They spent the rest of the evening in the common room huddled in front of the small black-and-white television, arms around each other, faces pale and pinched. Ruth and Sita were on cushions on the floor, propped against the knees of the girls behind. As Brahmin priests chanted prayers and people wept, foreign reporters began to leak the news that would run like fire along the nation’s short fuse. She had been shot whilst walking across her garden. (She is gone! She is gone! Men shouted, their faces contorted, wet with weeping, hands beating their own bodies.) Shot by her bodyguards. (Blood for blood! The crowd screamed.) Who were Sikhs. (Kill them! Kill them! A mob with clubs, iron staves, frothing mouths. The newly sworn-in Prime Minister, Rajiv Gandhi – the son of the dead – was appealing for calm.)
‘It’s because of the Golden Temple,’ said Manveer.
‘Yeah, man,’ said Abishek. ‘But that was inevitable.’
‘You think she did the right thing? Slaughtering them all? In our holiest shrine?’
‘No way, yaar, no way. I didn’t say that. Just that it was going to blow up at some point.’
‘You bet, man.’
Ruth looked at Manveer, hunched on the couch just behind her. His eyes held a fierce glitter, his bearded jaw thrust forward.
‘Explain what happened at the Temple,’ she said softly.
‘Back in June, don’t you remember?’ said Sita.
‘A bit.’ Ruth felt foolish.
‘Operation Blue Star,’ Manveer explained. ‘She shut down the whole of the Punjab and sent four thousand troops to attack the temple. Killed hundreds of people and destroyed even the holy heart of it. All these ancient scriptures and precious things – sacred things – turned to ash!’
‘Because Bhindranwale had turned it into his military headquarters!’ said Abishek. ‘He had a huge stash of weapons there and was running a training camp, forgodsake.’
‘For what?’ asked Ruth.
‘For Sikh independence!’ said Sita, irritation in her voice. ‘The Khalistan movement, you know?’
Ruth had heard of it, vaguely.
‘Yeah,’ Manveer cut in, stabbing the arm of the couch. ‘But that temple was full of innocent people as well. She picked a festival day and there were thousands of pilgrims inside.’
Abishek spread his hands. ‘A lot of those pilgrims never wanted their holy shrine used as an army base and never wanted separation from India.’
‘Exactly. So why’d she have to plough in and kill them?’ His eyes were branding irons.
‘They were given time to leave.’
‘Oh yeah? Why so many dead at the end, then? You’re really backing that bitch, aren’t you?’
‘No way, man, cool it. I hated her too, and Blue Star was wrong and all that, I agree, but so was Bhindranwale.’
‘Yeah, because she put him there! Thought she could use him to take power from her main enemies in the Punjab, but he got bigger than she’d planned. So she had to destroy the monster she’d made.’
Abishek gestured assent. ‘I know it. You’re right, man.’ He glanced back at the fire-breathing mob on the television. ‘Looks like it didn’t work.’
Manveer’s lip curled and he gave a curt nod, a slight bouncing starting up in his thigh.
‘Do you have relatives in Delhi?’ Ruth asked softly. He shook his head.
‘No. Punjab.’
He looked at her for a moment, then back at the screen. She wished she could rest a hand on him, but Sita was in the way.
Behind him, through the door, Ruth could see Mr Haskell sitting in the front hall making frantic phone calls, sometimes in English, sometimes Hindi, always ending with banging down the receiver and scratching his hair. It was starting to look like the tail of a flea-bitten horse. At some point he shut himself in his room and did not re-appear.
Gradually, a few calls came in from anxious parents who had tracked down the guesthouse number and Kip urged everyone else to phone home. It was after eight when Ruth’s turn came. No answer. It seemed late for Mom and Dad to be at the hospital.
‘Maybe they’re at a meeting or something,’ offered Kip.
Ruth shrugged. She knew they had the guesthouse number as they always stayed here when they came to Delhi. They could have phoned. She tried again, listened to the dial tone ring out, then lowered the receiver softly into its cradle and slipped back into the common room.
That night as she lay again on her lumpy mattress the sounds of Delhi were changed. Though there was still the sugary whine of a love song on someone’s radio and the clattering of pots and the council of dogs, further out the mechanical bees were subdued and the larger clamour of the city muted. And further still, and deeper down, beyond the earshot and worst imaginings of Oaklands teenagers, were the sounds of a nation breaking apart, once again. Foundation plates shifting; old scars opening like fissures in the rock; people falling through and being sucked down into the furnaces of hate, like sacrifices to a demonic god.
* * * * *
In Kanpur, casualties were beginning to arrive at the hospital: a group of men attacked by a Hindu mob, with dirt in their bloodied wounds and fury in their faces; a woman, clutching the shreds of her shalwar, so badly raped she could not walk; an old man, wild-eyed and weeping, his burnt grandson in his arms. More and more came, the trickle becoming a dark flow of both the injured and the afraid. The hospital took them all. It was nearly midnight when James and Ellen got home, weary in bone and spirit. The house smelled of bodies and fried onions. Turning on the light in their room they saw an old man and several children in their bed. The sleeping faces scrunched against the brightness, but no eyes opened. Ellen moved to the bed.
‘No,’ said James.
‘Honey!’ she hissed. ‘I’m tired and we have to work tomorrow. They don’t.’
‘We’ve got sleeping bags. We’ll find somewhere else.’
She pressed her eyes shut, shook her head.
He reached out a hand to her shoulder. ‘We can’t move them – where would they go?’
She pushed past him out the door, snapping off the light. He felt his way after her in the dark.
On the floor of their office the hard jute matting dug into their sides and smelled of mildew. They remembered Ruth and the Gospel group in Delhi that week, with Kip at the Unity Guesthouse. Ellen would phone in the morning.
* * * * *
At breakfast Mr Haskell was wearing the same clothes as yesterday and it looked like he had slept in them, or perhaps not slept at all. His face was as grey and blotchy as the porridge Kip set before him. He didn’t touch it. Thirteen days of official mourning, he said. No entertainment allowed. No show. There were gasps and groans; Ruth felt it like a kick. She watched Mr Haskell’s chin crumple as he pushed back his chair with a scrape and strode out of the room. Mrs Banwarilal was left to field questions. She was in a crisp sari, her long, black hair wound into an elegant bun, face bright with lipstick and a nose-ring.
‘Don’t worry, darlings,’ she said, lifting braceletted hands. ‘Everything’s going to be just fine.’ Though it plainly wasn’t. Delhi was erupting and they would have to stay put till the police said it was safe to travel. Mr Das had a second cousin in the force who would keep them informed. In the meantime, there was to be no leaving the compound, no girls in boys’ rooms and vice versa, and no eating without permission. Food would be short.
Ruth went and cried in the shower, unable to believe it. There was something unbearably cruel about the dream having come this far, so close and vivid she could almost touch it, only to be snatched away at the last minute. She came out to a message from Kip. Mom had phoned and was glad to know they were all ok. She and Dad were real busy at the hospital. Lotsa love.
‘Did she say if they’re still coming to see me?’
‘I said you’d call back when you knew the plans.’
Yes, the plans! There was hope. There was still a performance back at Oaklands at the end of Activity Week. It didn’t compare with three nights at the Krishna Th
eatre in Delhi, but it was all she had now. She would phone them back and ask if they’d come up to Oaklands to see the show and spend some time with her. Kip had said they wouldn’t miss it for the world.
Ruth tried phoning several times, but the home number rang out and the hospital switchboard was jammed. She slammed down the receiver after her third attempt. How could they expect to provide a medical service if no-one could get through?! She tried to fill the time playing board games with the others but there were more fights than usual and when she amassed a fortune in Monopoly, Sita rallied everyone against her till she crashed. As they all crowed in triumph, Ruth threw down the dice and said, ‘Stuff it up your arse!’ and stormed out.
Running up the outside stairs of the house, her nose was stung by the smell of burning and once on the roof she could see smoke stacks rising like black, snaking fingers across the city. There was distant shouting and the sounds of smashing and banging and what might have been gun fire. Despite her parents’ keen interest in the nation’s political twists and turns, she had never paid much attention, so there was a great deal about this crisis she did not fathom, a fact that Sita seemed intent on exposing. She wanted her parents, their reassurance, their presence, their dowdy, stolid ways.
When it was clear no-one was coming after her, she slipped back inside and was relieved to see Monopoly packed away and a small group returned to the television, Sita beside Manveer on the couch, Abishek on the floor with a newspaper. Ruth found a chair. The reporting on Delhi came and went and was suspiciously selective, focusing on grieving crowds and mourners filing past Mrs Gandhi’s bier. But there were also brief glimpses of vengeance. Mobs had begun ransacking Sikh homes the night before and there were scenes of gutted houses and people weeping.
Mr Das pointed at the television. ‘My cousin is telling me these thugs are taking the electoral roll and finding the Sikh homes that way.’
Manveer sucked in his breath.
‘Shit,’ said Sita.
‘Hey, listen to this.’ Abishek tapped the paper. ‘You know the President got back yesterday? Well, I quote: On the journey from the airport, the President’s motorcade was stoned. I love it! At least somebody’s having a good time.’
‘Not funny, man,’ Manveer muttered.
‘No, sorry.’
‘Why would the crowd do that?’ asked Ruth.
‘Because the President’s Sikh, of course!’ said Sita. ‘Didn’t you know that? Zai Singh.’
‘Oh, yeah, of course…’
So, the President was Sikh, the bodyguards that shot Mrs Gandhi were Sikh, and – Ruth had discovered – the army chief that led the attack on the Golden Temple was also Sikh. She did not understand.
In the late afternoon, Kip put her head round the door and asked if anybody wanted to bake anything. She had spent much of the day trying to catch the news herself, in between making multiple phone calls and checking over supplies with Mohan, the cook, but a house full of teenagers needed direction and Mr Haskell, who had not appeared since breakfast, was not providing it. Ruth could see the strain in her eyes, but also her determined positivity in the face of crisis. It was what Grandma Leota called missionary spirit and a quality that had always evaded Ruth.
She followed Dorcas into the kitchen, trying to smile as Sita joined them. Kip took down the Landour Community Cookbook, dating back to her days running the Fairview Guesthouse in Landour many moons before. It was where Ellen usually stayed when she visited, which wasn’t very often, in Ruth’s opinion, though more than James who rarely came. The rooms at Fairview were cramped, with mis-matched furnishings and cold bathrooms where spiders leapt out of tooth mugs, but the sense of reprieve for Ruth was profound. In the early years, anyway. Since Hannah had gone back to the States, however, she had found her mother’s visits made her squirm. Despite longing for her to come, she would invariably discover how much Ellen annoyed her, with her reading aloud from missionary newsletters and her scuffed running shoes under her sari. And all her questions.
‘How about Easy Cookies, girls?’ asked Kip. ‘Betty Shirk’s recipe. She was some woman, I tell ya. Could feed five thousand with a couple a crusts and a tin of tuna.’ She ran her calloused finger down the page. ‘This is good. You only need condensed milk, peanut butter and cornflakes, and I think we’re in luck.’
The girls nodded eagerly.
‘Oh yeah,’ said Dorcas. ‘I’ve made those with Mom. They’re real easy.’
‘Great,’ said Sita, ‘cause I’ve never baked before.’
‘You haven’t?!’ cried Dorcas, as if Sita had just admitted leprosy.
‘Well I bet you guys have never made idli,’ she retorted.
They hadn’t.
‘Hey, I’ve tried,’ said Kip with a smile. ‘But I couldn’t match the Cochin Café down the road, so I just go there.’
‘I hate idli,’ said Dorcas. ‘Tastes like papier mache.’
‘Well if you can’t stomach the food you shouldn’t be in this country,’ said Sita.
‘I like most Indian food, Sita, and anyway, idli’s from the south and I never go there.’
‘Why not?! What’s wrong with the south?’
‘There’s nothing wrong—’
‘Come on, guys,’ Ruth cut in, ‘let’s just make the cookies, ok?’
Kip handed her the book and winked. ‘I gotta go and sort some stuff, but Mohan’ll help you.’ The khansamma, who had appeared at that moment through the back door, tipped his head to the girls.
‘Right,’ said Sita, snatching the cookbook. ‘Mohan!’ Without looking at the man, she read out in swift Hindi all the ingredients and utensils and commanded him, in imperious tones, to fetch them, and quickly. Ruth stood by, embarrassed, as Mohan did as he was told. Dorcas went to help him.
Sita flicked through the book disdainfully. ‘Any Indian food in here?’ she demanded. ‘Any Indian cooks?’
Ruth balanced her tray on one hand and knocked on the door. No answer. She knocked again and waited. Something like a groan came from the room. She pushed the door a crack and peered in. It was dark, the curtains drawn, air thick with the smell of socks and sweat and unknown male things. She slipped in, pushing the door shut with her foot.
Mr Haskell was a heap in the bed, his face buried. She knelt down by him and set the tray on the floor as there was no room on his bedside table. It was a mess of scrunched toilet paper, a wallet spilling coins, glasses, pills, books, pens, plectrums and a clotted hanky.
‘Mr Haskell?’
Silence.
‘I brought you a coffee and something to eat,’ she said softly.
No movement or sound.
‘Condensed milk cookies. We made them this morning.’
He drew his head out from the sheet. It caught her breath. Framed by the wild tangle of hair, his face was puffed and even in the dim light she could see the red scratches and the eyelids so swollen that he peered at her through slits.
‘Are you ok?’ she whispered.
‘I’m cursed.’ His voice was a rasp. ‘Everything I touch falls apart. My final show at college… the leading lady broke her leg and we had to cancel. Then the school where I taught first was so bad they shut it down – one week before my production. And so much more… oh, god, you wouldn’t believe. My life has been such a mess, but then… I got back to faith, I got the job here, I thought I could start again. The Gospel of Jyoti was the sign of God’s blessing… and my thank offering. I’ve been working on it for years, Ruthie, years! Now this…’
The tortured face caved in, mouth trembling, eyes squeezing shut as tears coursed down the scratched cheeks. Ruth lifted a hand to his shoulder.
‘Oh, Mr Haskell…’ she breathed. ‘I’m sorry.’
He was crying hard now. ‘I wanted… to tell this story… I wanted… to share… my Lord and his—’ There was an eruption of sobs that overwhelmed him for a minute. And then he gasped: ‘His… love.’ And he wept like a child.
Ruth couldn’t think what to say, so stro
ked the heaving back. His hand shot out from under the covers and grabbed hers, pulling it to his face. She felt the hot tears, the wet flesh, the chapped lips kissing her palm. She started to withdraw but he pulled hard, dragging her down to him and clutching the back of her head. Burying his slippery face in her neck, he kissed her fiercely, sobbing and kissing, over and over. For a moment she struggled, but then felt the wave of panic become excitement and she turned her face so his mouth found hers and their kissing was hard and wild and deep.
The sound of footsteps broke them apart and Ruth jumped up and turned to the door. The footsteps moved on and after a moment of paralysis, she shot out of the room.
In the common room that evening where the television droned on, she slipped quietly onto the sofa beside Manveer. Shaken by her encounter with Mr Haskell, she could only hope it would never be repeated, noticed or mentioned. Sita, however, had already asked, with a piercing look and arched brow, if Mr Haskell had enjoyed his cornflake cookies. Ruth had shrugged, mumbled dunno and changed the subject.
On the neighbouring sofa, cross-legged in his shawl and holey socks, Mr Das was providing a running commentary on the unfolding events, generally disputing the meagre information on the official broadcasts.
‘The city is spiralling out of control,’ he warned. As if in agreement, the television announcer declared an indefinite curfew from 6pm that night. ‘The army should be called,’ Mr Das said, wagging a finger.
‘Yeah, but the army is mostly Sikh,’ said Manveer bitterly. ‘Why do you think they haven’t been called, huh?’
Mr Das shook his head, over and over.
‘It is too bad, it is too bad,’ he wheezed. ‘There will be no end, no end.’
* * * * *
That day in Kanpur a bus-load was brought in. The driver and several passengers were Sikh and a mob had dragged them out, doused them with petrol and set them on fire. Even the women. Even the children. James walked down the row of charred bodies in the hospital hallway, checking for life, a faint pulse, a breath. He felt a tightening in his chest like a metal fist.
Again, he and Ellen worked deep into the night, running with trolleys to theatre, putting up drips, tending burns. They gave blood that minutes later was threading its way into the boy with no feet, the old man bludgeoned, the woman stoned almost to death. They barely ate that day, thankfully slurping the cups of hot, sweet chai that nurses pushed into their hands.
A House Called Askival Page 18
