It was, indeed, no ordinary night, for a remarkable confluence of lunar and natal phenomena meant that James’ 77th birthday coincided with Eid-ul-Fitr. What’s more, the 139th anniversary of the Mahatma’s birth was only the day after, making that midnight especially auspicious. Unimpressed by this extraordinary co-incidence and certainly not intending to stay up that late, James had insisted he wanted no personal celebration, but if Iqbal wished to mark the religious festival with one or two special dishes he would not object, so long as there were no fuss, no guests and no gifts.
Naturally, they ignored him. By seven-thirty, his living room bristled with gaudily wrapped presents and the voices of Reverend Paul Verghese, young Dr Lakshman and the rotund Mrs Puri. James hunkered in his chair, fighting the pain in his stomach and the faint nausea that rose from it like a swarm of flies. The others were in full swing with an argument.
‘I tell you,’ said Verghese, tapping the air with a peanut. ‘If they don’t get these Hindu fundamentalists under control they’ll tear the country apart.’
Lakshman reached for his glass of squash. ‘But don’t you think the problem is not the Hindus but the fundamentalism? It’s the same with Islam.’
‘Yes, yes,’ echoed Mrs Puri, popping peanuts with speed and perfect aim.
‘And with Christianity,’ said Ruth, from the kitchen end of the room, where she was working with Iqbal. Her glass bracelets – an Eid gift from him – jingled as she stirred a large pot on the stove. Under one of Ellen’s aprons, she wore a green kurta churidar and a soft, filmy dupatta that fell from her neck to a casual loop in the middle of her back. It was a striking change from the grey and black she normally wore and was the first time James had seen her in Indian clothes since she’d left Oaklands. He could have done without the nose-ring and the sparkly bindi in the middle of her forehead, but otherwise, she was beautiful. Like Ellen. Yet so unlike Ellen. It hurt to look at her.
At her side, Iqbal hummed and swished around the kitchen in a voluminous shalwar kameez, salmon pink and embroidered at the neck and cuffs. Their work together was a kind of fluid dance: the bending and twisting, pouring, reaching, heads together for a moment then turning away. The plump old Asian man and the thin white woman, alike only in their curly hair and floral aprons. And – thought James wryly – their conspiratorial manner. They’d been like a pair of cackling witches all day, plotting and preparing, sprinkling powders, stirring dishes, as if their recipe book were a volume of spells and this meal a potion. He did not know what magic they hoped to pull off, but it filled him with unease.
He turned back to the conversation around him. Lakshman was thrusting his hands. ‘India is a country where different religions have lived together peacefully for thousands of years. It works if everyone just follows their own beliefs and doesn’t try to convert anyone else.’
‘What about conquering them, hmm?’ demanded Verghese. ‘What about Aryans sweeping in and pushing the locals to the bottom of the country and the caste heap? Hey? Not tying to convert them, of course, just rendering them untouchable.’
Mrs Puri piped up, mouth full of peanuts. ‘Or the Mughal invasions! Hindus were persecuted under them.’
‘Or partition.’ Verghese again. ‘Nobody was trying to convert anybody. Just kill them.’
James pressed one hand into the other, knuckles straining.
‘And after Mrs Gandhi’s assassination, na?’ said Mrs Puri, throwing up her hands. ‘I was in Delhi that time and—’
‘Supper ready!’ Iqbal called, carrying a large pot and placing it in the centre of the table. The living room party stood and moved across. Reverend Verghese rubbed his fingertips together to dust off the salt, then smoothed his shiny hair with both hands. Mrs Puri, overflowing her dining chair in her red sari, put James in mind of a giant, glossy tomato.
‘But that’s exactly it,’ Lakshman continued, taking his seat. Ruth leaned over him to put a platter of rice on the table and he was momentarily diverted by her fragrance and the fleeting pressure of her body, but pulled his thoughts back. ‘When religion is used as a political tool it abuses people and distorts the very message at the heart of the faith.’
‘But you can’t divorce religion from politics!’ Reverend Verghese replied, shaking open his fan-folded napkin. ‘If the message of your faith is that some are born to be priests while others are destined to sweep latrines then that is how your society will be structured.’
‘That is not the message of Hinduism!’
‘Then what is its message, pray tell?’
Lakshman opened his mouth, then closed it again; wafted a hand. ‘That is not a Hindu question.’
Reverend Verghese laughed. ‘Sounds like a good way of avoiding the question. Are there any Hindu answers?’
‘Sorry, what was the question?’ asked Mrs Puri.
‘Shall we pray?’ asked James, as Ruth and Iqbal took their seats. Ruth shot him a warning look but James ignored her and nodded at Reverend Verghese. The man smiled beatifically and set his elegant hands together. Ruth’s nostrils flared; all heads bowed.
It was a lengthy prayer. It extolled the virtues of the Lord and acknowledged with remorse the sins of the wicked, present company not excluded. It went on to give thanks for the Almighty’s munificent blessings – elaborated at length – and in particular for the devoted life of God’s faithful servant in whose honour the assembled company had gathered to render felicitations on the auspicious occasion of his anniversary. The prayer closed, at last, with a request that the repast so lovingly prepared by these precious souls be blessed unto them all, that they in turn might live as blessings unto the Lord and one another.
As they joined in the “Amen,” James saw Iqbal’s wide-eyed appreciation. He always spoke of the Reverend Verghese with the greatest of awe. Ruth, meanwhile, pressed her hand to the side of a dish.
‘Shall I reheat the rice?’ she asked.
‘No, no,’ whispered Iqbal. ‘Everything is perfect. Go, go.’ And he nudged her in the ribs. She lifted the lid of a pot, releasing a puff of steam like a genie.
‘Tennessee Tandoori Chicken!’ she cried. ‘Recipe of Ellen Connor!’
James’ stomach clenched. A chorus of oohs and ahhs around him, a little applause from Mrs Puri.
‘How Tennessee?’ asked Lakshman.
‘Because she uses paprika instead of chilli powder and serves it with cornmeal naan.’ Ruth extended the basket of golden breads.
‘Accha,’ he swayed his head, a gleam of understanding playing on lips and eyes.
‘Found it in the book.’ She jerked her thumb to the kitchen bench. ‘It’s got quite a few of Mom’s recipes.’
James nodded, trying to pull his cheeks into a smile.
‘What book?’ asked Verghese, accepting a rice platter from Ruth.
‘The Landour Community Cookbook, Pauly,’ said Mrs Puri. ‘We sell it down at the hospital to raise funds. Haven’t you got one?’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘Second edition!’ cried Iqbal. ‘With all the latest recipes.’
‘And some golden oldies,’ added Ruth, smiling at him.
He winked back. ‘Three generations of Connors!’
‘And one–’
‘Shhh!’ he hissed, pressing his plump finger to his lips.
‘Shhh!’ she hissed back, and they both giggled.
James looked from one to the other, brow knotting.
‘And this,’ cried Iqbal, gesturing to the rice, ‘is Biryani Birmingham by Marlene Lacey.’
‘I think ’cause of the prunes,’ added Ruth.
‘Wow,’ said Lakshman, heaping some onto his plate. ‘This is fantastic. Thanks for inviting me to your birthday party, Dr James.’
James did not look up.
‘So,’ said Ruth quickly, taking the rice. ‘If fundamentalism is the problem, Lakshman, what’s the solution?’
‘Oh god,’ he groaned. ‘That’s the million-dollar question.’
‘Might that be a
Hindu question?’ asked Verghese.
‘A question for us all, surely,’ said Lakshman.
‘Beg pardon, but what—?’ began Mrs Puri, but was distracted by the proffer of a serving dish. ‘Oh my goodness! What have we here?’
‘Shikampuri Kebab,’ said Iqbal, grinning as he presented a set of chopsticks. ‘Shanghai style!’
Mrs Puri erupted into bell-ring laughter. ‘What is all this? Some kind of United Nations pot luck?!’
‘No luck! Is very carefully planned.’
‘Fusion Cuisine,’ said Ruth. ‘Mom’s edition is full of it.’
‘And she taught you!’ Mrs Puri beamed.
Ruth tilted her head, glanced at James. His face was a yellowish pall, hooded eyes meeting hers briefly. ‘I guess,’ she said. ‘Through the book and Iqbal. And we made some stuff up ourselves. This was my idea.’ Ruth took the lid off the last dish on the table. ‘Highland Haleem. Made with oats instead of wheat. A tribute to the Connor ancestral home.’
‘And your now chosen home!’ added Iqbal.
‘My grotty flat in Glasgow? Hmmm… maybe not.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs Puri, helping herself to some of the rich curry, slick with oil and smelling of heaven. ‘This is divine! Eid Mubarak everyone, and happy birthday James and Gandhi-ji!’
They all clasped their glasses of sharbat and lifted them, clinking and reaching across the table. Happy Birthday! Eid Mubarak! Happy Birthday!
‘Do you remember James, we attended one of Gandhi-ji’s prayer meetings,’ Verghese said, delicately setting his glass down and wiping his moustache. ‘Here in Mussoorie, no?’
James nodded, chewing slowly, painfully on Ellen’s Tennessee Tandoori Chicken. Everyone waited but he said nothing; kept chewing.
Verghese cleared his throat. ‘Bit of a nutter, I thought.’
Gasps, dropped cutlery, wide eyes. Except for James, who gave Verghese a penetrating look.
‘Reverend!’ cried Lakshman.
‘He’s not a god.’ Verghese waved a warning finger.
‘He is to some,’ said Lakshman.
‘Precisely the problem. Merely worshipping something does not make it a god – it makes it an idol. And idol worship is a kind of blindness. I tell you, Gandhi is one of the biggest holy cows in this country and until we can see past him to the truth of the conflicts in our midst we will not overcome them.’
‘But that is exactly what Gandhi-ji was doing! Getting people to see beyond religious difference to our universal humanity. That is why he is revered.’
‘Gandhi remained a Hindu–’
‘And he was killed by a Hindu!’
‘Was he?’ asked Ruth.
‘Oh yes,’ said Lakshman. ‘By extremists who did not like his tolerance of Muslims.’
‘He was just like Jesus,’ breathed Mrs Puri. ‘Killed by his own people because of his teachings.’
Iqbal sighed, head shaking.
‘He was not just like Jesus!’ spluttered Verghese.
‘But so much similar,’ she appealed, spreading oily hands.
‘Listen,’ said Verghese, laying down his cutlery. ‘When I was a young idealist, Gandhi was my hero, too. James can tell you.’ They all looked at James but he remained silent, gaunt. ‘My parents were in the freedom movement and supported him from the word go. They were thrown into jail for it! Yes, Gandhi was an extra-ordinary man, no doubt about it, and I do still love him. But now that I’ve lived in so called “free” India for sixty years my ideals and my heroes have taken a few knocks.’ He took a small sip of sharbat.
‘How?’ asked Ruth.
‘The problem, Ruthie, is that on the one hand,’ he poked out his right like a policeman directing traffic, ‘Gandhi taught that India could offer the world some kind of spiritual supremacy, but on the other,’ his left shot forth, ‘he kept faith with a religious system that was – and is – fundamentally oppressive and unjust.’
‘Not fundamentally,’ insisted Lakshman. ‘Caste is not the essence of Hinduism.’
‘What is?’ demanded Verghese. ‘Essence, message, answer – you are refusing to tell me.’
Lakshman nodded, lips working into a tight pucker, as he spooned raita onto his plate. ‘Reverend Paul, you know Hinduism is not about these things; it is culture and family and daily ritual.’
‘Can you pass the lime chutney, please, James darling?’ said Mrs Puri.
‘It is not so much a belief system as a way of life.’
‘Anybody is wanting more juice?’ asked Iqbal. Lakshman’s gaze flickered to him in irritation.
‘Go on, Lakshman,’ said Ruth. ‘I’m very interested.’
‘For example, you ask my grandmother what she believes and her mouth will fall open. Ask her what she cooks for Dusshera and she’ll talk for hours.’
‘Then I must meet her,’ said Iqbal. ‘Between cooks there is no divide.’
‘What nonsense, Iqbal!’ rebuked Verghese. ‘You know perfectly well his grandmother would not open her kitchen to you nor eat anything from your hand.’
Iqbal’s face fell.
‘Do you know her?’ Ruth asked the Reverend sweetly.
‘Of course not, but I know the rules.’
‘Actually, my grandmother is quite liberal. My uncle married a Sikh girl and there was no problem.’
‘Was she rich?’ Verghese asked, helping himself to the Haleem. In the slight pause that followed he turned his beetle gaze on Lakshman, eyes extra large, extra round, extra penetrating through his bottle-top specs.
Lakshman hesitated. ‘Well… that’s got nothing to do with it—’
Verghese roared with laughter.
‘Oh no!’ cried Mrs Puri, pressing a be-ringed hand on Lakshman’s arm. ‘It makes all the difference, beta, really. I’m sure your parents are looking for a girl with good assets also, because life is so much easier that way. Really, I’m telling you.’
‘Mrs Puri! My parents know very well I will make that decision for myself.’ A fleeting glance at Ruth. ‘And I won’t make it for money.’
‘Well don’t make it for love, sweetie,’ Mrs Puri sighed. ‘It doesn’t last.’
‘Then is not love,’ said Iqbal.
For a moment all was quiet except for thoughtful chewing and the scrape of cutlery. James, who had said nothing since the unveiling of the Tennessee Tandoori, was struggling to eat. He had always delighted in this dish of Ellen’s – which she’d reserved for special occasions like the girls’ first night home from boarding – but tonight he could not stomach anything. Nor did he have the heart for sparring with Verghese.
Ruth broke the silence. ‘Would you marry a non-Hindu, Lakshman?’ Her bracelets tinkled as she cut through her kebabs.
‘Oh yes!’ he said, swinging his eager gaze to her, mouth full. ‘Certainly, absolutely, definitely! If it is the right person, religion is irrelevant!’
‘Poppycock,’ said Verghese.
‘Pauly, darling,’ appealed Mrs Puri, scooping up a swathe of sari that was slipping from her shoulder. ‘He’s still young and idealistic. Let him have his dreams.’
‘Fantasies, I’m afraid,’ said Verghese, wiping his moustache with two measured sweeps.
‘Are you saying there’s no way people of different religions can get along?’ asked Ruth.
‘Of course I’m not! We’re all here round this table getting on famously! But what I’m saying is it won’t happen by pretending religion is irrelevant or that they’re all the same or that all ways lead to God and other such bunkum. Buddhists aren’t even trying to get to God, for pity’s sake!’
‘But they’re trying to attain salvation,’ Ruth said.
‘Yes, but their concept of it is entirely different to a theocentric view—’
‘A what?’ asked Mrs Puri.
‘They are simply not trying to go to the same place.’ He stabbed a finger on the tablecloth.
‘Maybe not…’ Ruth said.
‘Absolutely not! What did they teach you here?’
/> ‘I guess I flunked O’level RE.’
‘Never mind, darling,’ soothed Mrs Puri. ‘You can always re-sit.’
‘But my child,’ said Verghese. ‘Surely you had fellow students here at Oaklands who were Buddhist?’
‘Yeah, there were a few, but that was a long time ago.’ She scrunched her forehead and tugged on a curl. ‘There was a girl, Pema, in my class… from Tibet, though we weren’t that close and, to be honest, I don’t think I ever asked her what she believed or where she was trying to go.’ She grinned. ‘But, I think it was America.’
They all laughed, from Iqbal’s swelling drumbeat to Mrs Puri’s birdy hoot. All except James, who managed only to curl a lip.
‘Ah, the Promised Land,’ Verghese chuckled, spearing a cucumber.
‘And then there was Kashi,’ said Ruth, thoughtfully. ‘He was half-Buddhist, half-Hindu, half-I-don’t-know-what.’
‘Three halves?’ asked Verghese.
‘As many halves as you like. He seemed to believe it was all One, anyway.’
‘He is Christian now, also,’ nodded Iqbal.
‘No way,’ said Ruth.
‘Also?’ sneered Verghese. ‘He might think you can collect religions like stamps but that is categorically not Christian.’
‘Not collecting, I think,’ said Iqbal. ‘He is wanting to seek the face of God only. His path is art.’ He pointed to the picture above the sofa. They all turned to look at the image of the blue-grey woman in her secret joy.
‘Oh! That is a Kashi original?’ cried Mrs Puri. ‘We have one in the hospital foyer. So beautiful.’
‘Yes,’ murmured Ruth. ‘I saw it.’
‘And he is doing such good thing with Kala Sangam,’ said Iqbal.
‘What’s that?’ asked Lakshman.
‘He is bringing the artists together from different religions to build the bridges. They are doing exhibitions and productions and what nots.’
‘So sweet,’ said Mrs Puri.
‘Amazing.’ Ruth said. ‘What’s it mean?’
Verghese lifted a finger. ‘Kala means art and sangam means coming together, or confluence – like rivers.’
‘Yes,’ chimed Iqbal. ‘He is gathering everyone: painters, musicians, dancers, poets. Even wobbly old singers like me.’
A House Called Askival Page 24
