At home, two plates of food had been left in the kitchen and their bedroom vacated, but their sleep was broken by the sounds of coughing, snoring and babies crying.
And for James, the memories and the nightmares.
* * * * *
On the Friday morning Abishek persuaded Mrs Banwarilal to let them go to the Taj Palace Hotel, just a few minutes’ walk away.
‘We’ll be fine Mrs B,’ he cajoled. ‘Much safer than all holed up in here. The hormones are erupting like a blocked toilet. Can’t you smell it?’
‘Oh Abi,’ she giggled. ‘That’s gross!’
‘Or maybe it’s just my socks, but, no, seriously – somebody’s gonna get violent, or go insane, or proposition the cook. It’s desperate. It’ll be on your head, Mrs B, on your conscience for life, you’ll never forgive yourself, you’ll—’
‘Shut up, you great buffoon and get out. On you go. All of you. You’re driving me mad.’ She lifted her jingling wrists in defeat. ‘Just be back in time for supper.’
So they went. They’d seen fragments on TV, but not a fraction of the truth. Ruth certainly knew nothing of what was happening in Kanpur. And perhaps, what they did know, they couldn’t face. Certainly, they were helpless before it and removed, so all in their own way, for their own reasons, turned from the nightmare and slipped into a dream. The Taj Palace Hotel was an oasis of cool air and clean floors where piano music drifted through potted palms and cutlery chimed softly in the restaurant. In the courtyard garden, fountains tinkled and bougainvillea fell in lush curtains around the glittering pool. It was a mirage of peace.
On the other side of the city, the poorest Sikh ghetto of Trilokpuri was engulfed in fumes and fire. Mobs moved from house to house kicking down doors and slaughtering any Sikhs they found. If they could not break in, they cut holes in the roof, poured kerosene down and threw in their flaming torches. Some Sikh men in the city tried to disguise themselves by cutting their hair and shaving their beards; others found their hair hacked off for them and their beards burnt. Some Sikh mothers tried to disguise their identity by dressing their sons as daughters; others found themselves trapped as men threw burning tyres over them – both mother and child – while policemen stood by watching. Some Sikh families found refuge with their Hindu neighbours; others found their neighbours at the door with knives. And once again, like ghosts rising from a brutal and unfinished past, trains began rolling into the city stations bearing corpses.
Back in the illusion of the Taj Palace, the Oaklands teenagers took a dip in the hotel swimming pool and worried about body hair and inadequate bulges. At lunch time they piled their plates at the salad bar and sipped iced lemonade, and in the long afternoon the boys played arcade games as the girls drifted to the beauty salon. Ruth borrowed money from Nazira and got her first manicure, her hands taking on a whole new life under gleaming nails, blood-red and false.
TWENTY-NINE
Twenty-four years later, her short nails were chipped and her fingers finely veined with dirt. She had cleared Askival of its rubbish and swept and scrubbed it, inside and out. The work had been deeply satisfying, especially the visions that came to her of what it could become. She didn’t know who owned it or how to protect it, but she dreamed of a space clean and beautiful, full of light. And people. A mixed cast of imagined characters entered her rooms, usually unbidden. Whenever Manveer appeared, the house returned to that November night when it was dark and they had clung to each other in the cold. But if she held the bright Askival in her mind, Iqbal always came bustling through and then she would find her father sitting by a window and her sister gathering children like chicks on the lawn and finally, her mother. At a writing desk, or baking, or holding flowers. Once, she was holding a new-born. The image of Ellen was fragile and wavering and whenever she lifted her face, she disappeared.
Ruth kept working, ignoring the damage that was beyond her power: the lost sheets of roofing, the collapsed walls. Her hands were rough now and her back stiff but the task compelled her. On this damp September afternoon she carried a backpack heavy with whitewash, bucket and brushes. She and Iqbal were on their way home from the bazaar and stopping at Hillside Hospital to meet James, who wanted to show her around. In the foyer, she put down her pack and studied the framed photograph on the wall. Her mother, straight-backed and gazing off to the right, was wearing her customary sari and her customary smile. It was how most people remembered her. Serene, unwrinkled, purposeful. Ruth had other memories.
‘A great beauty,’ said Iqbal, from behind.
‘Yes,’ she murmured and dropped her gaze to a table stacked with paperback books bearing bright green covers. ‘Oh my god – I don’t believe it. The Landour Community Cookbook, 2nd Edition!’
‘Oh yes, excellent project.’
Ruth opened one. ‘Edited by Dr Ellen Connor. I never knew about that.’
‘Yes, yes. She is working on this before she passed to heaven. They are selling for hospital funds.’
‘My god, that’s amazing.’ Ruth took a copy to the receptionist and dug in her bag for her wallet.
‘You are the Connor-jis daughter?’ the receptionist asked shyly, taking Ruth’s money.
‘Yes.’
‘Both your parents are revered here as gods.’ The young woman smiled. ‘You must be very proud of them.’
‘One has to be,’ said Ruth, picking up the book. ‘Thanks.’ She turned and walked to the waiting area opposite where Iqbal stood, eyebrows raised. The receptionist watched Ruth as she studied a rack of leaflets in the corner. Some of them were health messages, written in Hindi and English: “Stop Aids!” “TB? Take your medicine!” “When You’ve Had Two, That Will Do”.
‘Send that one to Hannah,’ she snorted, showing it to Iqbal.
‘Your sister has one great love of life. She cannot resist creating more.’
‘You don’t have to prove it by having seven kids.’
‘How are you proving?’
She floundered for an answer. ‘Well I… Iqbal, to be honest, I don’t think I love life. I just live it.’
‘Is tough without love,’ he murmured.
‘I didn’t say I didn’t have love! Just that… I don’t love life. Not my life, anyway.’ She sighed, and stuffed the leaflet back in the rack.
Along with the health messages there were a set of dusty religious tracts. Jesus in his flowing hair and robes with outspread arms: ‘Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden.’ A cross spilling light into a pool of darkness: ‘Break the power of SIN.’ A pair of folded hands: ‘Our Father’.
‘There was a permanent display of these in our dining room in Kanpur,’ she said, tapping them. ‘Mom would never miss an opportunity to save the lost.’
‘Doctor-ji is not using?’
‘Yeah, he did a bit, but never much of a talker, so it was normally Mom that handled the propaganda.’
‘When I am arriving, there are no tracts.’
‘Oh really? Huh… maybe Dad cleared them out after Mom died.’
‘No. Nothing was cleared. Even her toothbrush was still sitting. I am helping with all that sad thing.’
‘Oh,’ said Ruth.
‘Are you knowing these?’ Iqbal asked, showing her a tract.
‘The Four Spiritual Laws? Oh yes, they were drummed into me for the first seventeen years of my life, Iqbal, along with god-knows how many memory verses, but I have dedicated myself ever since to systematically forgetting the lot.’
‘I will test,’ said Iqbal, opening it and beckoning. ‘Tell to me.’
‘Groan… Let’s see…’ She squinted into space. ‘Number One: All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.’
‘Incorrect.’
‘What?! That’s definitely right.’
‘Is very true thing, Rani Ruthie, but is Law Number Two. What is One?’
She stared at him, drawing a blank. ‘I could have sworn…’
‘Your forgetting is very successful.’ He tipped his head.
‘Let me see that,’ she said, snatching the leaflet, but before she had time to look, a large lady in a green sari swept into the foyer.
‘Ruthie!’ she crowed, throwing open her arms. It was Mrs Puri, the hospital administrator and long-standing friend of the family. Ruth allowed herself to be swathed in big arms and a cascade of silk, the shelf of Mrs Puri’s bosom pressing against her. Her breath smelled of paan.
‘Oh, sweetie,’ cooed the lady, stepping back and holding Ruth at arm’s length. ‘You haven’t changed a bit. Still beautiful as ever. But not quite so naughty, na?’ She tweaked her nose. ‘Sooo good to see you!’
‘You too,’ Ruth said, through her teeth, shoving the tract into her pocket.
‘Darling, we’re all so glad you came. Your Daddy misses his girls so much, I just know it. Of course, he’s got good old Iqbal here, but it’s not the same.’
‘Iqbal does a better job than I could,’ said Ruth. ‘Certainly cooks better.’
‘Oh!’ Mrs Puri clasped a hand to her breast and rolled her eyes. ‘Iqbal’s cooking is without compare. Nectar for the gods! But he’s not a nice, cuddly daughter, is he, and that’s just what your Daddy needs right now.’
Ruth grunted. Iqbal winked at her. Mrs Puri grasped Ruth’s arm in her red-nailed hand. ‘Darling, have you seen the new Dr Ellen Connor Maternity Suite?’
‘Yes,’ Ruth lied.
‘Oh! So much money poured in after her passing, so many people wanting to remember her, so many stories of lives saved! From Kanpur, and here, and all over the world. She is the mother of thousands!’
‘Dad showed me the letters,’ said Ruth. The box had remained on the living room floor, unopened.
‘Your mother, Ruthie, was a damn good obstetrician. None to match her,’ said Mrs Puri. Then, in a conspiratorial tone, ‘But I know her secret. She told me once.’ Ruth and Iqbal leaned in. ‘Before every single birth, she placed her hands on the mother’s body…’ She allowed a dramatic pause, red nails fanned, ‘and prayed.’ Another pause, then Mrs Puri slapped her hands together as if playing the trump card and let forth a honking laugh. ‘How’s that, na? Brilliant!’
Iqbal joined the laughter. Ruth raised her brows and pulled a strained smile.
‘I must go now, sweetie,’ Mrs Puri sighed, pinching Ruth’s cheek. ‘I’ve got a meeting but, listen, don’t you be sad, huh? Whatever will be will be.’ And she swished out, a solid, flightless bird with a fluttering tail.
Ruth met Iqbal’s merry face with a scolding glare and turned to examine a painting on the wall. It was an Indian scene: people gathered around a stone pool, their bodies bent, heads bowed. Some reached towards the pool, yearning, while others sat, defeated. In the foreground stood a holy man with ragged hair and lungi, his back to the viewer. With muscled arms raised and hands unfurled, he was looking down at an old man on the ground, naked and blind. The holy man’s body was dark, but the scene before him lay bathed in light, as if emanating from his hidden face.
The picture held her gaze, tugged on her. At the bottom, the same signature she’d seen at the Oaklands Peace Garden. KN.
‘Doctor-ji is little delayed,’ said Iqbal. ‘Shall I get some tea and snacks from the canteen.’
‘No thanks, I remember their food.’
‘You were here?’
‘When I was eight. Tonsillitis.’
Ruth had lain in the grip of fever, her head throbbing, her throat so raw each swallow was fire. The walls had bent over her and the flowers on the curtains begun to spin and her bed to tilt and she’d been forced to grip the sheets not to slide out. She’d prayed for her parents to come and thought there was an answer in the approaching footsteps, but it was not them, so she’d prayed harder. All day, every day, footsteps had come and gone and each time her heart had leapt at the hope of seeing them, like a fish hurling itself upstream. Irrational, wild, ridiculous hope.
A young man with a white coat and stethoscope walked in, his face alight.
‘Salaam Iqbal-ji!’
The men clasped hands and banged each other on the back.
‘Lakshman! Salaam!’
‘You must be Ruth.’ he said, extending his hand.
‘Yes,’ she said. His grip was strong, his smile warm.
‘Oh, it is a joy to meet you. Any daughter of the Connor Doctors is always welcome here.’
‘Lakshman is one of their students from Kanpur,’ Iqbal explained. ‘He’s working in Mussoorie for – how much – two years now?’
‘Nearly three, in fact, but it’s flown.’ Then suddenly his face became serious and he leaned closer to Ruth. ‘I am so sorry about your father’s illness. We are praying desperately for his healing.’
‘Thanks,’ she mumbled.
‘He has given his life for India,’ Lakshman continued. ‘We are begging God to let us keep him a little bit longer. He’s been so fit! – walking out to all those villages – and teaching in here, or all over the hillside clearing rubbish and planting trees. We can’t believe his time has come.’
‘He is believing,’ said Iqbal, softly.
‘Yes,’ said Lakshman, and breathed out a sigh. ‘I think he welcomes it. He has run the race and is longing to go home. We just can’t bear to lose him, eh?’ He looked at Ruth with such tender sadness that it floored her. She felt a sting at the back of her nose, and unable to speak, turned and walked out the door.
It wasn’t till she was half way up the path to Shanti Niwas that she realised she still had the tract in her pocket. The First Spiritual Law: God loves you and has a plan for your life. Ruth ripped it to shreds and threw it down the khud. She immediately had a vision of James on one of his FRESH missions, scrambling over the hillside, hessian sack in hand, stooping to pick up the pieces.
THIRTY
It was Saturday morning, the third day of waiting at the Unity Guesthouse and the day of Mrs Gandhi’s cremation. Entire Sikh communities lay gutted: homes and property destroyed, over two thousand people murdered and tens of thousands fleeing to refugee camps. The army had finally been summoned to help and the violence was beginning to ebb. They and the police would be thick upon the streets for the funeral procession and control would be tight. Mr Das had got word from his second cousin in the force that it would be safe to leave that evening. Ruth called home as soon as she heard and nearly whooped when the phone was answered, not detecting the strain in her father’s voice.
She was tripping over herself with relief and urgency. ‘Everything’s ok here. Can you come up to see the show next week? Please?’
‘What?’ He sounded far away.
‘You know – The Gospel of Jyoti! All the performances here were cancelled so we’ve only got one now, back at Oaklands. You have to come! It’s amazing.’
There was a pause, then his voice. Like a whip.
‘What in God’s name—? Your show? No, of course we can’t come up to see your show! Have you no idea? No idea what is happening around you? Ruth?’ He was terrible, incandescent, like she’d yanked open the door of a furnace. ‘Are you that selfish?!’
She fled to the roof of the house and huddled in a corner, barely breathing, stinging with the rebuke and the exploding of her dream.
Her silly, selfish, stupid dream.
The school party set off at sunset as a dusty orange pall gathered over the city, the air heavy with smoke and incense. Driving through the barren streets they saw gaping houses and overturned trucks, still smouldering. Here and there were charred bodies. Sometimes they could make out the remains of a turban, crisp and flaking on a blackened head, but even when they could not, they knew all the dead were Sikhs.
Except for Mrs Gandhi, of course, whose body was also burnt that day.
Mr Haskell, looking tired and older and avoiding Ruth, had put the white kids by the windows, and when he ran out of white ones, moved on to the half-white, like Kashi. The idea was to make it look like a bus full of foreigners, which was why Ibrahim from Somalia was an exception to the colour scheme and gi
ven a front window seat. Notions of foreignness were complex at Oaklands. Most of the white kids were brought up in Asia, or other places not of their citizenship. Many, like Ruth, were born in India. On the other hand, half of the “Indians” had passports from Canada, Europe and the US with accents to match. There were quite a few with mixed parentage and homes in several continents. It was hard for most of them to say where they were ‘from’ but at Oaklands this growing up between worlds was not a lack of identity, but integral to it. And as much as they might have protested the idea – Ruth especially – the school itself had become home.
Manveer, the only Sikh on board, was put on the back seat in a row of girls. Ruth and Sita commandeered the spaces either side of him while Abishek whistled and said Manveer was exploiting national crisis for personal gain.
‘Shut it, Abishek,’ Sita said.
‘Yeah, that’s not funny,’ Dorcas added.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Manveer. ‘I’ll just beat him up back in the dorm.’
‘Oh, you wish, babu! You wish!’ crowed Abishek. ‘This guy can’t even squash a cockroach.’
‘Least he doesn’t look like one,’ said Sita.
‘Ow-ow-ow-OW!’ Abishek howled, shaking one hand as if badly burnt.
‘Cut down, yaar!’ grinned Manveer.
‘Cut down bad!’ Abishek vouched, with a defeated shake of the head and a crooked grin. Ruth tried to smile, but the events of the past few days were taking their toll. Manveer looked at her keenly, his dark eyes searching and gentle.
‘You ok?’ he whispered.
‘Yeah,’ she mumbled, and stared at her hands. The nails mocked her.
As they pulled out of Delhi, the great Doab plain stretched around them, flat and patched with fields, the ground turning cool and bloodless as the low sun drew all colour into itself. Ruth could see dark figures walking along the field edges towards the muted glow of village lights. It was the same scene she gazed out on from a train window every time she travelled back to Oaklands after a vacation. Mom and Dad would take her from Kanpur to Lucknow and then hand her over to the party of Mish Kid travellers from Varanasi, Calcutta and even Nepal. They would meet up in the high-ceilinged waiting room at Lucknow Station where fans turned slowly and a man in khaki swished a filthy mop from side to side. The handful of adult chaperones would count heads and bags while Ruth and the other girls squealed and hugged each other and scanned for signs of new clothes. If someone had been “home”on furlough they were the envy of the rest with their new jeans, Nike running shoes and permed hair.
A House Called Askival Page 19
