But Ellen’s donning of the sari was only the beginning of her grafting onto India. She learned Hindi with vigour, spending hours with language teachers and amused neighbours, filling notebooks with verb-ending charts and lists of vocabulary, and sticking devanagiri words onto furniture around the house. On Saturdays she went into the bazaar to learn the names of vegetables and the etiquette of bargaining and on Sundays sat cross-legged in the small, crowded Hindustani church, clapping and singing, then furrowing her brow through the long, sweat-dripping hour of the sermon. And on every day, without exception, she opened her door to the many who called: beggars, colleagues, fruit wallas, razai beaters, drug addicts, knife-sharpeners, homeless women and holy men. Ellen had embraced India, and in return, it had devoured her.
Whereas Dad, Ruth thought, was as good as Indian anyway. He slipped in and out of Hindi with the ease of blinking. Sometimes he seemed to forget which language he spoke. His palate was thoroughly local, preferring all things to be flavoursome, strong and aromatic: curries stinging hot, coffee milky and laced with sugar, fruit so ripe it oozed. But deeper than all these things, he was bonded to the place in a way that Ruth could not claim. His feet didn’t so much walk on the ground as rise out of it.
Why was it different for her? Like James, she’d been born and raised here (apart from those excruciating furloughs in the States when she was finally the right colour but wrong in every other way.) They rolled around every fourth year, but in James’ time it had been every six. He’d hardly spent any of his childhood in America, when she added it up. A year when he was three, which he said he didn’t remember, another at ten, which he remembered all too vividly as he didn’t know how to play American football and became the class punch bag, and then not again till he was sixteen, when his family moved back and he finished school and went to college. He seemed to love India like his life depended on it. Like it was his life. But it wasn’t an easy, relaxed love, full of laughter, like Kip’s. He named it God’s Call, but to Ruth it seemed more a bondage, as if he had long ago sworn some blood tie from which he could never be released.
From her bed in the Delhi guesthouse, she lifted her hand till it was silhouetted against the window. Yes, she loved it too. Her fingers spread and curled into claws. And she hated it. She had watched her parents consumed by the place and had tried to shout louder than the Indians and be a bigger problem than the patients and a harder task than running a hospital. But none of it seemed to push her up the pecking order. Her mother despaired, her father disciplined, but they did not deviate. On the scale of needs, India always won.
Floating on the edge of sleep, she heard coughing from the end of the room. It was Nazira, who played Mary the Mother of Christ (alias Ma) but also unrolled her prayer mat beside her bed morning and evening and performed namaaz. Her mother was a very strict Muslim, but her father seemed more liberal and had given his blessing to the production. They were coming all the way from Islamabad to see it.
Ruth imagined her own parents coming. Mom might just wear one of her special saris that only came out for extremely important occasions like Christmas or Indian Independence Day. (Otherwise, she wore hospital blue.) Dad would probably be in his black shirvani, his wavy hair still damp, hand on his breast as he talked to somebody. Maybe Reverend Verghese. She felt a delicious shiver as she pictured them sitting in the auditorium and the lights going down. Complete blackout and then the first notes on the sitar and Ruth lighting a dia. Centre stage. The Gospel of Jyoti. The Good News of Light. They would love it. They had to, because it was about Jesus and what’s more Ruth – their Ruthie – was honouring God.
And she was a damn good dancer.
She went over each scene as she had done countless times: her parents in concentrated attention, then a look of surprise, a gasp here, a laugh there, a glance at each other with smiling eyes. They were being wooed and won. She was sure they would adore the parable of the Good Untouchable and the Song of the Suffering Servant, which was so, so cool. And what about the Resurrection? That would slay them. And the curtain call! The thunderous, thunderous, thunderous applause. Mom and Dad leaping to their feet, hands beating together like bhangra sticks. A rising wave, a standing ovation. And she, Ruth, bowing. Centre-stage. Holding hands with the others and bowing and beaming and bowing.
Then backstage. Mom and Dad bursting through the doors, faces alight with astonishment, pride, delight, LOVE. Mom would be first, probably, throwing her arms wide. ‘Ruthie!’ or ‘Honey!’ she might peal as she engulfed Ruth in her arms. And how hard and close she would squeeze. And then Dad – maybe shaking his head, grinning, waiting – ready with his big embrace. Yes, and there would be tears in Ruth’s eyes, and in Mom’s eyes, and, maybe, just maybe, in Dad’s eyes.
TWENTY-SEVEN
James sat at the desk in his bedroom at Shanti Niwas typing on a laptop. The window before him looked out onto shifting ranges of cloud and he could feel the cool air through the glass. At his back, the room was bare, almost void of possessions save a small bookcase stuffed with Bible commentaries, field guides and medical texts. A narrow bed with old blankets jutted from one corner, Iqbal’s camp cot from the other, and a worn scrap of rug lay between. The windowsill held a random and dusty gathering of bits: binoculars, dried and crumbling ferns, loose change, keys and the glow-in-the-dark crucifix Iqbal had given him. The room smelled of mouldy shoes and old books, of unwashed laundry and coffee. It had a temporary, hiking hut feel to it, as though James had never properly unpacked, or was just passing through.
To his right, his King James Bible lay open at Luke’s gospel, its thin pages dense with underlining and margin notes. To his left, a commentary, and spread across the remaining space, the pages of his sermon, cross-hatched, blotted and annotated.
‘Who can forgive sins?’ he typed. ‘Is it only the one who has been sinned against? But what if that person has died? What if your sin caused his death? He cannot forgive from beyond the grave!’
He had a sudden thought and flipped back in his Bible to the Psalms. Yes, it was there: King David, after causing the death of Bathsheba’s husband. His song of remorse to God: ‘Against you, you only, have I sinned.’
‘And so,’ James’ knobbled fingers tapped the keys. ‘Is it only God we sin against and therefore only He who can forgive us?’
But, David had unquestionably wronged Uriah. Would he not desire his forgiveness? Or even Bathsheba’s? But you cannot be forgiven by a dead man, because he is gone. Can you be forgiven by a member of his family? Or is it an outrage to forgive on behalf of someone else?
God does.
He took a swig of coffee, cold now and too sweet, and felt a faint wave of nausea. It was his daily companion now, as was the encroaching weakness, and the sour taste in his mouth. No one knew the hour or the day, but he suspected it to be soon. Outside, the cloud was curling and turning on itself, waves of silent cold billowing over the house, blotting it like the soaked cotton he once used for killing beetles.
And what, he wondered, if you receive the forgiveness of God and the forgiveness of the wronged, yet still carry guilt? What if you realise that your sins have rippled out to encompass many, indeed all around you: the sins of the fathers visited on the children and the children’s children. Do you seek them out, one by one, and beg forgiveness? And what if they do not forgive? What if even one does not forgive? Do you stand unforgiven?
His hand slipped across the frayed wool of his sweater, rubbing on his sternum. And what if all, even God, have granted forgiveness yet you cannot forgive yourself? For the damage has been done and you know not how to repair it; indeed your very struggle to atone has only deepened the spoil, and the heart’s hunger remains.
TWENTY-EIGHT
When the Gospel party arrived at the Krishna Theatre the next morning, a sleepy chowkidar at the gate wouldn’t let them in. Said there was no booking. Ruth felt the warmth of the sun and a faint prickling of sweat on the back of her neck as Mr Haskell dug in his bag for the paperw
ork. The man looked over it for a moment, swatted a fly, then handed it back with a shrug. No one had told him, he said and leaned back in his seat, chewing on his paan. Mr Das stepped up and appealed gently in Hindi, his yellow palms outstretched. The man gave a dismissive wave and gazed off down the road. At that, Mrs Banwarilal pushed forward and fired a volley of words at him, voice flailing, hands chopping like kitchen knives. Ruth couldn’t follow all of it, but enough to understand the man was a shame and a disgrace to his employer, his country and his mother. Lashed into submission, he muttered something through his stained teeth and slithered off the stool with the keys.
Inside, the theatre was dark and smelled of back alleyways. The chowkidar unlocked the door to the AV booth and switched on some stuttering lights. The walls were stained and the theatre seats shabby, some broken right off. Tendrils of spider web dangled from the lamps and the stage was gritty underfoot, the air tasting of dust. The chowkidar stood at the back and scratched his crotch.
‘It’s ok,’ said Mr Haskell, sounding like he was trying to keep breathing. ‘We’re going to clean this place up… and tonight, we fill it with Light!’
‘Amen!’ shouted Thomas.
The chowkidar claimed he didn’t have the key to the sweeper’s cupboard, so Mr Haskell sent a small party out to buy cleaning materials. Ruth wasn’t allowed to go. A letter from her parents, endorsed by Principal Withers, had insisted she be under the strictest supervision throughout her time in Delhi. So she sloped off to the toilets to smoke. It was filthier here than in the theatre, so she puffed quickly and tried not to breathe through her nose. In the slit of light from the window she studied the graffiti: multi-lingual and graphic. At least here she couldn’t find her own name. It appeared now and again on the toilet walls at Oaklands usually with words like slut or fuck off. Sita assured her it was just because Ruth was pretty and had boyfriends and the bitches were jealous. But it always stung and Ruth could never understand why people invested effort in hatred.
Once the shoppers returned, the cast and crew worked for the rest of the morning with mops and brooms and buckets and cloths, whipping up clouds of dirt and chasing it down, splashing dettol into basins and sprinkling it about, wringing rags and tipping swill. To begin with, they groaned and huffed and urged Mr Haskell to demand his money back, but by late morning they had settled into a rhythm of work and were finding a secret pleasure in the restoration.
* * * * *
That same day, the 31st of October, 1984, a large Sikh man sat listening to his radio in the accounts office of the Kanpur Christian Hospital. A stout, unflappable man with regal bearing and a rich voice, Gurpreet Singh was the hospital’s longest-standing employee. James often sat with him at lunch and listened to the stories of his glorious Sikh heritage, though slightly exasperated that the line between history and myth was so hopelessly blurred. Eventually he enjoyed the tales more when he accepted that in Gurpreet’s mind no such line existed, and whilst James wanted to know what really happened, Gurpreet wanted to tell what mattered.
Now in his fifties, Gurpreet had worked at the mission hospital since he was a boy, progressing from Junior Peon to First Mimeograph Operator through Admissions Department Clerical Assistant to his final promotion as Senior Bookkeeper. His girth had grown with his status, so that now he was in possession of the hospital’s finest paunch, carried on a frame so towering and strong that he appeared not so much fat as architectural. He took pride in his job, being punctual, meticulous and incorruptible. Though these attributes won much respect from the other staff, they were eclipsed by his singing voice and startlingly fluid dancing. His versions of Bollywood hits, complete with glittering costumes and tasselled turbans, were the undisputed highlights of the annual Independence Day celebrations.
On this morning, however, as he sat wedged behind his small desk, singing along to the Hindi film music, his crooning was interrupted by a news report on All India Radio. He listened, perfectly still, and when the music returned, he slowly switched it off and rose from his desk. His massive legs felt empty.
* * * * *
Rehearsal had only just started when Mrs Banwarilal went out to buy the lunches, and by the time she got back the cast were sprawled on the stage, weary from their cleaning and already bored with technical cues. Down-stage left, the girls sat comparing the henna on their hands which Sita had done for them, claiming expertise after countless family weddings. Ruth studied her palms, their white, foreign skin so colonised by India. Flowers, paisley shapes, swirls and dots coiled across her hands like a map of a mythical world. It was a branding, a tribal tattoo that marked her as one of them, yet she knew she was not. Nor did she feel American, despite her passport. Of that she was certain, and proud. But she didn’t quite know to whom she belonged, feeling always different and rarely content to be herself. Whoever that was. The mantle of the rebel that had fallen so easily on her shoulders had become too heavy to shed and she had forgotten what was under it, finding it easier to fulfil grim expectations than to struggle free. Until now, when her part in the Gospel of Jyoti was offering a different role and a chance to reveal, in performance, a truer self.
Centre stage, Thomas Verghese (alias Jesu) was lounging at the foot of the banyan tree from which he was about to be hung, while behind him, Kashi (the Prodigal) was adjusting the back hangings on which he’d painted scenes of village life – a mud hut, a well, a skinny cow. He still wasn’t making many friends but his artwork was winning grudging respect. Meanwhile Manveer, who played the Beloved Disciple (Jaya) as well as the Prodigal’s brother and the Thankful Leper, was at the top of a ladder focusing a lamp. Ruth had watched him through the morning, flirted, laughed at all his jokes and found an excuse to touch his neck when she straightened his collar. This in turn had given him the opportunity to take her hands and inspect the henna. He had cradled them gently, tracing their patterns with his fingers and finally, with a soft whistle, declared them beautiful.
‘Have you got that?’ Mr Haskell called up to the AV booth at the back of the theatre. ‘I want complete black out and then the centre spot coming up slowly on Jesu on the tree.’
‘Ok,’ called the voice from above. ‘Got it.’
‘Right,’ Mr Haskell murmured, flipping pages in his script. Ruth yawned and stretched out her legs in front of her, propping herself up on her elbows. Mrs Banwarilal, who had put the box of lunches on a front seat, sidled up to his elbow.
‘Roger.’
‘Yeah?’ he said, not looking up.
‘I need to speak with you.’ Her voice was a little strained.
‘Oh… right,’ he said. ‘Now?’
‘Right now.’
Mr Haskell dumped the script on the nearest chair and clapped his hands to stop the chattering that had broken out amongst the cast.
‘Ok, everyone,’ he called. ‘Time for lunch. Girls – could you pass these round please? Don’t anyone leave the theatre, we’re starting up in twenty minutes. Got a lot to get through.’ And he ran his hand across his untidy ponytail and turned to Mrs Banwarilal.
The girls pulled brown paper sacks out of the boxes at the front of the stage and started passing them round. Ruth noticed with annoyance that Sita gave one to Manveer. In fact, she was handing out to all the boys.
At the foot of the stage, Mrs Banwarilal was speaking in a low, urgent voice, her hands flapping like the wings of a wounded bird. Mr Haskell listened, shaking his head, again and again. Then he walked across to Mr Das, who was eating a samosa and brushing crumbs off his waistcoat. When the old man heard, he lowered the samosa and his head. Mr Haskell turned to the stage and clapped his hands again. His face was grey.
‘Ah… everybody?’ he said. ‘I got some bad news. Mrs Gandhi was shot this morning.’
* * * * *
James called a meeting of all Sikh staff, releasing them for the day and inviting them to move their families into the hospital compound. Gurpreet Singh nodded solemnly from the back of the room but said he would stay at home as
his elderly mother was too frail to be moved. Other families came, their possessions in bundles and bags, clutched in straining fingers, balanced on heads. In the already full hospital accommodation, space was found, Hindus, Muslims and Christians squeezing up for their Sikh colleagues. James and Ellen absorbed two households and sent the canteen staff out to buy as much food as possible.
* * * * *
As the Gospel bus slipped through Delhi late that afternoon, Ruth felt a snake of fear rising inside her. She had never seen the streets of an Indian city so quiet. Shops were shut, there were few vehicles on the road and people were scuttling to get inside, heads down. It was an edgy quiet, the drawing back of a tidal wave, a sling-shot.
Rounding the corner into Safdarjung Road, they saw a shouting mob swarming up a side alley.
‘Oh, my god,’ said Sita.
Ruth clenched her hands inside the pockets of her sweatshirt, heart thumping. Others in the bus gasped, whimpered, gripped each other. The driver swore and slammed on the accelerator. Speeding on, they passed more clots of men forming in the streets, smashed shop windows, and the acrid sting of burning tyres. It was the smell of violence. As they stopped at a traffic light, the engine growling impatiently, a group of men ran at the bus wielding sticks, raving and demon-eyed. The driver shot a look up and down the intersecting road and roared off through the red light just as the first blows banged off the metal flank. Sita sucked in her breath and Ruth grabbed her arm. The driver gained speed the rest of the way, running more red lights, blasting his horn and sometimes careering down side roads till he finally stopped with a scream of brakes outside the guesthouse. Everyone was thrown forward, Ruth’s head slamming against the seat in front. Biting back tears she snatched her bag and joined the scrum of teenagers pushing out of the bus and through the compound gates.
A House Called Askival Page 17
