The goodbyes were brisk and matter-of-fact. Dad would pat her on the head and say a short prayer. Mom would squeeze tight, but let go quickly and smile so brightly that Ruth could only smile back and wave. Then they were gone.
On the train there was always happy chatter and hi-jinks. They bought steaming sweet chai from the platform wallas and had competitions hurling the conical clay cups at pylons. They ate samosas and puris, glistening with hot oil, and passed round bananas and peanuts and bottles of warm Limca. They told jokes, played cards, swapped comics and chewed gum and at bed-time squirmed into their canvas bistars on the bunks and whispered and giggled. In her early years, when the train was rattling through the dark and everyone was quiet, Ruth would move her face to the window and stare into the blackness. Only then would she cry. Silently. No one ever knew, not even Hannah on her bunk above. And by the time Hannah had left Oaklands and Ruth was fourteen, she had stopped crying on trains. Almost stopped altogether.
The bus rumbled and rocked, setting the tinsel and pom-poms at the front window swinging. Ruth felt the warmth of Manveer’s arm and thigh next to hers and glanced up at his face. He was staring straight ahead.
Then he stiffened.
Out of the black, further along the road there was a sprinkling of lights. As the bus sped closer, the lights waved and brightened, moved out into the road and blocked it.
The driver swivelled his head round. ‘Hide him!’ he shouted and pressed on the brakes. Everyone whirled round in their seats. Mr Haskell jumped up.
‘Manveer!’ he shouted. ‘Get down!’ Manveer had already dived under the seat as Ruth and the others were yanking shawls over their knees.
The bus slowed to a halt, the chug of its engine drowned by the shouting of men. There was a banging on the door and a tightening of the air as Mr Haskell opened it a crack.
‘Let us on! We are after the Sikhs!’ a man bawled. Ruth felt a shock down her body.
‘There are none here,’ Mr Haskell replied in Hindi, his voice brittle. There were yells from the mob and the man pushed on the door.
‘No Sikhs on this bus,’ said the driver, with a dismissive wave of his hand.
‘We are a school group,’ Mr Haskell went on. ‘Just kids. Foreign kids.’
The foreign kids stared bug-eyed at the men, who had sticks and sickles and rusty blades. The Indian kids slunk down in their seats. The driver revved his engine, the men hesitated and Mr Haskell shut the door. The bus took off.
Once the black had completely swallowed them again and the headlights stretched out into empty road, Mr Haskell moved down the bus and without looking at Ruth, knelt and lifted her shawl.
‘It’s ok, Manveer,’ he said, though his voice was still strained. ‘You can come out now.’
Manveer crawled out and dusted himself off. ‘That was a close one, Mr Haskell,’ he said, trying to laugh.
‘Yeah, I know,’ the teacher nodded. ‘But don’t worry. We’re not going to let anything happen to you.’
Manveer sat down again between Ruth and Sita.
‘Mr Haskell?’ came a girl’s voice from half way up the bus.
‘Yes?’
‘I think we should pray.’ It was Dorcas.
Mr Haskell stood without saying anything for a moment. As he held onto the seats around him, his body jerked and swayed with the motion of the bus. Both Mrs Banwarilal and Mr Das nodded vigorously.
‘A-huh, Dorcas,’ Mr Haskell said slowly. ‘I’m sure a lot of people have been praying already.’
‘Yeah, but, I mean, out loud,’ she pressed.
Mrs Banwarilal piped up. ‘Yes, yes. I think that is a very good idea. Please pray.’
‘Right,’ said Mr Haskell and ran his hand through his hair, dislodging a chunk from the ponytail. ‘Ok, Dorcas. You go ahead.’
Ruth looked at Manveer but he had already closed his eyes and bowed his head.
‘Dear Lord,’ Dorcas began, her voice thin and faint under the roar of the bus. ‘Please be with us now. Please keep us safe…’
Manveer slipped his hand over Ruth’s. When Dorcas finished there was nothing but the noise of the bus, the growl of its engine, the bouncing and squeaking of its old joints. Then another voice began. It was Thomas Verghese.
‘Oh Holy God, Our Father,’ he began. Ruth tensed. He was known for long prayers that pushed out the boundaries of ecclesiastical discourse. ‘In thine infinite grace and mercy thou hast ordained the days of our lives and even the very hairs upon our miserable heads. Thou hast always granted solace in times of tribulation and protection from the vicissitudes of the evil one.’ There was a blast on the bus horn. Thomas waited then raised his voice. ‘On this dark night of the soul, we cry out to thee. Forgive us our iniquities. Judge us not harshly, and though we be deserving of eternal damnation, in our distress we beseech thee to extend thy mercy and spare us from the grave.’
There were a few amens. Mr Das clicked his tongue appreciatively.
After quiet, a voice came from near the middle of the bus. It was Kashi. No one had ever heard him pray.
‘Dear God,’ he said, his rough voice breaking as he spoke. Then a silence that made people wonder if he’d finished. Or perhaps was crying. But at last he continued. ‘We need you.’ Then another silence. And finally, ‘Amen.’
The bus heaved on. No one else spoke for a moment till there was an amen from Shamim, the devout Muslim boy who had surprised everyone by joining the production and cheerfully playing the disciple Peter (alias Pawan). Then a cascade of amens around the bus. Ruth heard Manveer whisper it and she squeezed his hand. He squeezed back and stroked her thumb with his own.
Then there was a prayer from Abishek (Judas), who was Hindu, and Nina, (Woman at the Well) who was Zoroastrian, and Pema, (Martha, Roman Guard and Second Pharisee) who was Tibetan Buddhist, all interspersed with the Christian kids (assorted disciples, guards, lepers and Sadducees). Ruth was even contemplating praying herself, when there was a further blast on the horn and a volley of curses from the driver. Up ahead another swarm of lights was filling the road.
There was a sharp hiss from Manveer as he squeezed her hand, then scrambled down under the seat. The girls yanked again at their shawls, Sita swearing, Ruth starting to shake. This time the men were drunk or perhaps just delirious with rage. They howled and drummed their fists on the sides of the bus and banged open the door. Mr Haskell tried to block them but they shoved him aside and piled up the steps. They were heaving, sweating beasts, dishevelled and roaring, sticks and knives in their hands.
‘Where are the Sikhs!’ they shouted. ‘Any Sikhs here? We will kill them!’ Flaming torches lit their faces and licked the ceiling of the bus. Ruth could see streaks of dirt and grease on their faces, missing teeth, scratches.
‘No Sikhs here,’ insisted Mr Haskell, voice loud but wobbly, as he tried to pull one of the men back from the aisle. The man was big, with a thrusting stomach and a face flecked with blood. He swiped at Mr Haskell like a mosquito and began pushing his way down the bus.
‘I will check,’ he said, running his eyes over the students and banging his stick against each metal seat. As he moved closer, Ruth could see rings of sweat at his armpits and a long, dark stain down the front of his kurta. She wedged her hands under her buttocks to hide their shaking but could do nothing about the pounding in her chest. When he got to her he stopped, the bulk of him blocking the aisle, a giant hand gripping the seat in front. One of his bulging eyes lolled to one side, while the other fixed her with a lewd stare, his mouth half-open and strung with spit. As he leaned close, reeking of alcohol and sour skin, she felt sick with fear. His face inches from hers, teeth rotten, breath coming in heavy rasps, he took his stick and began lifting the shawl across her knees.
Just then a shout came from further up the bus and he swung round. Ruth breathed out and shoved the shawl back down. A weedy man was pointing at Mrs Banwarilal.
‘You!’ he shouted. ‘You’re sadarni!’
‘I am not!’ she said
. ‘I’m Hindu.’
‘No, she’s Sikh,’ said the man with the stick, starting to move back up the bus. ‘Look at her hair.’ Her shiny tresses were today woven into a long, muscled braid that fell half way down her back.
‘I am not! I swear it!’ she cried, but the men were closing in.
‘Leave her,’ Mr Haskell shouted, trying to push his way past the men.
‘Get her!’ one shouted, and the stick man grabbed her arm.
‘No!’ screamed Mrs Banwarilal.
There was a crashing blast from the horn.
‘STOP IT!’ The driver jumped up on his gear box. The men turned to him in surprise. He was laughing. ‘Stop it, friends! I’m your Hindu brother.’ They cheered. ‘Do you think I would let Sikhs ride on my bus?’
‘If you did we’d kill you!’ a man shouted, shaking his sickle.
‘Of course! But there’s no need,’ the driver said, spreading his hands genially. ‘Do you not believe that if there were any Sikhs on my bus, I would have killed them at once and thrown their bodies to the jackals?’
The mob crowed with delight.
‘Their eyeballs to the birds!’ a man squealed.
‘Bones to the dogs!’ cried the bus driver.
‘Balls to the rats!’ called another.
More cheering. The driver laughed and swayed his head. The men shook their torches and weapons in the air and trumpeted, ‘Khoon ka badla khoon!’ ‘Blood for blood!’ the driver echoed. The men clapped him on the back and shook his hand as they filed off the bus, chuckling and cheering. The one with the stick grabbed his head and kissed the top of it, leaving dark smears on his temples. As the bus started up, the mob drummed their fists on the side and called out praise to God.
Mrs Banwarilal was crying, and Dorcas moved to sit beside her, putting an arm around her shoulders. Ruth’s shaking had taken over her whole body and tears stung her eyes as she knelt in the aisle and reached in to Manveer. He gripped her hands and she bent forward, pressing her face into his fingers. Sita twisted round in her window seat trying to see him and fumbled underneath till she found a shoulder. They patted and stroked him, murmuring softly in the cramped space as Mr Haskell came down the bus. There was little to say and his assurances sounded lame; Manveer refused to come out till the bus stopped for a toilet break. The girls squatted in the dust on one side of the road while the boys lined up on the other, a herd of them standing close around Manveer as he relieved himself into the dark. Back on the bus he sat next to Ruth again. She dusted some fluff off his turban and once the bus lights were switched off, took his hand.
Everyone was silent. It was like fear had sucked half the air out of the place and breathing was difficult, chests tight. Old Mr Das, sitting half way along, finished the last of his paan and leaned over the boy next to him to open the window. There was a sudden blast of cold, a loud spitting and then the window slammed shut. Clearing his throat, he began to sing.
‘It is dark now, my God, my God. How dark and cold now, Father God.’ It was the Song of the Cross, which Jesu begins and the others join. ‘All alone now, Man of God, Save yourself, oh Son of God.’
But no one joined Mr Das. Some watched him, a grey shadow in the dark bus. Others kept staring out the window. Others were asleep, or pretending to be. Mr Haskell sat on his front row seat, head in his hands. Ruth leaned against Manveer, resting on his shoulder, wishing to curl up inside him. Mr Das sang on, stopping once to cough and clear his throat, but starting again in his wavering voice.
‘All is lost now, Son of God, It is finished; where is your God?’
THIRTY-ONE
James and Ruth walked across the foyer to Benson Hall, his stick tapping on the polished concrete, her running shoes squeaking. It was the Hall where she had rehearsed Gospel but never had an audience, where her seat was empty that last Chapel service, and where she and Manveer should have graduated with their class in a parade of saris and speeches and embracing – but hadn’t. The great double doors stood wide and today a drama group was working on the stage with a young black woman.
‘She’s very good,’ said James, with a wag of his head. ‘She directed Othello in the summer. Set it during the British raj with Othello as a Muslim prince.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘Just wonderful.’
He smiled at Ruth but she only murmured hmmm and turned to look at the Senior Art paintings on the foyer wall. They were all in traditional Indian styles: Mogul scenes, Tibetan iconography, village art. One was luminous in its beauty: a face with eyes closed and a high, porcelain brow. The mouth was delicate, the eyes curved in the exquisite lines of the Buddha in meditation, the hair a flaming red.
‘That’s an amazing painting,’ she said, moving closer. In the hair, she saw an eagle, an ox, a lion and a winged man. ‘Done by a student?’ She peered at the signature in the top corner. KN.
‘He was in your class,’ said James. ‘Kashi Narayan. He comes back now and then to work with the kids. Made a Peace Garden with them last year. Do you remember him?’
Ruth nodded.
‘A very gifted artist,’ he went on. ‘That painting at home, you know? The woman in the desert. That’s his.’
‘Oh,’ Ruth said, remembering the red orb in RE class and her own snickering.
‘It’s called Hagar’s Kiss. Your mother chose it.’
James had asked her last night to make this trip with him. She had nodded but not looked up from slicing her mango. Iqbal was beside her at the kitchen bench grinding cinnamon.
‘Oh yes!’ he’d cried. ‘Excellent plan!’ As if it was news to him. In fact, it had been his idea, pressed on James so frequently and with such confidence that James had finally swallowed his fears and put it to Ruth. Iqbal was now humming as if the whole thing was settled, but James knew it was not. It would take a lot more than Iqbal’s wiles to win that girl. He searched her face, but she gave nothing away. In fact, it was the kind of face that took everything – all the light from the room, the notes of Iqbal’s song, the smell of spices – and stole it. The kind of face you wanted to slap.
‘I’ve got to run a few errands,’ he said, trying to sound casual. ‘Thought you might like to look around.’
‘Yeah, sure,’ she breezed, tossing the mango stone into a plastic bucket and washing her hands.
‘So much has changed. You wouldn’t believe.’ And he turned his gaze back to the pages of his sermon.
It wasn’t going to work. He knew it already, but what else could he try? Ellen’s grave had proved a disaster, as had Hillside Hospital, and Askival was impossible. He knew she went – once even with Iqbal – and was trying to clean it up, though he could not fathom why. The place was crumbling and restoration would take more than one woman and her whitewash. But, they could not even speak of it, far less go together. Something twisted inside him, just below his diaphragm. She thought Askival was all hers: the memories, the downfall, the haunting.
And so, visiting Oaklands was his only hope. He prayed it would open spaces between them and they could make peace, but he knew that simply being there together did not take them to the same territory. It was a place they had both inhabited but an experience that was worlds apart. He acknowledged he didn’t know the full truth of her life there, but neither did he trust her account of it. Hers was a history increasingly re-written over time and in conflict with the testimony of others. Yet she wielded this botched text like a legal document: a statement of the crimes against her for which she demanded harsh sentence. For which, he felt, she had already exacted years of punishment, casting himself and her mother to an emotional exile that meant Ellen died in grief. It still brought flashes of anger.
And yet – he rested his inky hands on his notes – it was true. She had been damaged. The death of that boy seemed to break something in her that never mended. He could understand grief, but not the scale of hers; from what he’d heard, she’d barely known him. And surely she could see the damage she’d caused to others was far greater, and for all her protesting, it was
clear she was at fault. Perhaps that was it. Shame. The insidious destroyer. Though she held the outsides of herself together, he knew that within everything was a pile of splintered shards and from time to time you could see the sharp corners poking through and the seeping, weeping sadness of it all. And that confronted James with his own shame. For however great her guilt, and however much she slanted her story and even lied, at its heart was a terrible truth and in the dock a guilty man. He had failed her. All because of an older shame. And worst of all, he had been forced to watch Ellen punished for his guilt. It was the story of his life.
He longed to make right his wrong, to tend her wounds and flood her with healing, to reconcile her to himself and, even more, to the memory of her mother, but he could find no way to bridge the gulf. He looked back at her, studying a recipe in the Landour Community Cookbook, elfin chin thrust forward, finger curling around a tendril of hair. It made him ache. Her determination, her delicacy; under all that defiance, so fragile. He wished he had understood that long ago. Right from the start.
Turning back to the scribbled and scratched text of his sermon he made another margin note. Faith. The paralysed man was brought by his friends. Did he persuade them or did they persuade him? He could not have gone without them. And it was their faith that healed him, said Jesus.
A House Called Askival Page 20
