whole soul that the God of the Koran is also the God of the Gita, and that we are all, no matter by what name designated, children of the same God.’

  James’ head was spinning. He kept hearing things that sounded like Jesus, but in the next breath things that didn’t. There were readings from Sufi poets and Jain prophets, quotes from the Bible and chants to the Buddha. He felt excited and disturbed, and just when his confusion was at its peak, Gandhi announced the next hymn: When I Survey The Wondrous Cross. The nuns at James’ right elbow sang lustily and Verghese was as loud and tuneless in English as in Bengali, but James struggled to join in and struggled to know why.

  Finally Gandhi called the meeting to prayer. It was an ancient invocation, long and rhythmic, rising and falling in a river of words that James did not understand. He was filled with unease. Surely it was a Hindu prayer, to a Hindu god? He felt he should not be a part of it, should not give his assent or murmur amen. Guilt twisted inside him as he thought of the Reverend Peterson’s talk, at this very moment. In his desperation to make amends with Verghese, he had risked being discovered, and his parents being informed, and another letter from Stanley. Everything he had worked to restore would come crashing down again, and worse. For what could be a greater outrage than spurning Evangelism Week for a prayer meeting in another religion? This muddle of religions! He started to sweat. By being here was he betraying his faith, his family, his God? His eyes snapped open. He had to separate himself from this heathen prayer!

  He watched Gandhi. His eyes were closed, his face puckered with the intensity of his words, head shaking softly from side to side and folded hands bobbing slightly, as if in constant pleading. Sometimes his voice caught or trembled and his breath was uneven, wavering. He looked like a man carrying his entire people on his back and breaking under the strain. James felt a sudden urge to stand beside the old man and to hold up his praying hands, like the Israelites held the arms of Moses at the Red Sea. It was a feeling so unexpected and intense and conflicting that he couldn’t name it. Something like longing, or heartbreak. Or love.

  It was after nine o’clock when they got back to the dorm, panting, their sides splitting with cramp. They slipped in through the servants’ entrance and up the back stairs and were still out of breath as they rounded the corner into the main corridor. Right in front of them were the Housemaster and the Reverend Peterson.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The Prodigal was still a long way off when the Father saw him, dropped his plough and ran to him – but tripped on the bottom step, went flapping and hopping into the front row of tin chairs and landed in the laps of Ruth and the other Loose Women. There were cheers, claps, howls of laughter and a rising ow, ow, ow! from Thomas Verghese (alias the Father) as he tried to gather his limbs and his dignity from the cackling girls.

  ‘Hey, that’s your son’s part!’ called Abishek, pointing to Kashi (the Prodigal) who was at the far end of the aisle, staggering towards home. ‘Those are Kashi’s babes, man. Hands off!’ Kashi pulled a hopeful grin.

  ‘Ow,’ Thomas wailed. ‘I didn’t touch anything, I promise.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ Ruth asked, giggling, as she helped him get up.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, just a broken leg and wounded pride, no big deal. Arè, arè,’ he moaned, rubbing his bashed shin. ‘You guys ok? So sorry.’

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ said Dorcas, straightening her skirt over her knees.

  ‘No, it was a pleasure, baba,’ smiled Sita, a twinkle in her large, liquid eyes.

  ‘Ok, ok, everyone,’ Mr Haskell interrupted, coming down the aisle from where he’d been watching in the back row, his kurta pyjama flapping with his stride. ‘That’s enough now. You ok, Thomas?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, Boss. Sorry about that.’

  ‘Koi bat nahi – doesn’t matter. Right – let’s take that again, ok? Ladies, we’ll just get to the end of the scene and then go from the top, yeah?’

  The girls nodded. Their contribution today was minimal – just a bit of carousing with the Prodigal when he was in party mode.

  Now he turned to the Father and put his arm around his shoulders.

  ‘That’s coming along great, Thomas, but that moment when you look up and see him, I want you to really think about that. You haven’t heard from him in years – just rumours about wild living. You’re heartbroken. For all you know he could be dead. But all of a sudden – there he is! He’s alive! ’

  Thomas puckered his lips and nodded. They all looked at Kashi. His mud-coloured hair fell in a tumble over his face and down his dirty neck. His clothes were too big and unwashed, fingernails black, one tooth splintered. It was not costume; it was just Kashi, who also smelled like the bottom of a dhobi bag, had cat breath and didn’t speak clearly. He was forever joining things – basketball teams, hiking trips, productions – but never making friends.

  Mr Haskell jabbed his pencil in the air. ‘Hallelujah – he’s home. I want to see that.’

  ‘Ok, Boss,’ said Thomas. He limped up onto the stage as Kashi returned to the back of the hall, Mr Haskell to his seat and the girls to comparing their hair. They spoke in whispers, huddled together, as Mr Haskell hated talking in rehearsal and had been known to throw his script on the floor and yell at people.

  ‘Have you ever cut yours, Dorcas?’ Ruth asked, fingering the other girl’s long braids.

  ‘Just trims now and then,’ she said. ‘I want to grow it till it touches the ground.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Sita. ‘Aren’t you going to step on it?’

  ‘I’ll loop it up or something.’

  Ruth grinned. ‘Yeah, what about Princess Leia hoops over your ears.’ And she wound the braids into fat wads. They giggled, except for Dorcas whose face went pink as she drew her braids back and smoothed them behind her shoulders.

  ‘I wish I had your hair for this part,’ Ruth said.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Sita. ‘How are you going to dry Jesu’s feet with that little tuft of curls? You’ll tickle him to death!’

  It was Dorcas’ turn for a merry giggle and Ruth’s to blush.

  ‘Nahi, nahi. I’m going to have a wig, you pakora. Mr Haskell’s getting one in Delhi.’

  ‘No, I’ve got a better idea,’ winked Sita, whose own hair was a thick black bob that shone like polished wood. ‘Psst, Veer!’

  The boy was sitting with Abishek on the other side of the aisle doing his chemistry homework and waiting for his appearance as the Prodigal’s elder brother. He looked up at them and smiled and Ruth wondered whether the eagerness in his eyes was for her or for Sita. No chance it was for Dorcas.

  ‘Come here,’ hissed Sita. He put down his books, glanced back to where Mr Haskell was deep in discussion with Kashi/Prodigal and slipped across to them, squatting in front of Ruth who was in the middle. She could detect a sophisticated after-shave, and something about the smell and the way his steel kara curved over the dark hair of his wrist gave her the slightest shiver.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Ruthie needs some serious hair for Maya Magdalen. Can’t you just lend her some for the production, yaar?’

  Manveer grinned. ‘I’d love to, babe,’ he said, looking at Ruth. ‘But—’ And he ran his finger across his thro
at.

  ‘What – your Dad?’ asked Ruth.

  ‘Oh everybody,’ he chuckled. ‘Dad, Mom, grandparents, aunties, cousins, the bus driver, my dentist even. They’d all pile in.’

  ‘Even in Canada?’ asked Dorcas.

  ‘Oh they’re worse there, man! My Mom and Dad weren’t that strict here, but now – my god – you should see them. At the gurudwara all the time, all their friends are Sikhs and Mom won’t cook anything but Punjabi khana. It’s such a drag.’

  ‘But they don’t mind you doing this?’ asked Ruth, pointing to the stage where the Father and Prodigal were now embracing.

  Manveer shrugged. ‘No. They were cool about it. Don’t ask me why. What about yours, Sita?’

  ‘Oh, fine. They’re so busy arguing about north India versus south India they haven’t got time to worry about Christianity. And they know converting’s the last thing I’d do, anyway, so they’re not fussed.’

  ‘Right on, sister!’ said Manveer and they hi-fived.

  ‘You bet!’ added Ruth, raising her hands so they could both slap them. ‘You stick to your culture and don’t let anybody shove stuff at you.’

  ‘Amen!’ said Sita.

  Dorcas’ face went pink again and she looked down at her hands, fiddling with the ric-rac on her blouse.

  ‘You guys got off easy,’ Ruth said. ‘My Mom and Dad nearly banned me.’

  ‘No way, really?’ asked Manveer. ‘But it’s all about Jesus!’

  ‘Yeah, I know, that’s what I argued, but they have this thing about dancing.’

  ‘Oh, is that why you’re never at the discos?’ asked Manveer.