Belonging

by Umi Sinha

  As the day of his arrival grew closer, I became more and more apprehensive. I cringed as I reviewed my outpourings, artlessly confided with no thought for how they might be received. What must he have thought of me, continuing to write to him for all those years with no encouragement? What could my letters possibly have meant to him? Had he even bothered to read them, or had he left them unopened, as I had Aunt Mina’s letters to me at school? As the day grew closer I found myself wishing for something to happen – anything to prevent us coming face to face.

  The day of their arrival was unusually hot, even for August. After lunch I went up to my room and tried on costume after costume until my bed was covered with rejected garments. Finally I chose a simple cream muslin dress with a square neck edged with café-au-lait lace. I looked at myself in the mirror. I knew I was no beauty, but perhaps I was pretty. My oval face and regular features were unobjectionable but my dark eyes and straight dark eyebrows gave me an intense look. At school I had often been reprimanded for scowling and urged to assume a ‘more pleasant expression’. My skin was clear but had a definite olive tinge, not helped by my refusal to wear a hat. Not for the first time, I wished that I had inherited Mother’s pale skin and delicately arched eyebrows.

  The path along the foot of the Downs was powder-dry, and by the time I reached the Beauchamps’ house I was perspiring and the hem of my dress was brown with dust. I wiped my face and hands with my handkerchief before entering through the french windows into the sitting room.

  As my eyes adjusted to the change of light, a genie materialised in front of me. He was wearing a dark blue suit and a pale pink turban, and if I had met him in the street I should not have known him. He was taller than ever, but with a new breadth of shoulder. His moustache and beard were neatly shaped and his deep-lidded eyes and high-bridged nose no longer seemed too big for his face. But it was his expression – grave, thoughtful, dignified – that made me realise how much he had changed from the awkward, lanky boy I had pictured as I was writing my letters.

  The hand he held out to me was large and warm and swallowed mine completely. ‘Lila,’ he said, smiling. He reached for my other hand and stood back to look at me. ‘You’ve grown up, but I would have known you anywhere.’

  I glanced towards the tea table, where Simon was standing to greet me. Mrs. Beauchamp smiled at me. ‘Come and have some tea, Lila.’

  Jagjit pulled out a chair for me and I greeted Simon and sat down.

  Mrs. Beauchamp explained that Mr. Beauchamp was in London, caught up in war planning, but would be back for the weekend.

  Jagjit sat down opposite me. I found myself unable to raise my eyes to him and fixed them on the cakes and sandwiches on the table. I felt paralysed with shyness and could think of nothing to say.

  Mrs. Beauchamp explained that the suffragists had decided to put aside their campaign for the duration. ‘Of course we must support our men, who are fighting to defend us.’ She looked at me. ‘Simon has joined up,’ she said flatly.

  These were the first words that penetrated my paralysis. I looked at Simon in astonishment. He smiled awkwardly. ‘I don’t know why everyone is so surprised. I thought you’d be pleased.’

  Mrs. Beauchamp unfolded a napkin and spread it over her lap. She said levelly, ‘Well, I thought it might have been wiser to complete your degree first. You’re young and there’s plenty of time. And you’ve never been strong.’

  ‘So you’ve always said. Anyway, they say it won’t last long and we didn’t want to miss it.’ He glanced at Jagjit, who looked away, towards the french windows. ‘We decided to join up together yesterday, before we left Cambridge.’

  Startled, I looked at Jagjit, but his face was as stony as Aunt Mina at her best.

  Simon said hesitantly, ‘We… we’d hoped they’d put us in the same regiment, but – ’

  ‘ – they wouldn’t take me,’ Jagjit cut in. He sounded bitter. ‘The officer who was interviewing us told me Indians weren’t eligible to be officers. He said I would be of more help if I went home and took up a temporary place in the I.C.S., thereby freeing an Englishman to fight for his country.’

  ‘I’m sure your mother and father would be grateful,’ Mrs. Beauchamp said. ‘They must be eager to see you after so many years.’

  ‘But it isn’t fair,’ Simon said. ‘Jagjit was the senior boy in the O.T.C. at school. He won all the shooting medals.’

  ‘Anyway, they can’t keep me out,’ Jagjit cut in. ‘Indians may not be eligible to be officers, but I shall join up anyway as soon as I get back to India. I’ve booked a passage from Southampton on Tuesday. I just hope I can get back here before it’s all over.’

  It was as though he was talking about being left out of the cricket team – as if all that mattered was his stupid desire to be part of this game called war. He did not even glance at me.

  A painful lump formed in my throat, bringing tears to my eyes. I thought of Father saying goodbye to me before one of his missions with Uncle Gavin: his airy manner, dismissive of the idea that something might happen to him, his refusal to see how terrified I was at the thought that I might be left alone with Mother forever. I pressed my lips together to stop them quivering and stood up, rocking my chair backwards.

  ‘Lila, my dear, what is it?’ Mrs. Beauchamp said, as I stumbled towards the french windows.

  Familiar thoughts drilled through my head: You can’t trust anyone. They always leave. In the end you’re alone. Stupid, stupid! How could you have forgotten that you don’t matter… that there’s always something more important? Surely Father should have taught you that lesson?

  As I crossed the garden, tears streamed down my face. I dashed them away furiously. You fool, you fool, what are you crying for? What did you expect? That he would sacrifice a chance to be a hero for you? Idiot! But I don’t care. I don’t need anyone. He can go to hell!

  I was ripping at my skirts, which had caught in the brambles by the fence, when his deep voice said, ‘Stand still.’ His long fingers reached around me and freed the cloth from the thorns. ‘I’m afraid you’ve torn it.’

  I waved my hand without turning.

  He took my arm and pulled me round. ‘Lila, what is it?’

  I stared at his suit lapels. Close to, the navy blue fabric was patterned with fine pink stripes made up of thin dashes of red and white.

  He bent to look in my face. ‘What is it? Why are you so upset? Is it something I’ve done?’

  I looked away.

  ‘Won’t you even speak to me? Why did you run off like that? You don’t know how much I’ve looked forward to seeing you.’

  He reached for my hand but I jerked it away. I wanted to shout at him but the jagged lump in my throat choked me. I swallowed hard and managed to jerk out in a shaking voice, ‘Stupid… So s-stupid…’

  ‘Who’s stupid? Do you mean me?’

  I looked up at his bewildered face. ‘Yes, you… stupid!’ I said, and reached up and slapped him.

  He stepped back, and I turned and ran all the way back to High Elms.

  Aunt Mina was out in the garden with her cream parasol, dead-heading the roses in her white gardening gloves. She turned in astonishment as I rushed past her. I went up the stairs at a run, sobbing loudly, and slammed the door of my room behind me. I threw myself on to the bed. My whole body felt light, as though I might float away. There was a painful pressure in my chest, a buzzing in my head, and the sour-tasting lump in my throat was strangling me. I was sick with rage, with the desire to break something, to tear this room, this house, the whole world apart. I felt like that six-armed black statue of Kali I once visited with Father, the floor around her awash with the blood of sacrificed goats, whose heads lay piled at her feet. I understood her dance of destruction; I too wanted to trample and slay and burn, to rend limb from limb, to leave nothing standing.

  I curled up on the bed and wrapped my arms around my knees, trying to hold my anger in, contain it where it could hurt no one but me. My heart felt like a st
one in my chest. ‘I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care,’ I chanted, but the words turned to sobs and then I lost all sense of where I was. Far away I could hear someone wailing and screaming, ‘Fa-a-ther… Fa-a-ther…’ in an absurd histrionic way.

  When I came round, Jagjit was sitting on the bed beside me, stroking my hair and talking to me softly. I sat up and looked around me. We were alone.

  He smiled at my surprised face.

  ‘Your aunt sent me up. No, she hasn’t had a change of heart; she’s outside. You frightened her. You frightened me too.’

  I put my hand to my head. My hair had come loose on one side and was hanging in tangles. My eyes and throat felt swollen and my head ached.

  ‘Am I ill?’

  ‘Upset, I think.’

  I looked at him blankly.

  ‘Don’t you remember? I think it might be because I told you I was going to join up.’

  I turned my back on him and stared at the wallpaper, a pattern of oranges made of dots, with interwoven branches and green pointed leaves. The lump started to form in my throat again but this time the tears flowed freely. He put his hand on my shoulder and turned me to face him but I pulled away and lay down, hiding my face in my arm.

  I felt his weight shift on the bed and then he lay down behind me and his arms went around me, gathering me into his chest. One hand smoothed the hair away from my ear. He whispered into it, ‘Lila, don’t be angry with me. I’ve missed you. I loved reading your letters, every one of them. I wanted to write back but I’d given my word. All I could think of was when I could see you again.’

  ‘And you thought the best way was to get yourself killed!’

  ‘Come on, Lila. It won’t be forever. They say the war won’t last long.’

  His tone was indulgent, as though I was making a fuss over nothing. It was the first time I’d ever heard him do it – assume that false bravado that boys use to cover up their gentleness, vulnerability and fear. His truthfulness was what had always set him apart from Simon and other boys.

  ‘It really doesn’t change anything,’ he added. ‘And afterwards I can come back and finish my I.C.S. training. Will you wait for me, Lila?’

  ‘No, because you’ll be dead!’ I did not add, and I’ll be alone again.

  ‘Sshshshsh.’ He laughed softly and began to rock me. His body was strong and warm around me. I wanted to hate him but I can’t remember, even now, a time when I felt safer or more loved. ‘I’ll come back. I promise. Will you wait?’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Go away!’ I shrieked.

  He said admiringly, ‘I never knew you were such a virago!’

  ‘You don’t know anything about me.’

  ‘Not as much as I’d like to, but then I want to spend the rest of my life getting to know you.’

  ‘Not long, then.’

  He sat up and pulled me round to face him. ‘I have no intention of dying, Lila. Now, I think we should let your aunt in, before she gets really worried. But you haven’t answered my ques– ’

  I put my hand over his mouth and called, ‘Come in!’ Then I knelt up and kissed him hard. We were still kissing when Aunt Mina opened the door.

  A few days later I accompanied the Beauchamps to Southampton to see him off. Aunt Mina made no attempt to stop me; she was still shocked by my outburst and must have comforted herself with the reflection that Jagjit would soon be nearly five thousand miles away.

  In the carriage I sat between Mr. and Mrs. Beauchamp, with Jagjit and Simon on the seat opposite.

  ‘I’m going to miss it all,’ Jagjit said, gazing out of the window. ‘All the different seasons – the first snowdrops, followed by the apple and cherry blossom, and the bluebells in May, and then poppies, and bringing the hay in, and the falling leaves, and the snow. We don’t have all this variety where I live.’

  ‘What is it like there?’ Mrs. Beauchamp asked.

  He smiled. ‘Very different. We have just three seasons in northern India. The hot season, which lasts for months, where everything is baking hot and dusty, until we long for the rains. Then the monsoon, which is always welcome – it was my brother Baljit’s and my favourite season. Everything is washed clean after all those months of dust, and the fields all fill up with water and reflect the sky. And then there’s the cold season, which is nothing like as cold as here, but the evenings are beautiful.’

  He paused and I remembered that first time when he had come over to High Elms alone to see me and talked of those winter sunsets when the ground mist rose as the villagers were making their way home from the fields. We shared something that no one else could understand.

  My eyes filled with tears. I wanted to beg him to take me with him.

  Once aboard the ship we admired the saloons and state rooms, then stood around awkwardly, waiting for the warning bells. Jagjit stood head and shoulders above everyone else and I noticed people surreptitiously glance at him and then at us, wondering what we were to each other. As always, he seemed indifferent to the curiosity he aroused.

  Simon offered to help him carry his cases down to his cabin, which he was sharing with another Indian. They seemed to be gone for an age, and when they came back Simon looked pale and upset. I tried to catch Jagjit’s eye but I could tell he was preoccupied, his mind travelling ahead of him. Mrs. Beauchamp tried to make conversation but eventually gave up. The minutes stretched out as we waited for the warning whistle and I wished I hadn’t come, that I had said goodbye at the Beauchamps’ instead of here, with all these people watching and him already gone from me.

  Then the first whistle blew and people around us began to take leave of each other. Jagjit shook hands with the Beauchamps and thanked them for all their kindness. He turned to Simon and hesitated, then moved to embrace him, but Simon stepped back. He put his hand out, avoiding Jagjit’s eyes. Jagjit took it and said, ‘You will write from wherever you’re posted? I’d like to know how you’re getting on.’

  ‘Of course.’ He turned to his parents. ‘Shall we wait on deck?’

  Mr. Beauchamp looked puzzled. Mrs. Beauchamp grasped his arm and steered him away, with Simon following.

  Jagjit turned to me and took my hands in his, ignoring the stares. He said softly, ‘I’ll come back for you when it’s all over. And if I’m sent to Europe – as I hope I shall be – I’ll use my leaves to visit.’

  ‘I still don’t see why you have to join up… It’s nothing to do with you. Please…’

  ‘Don’t, Lila. I don’t have time to explain; it’s just something I have to do.’ He lifted my hand to his lips. ‘Goodbye, my darling.’

  ‘Wait.’ I unbuttoned the high neck of my blouse and pulled out my lucky Sussex stone. ‘I want you to have this. To bring you back safely. It was Father’s.’

  ‘Lila, I couldn’t possibly…’

  ‘He would want you to have it. Bend down.’

  He bent and I placed it round his neck, just as I used to do with Father. He tucked it inside his collar and smiled at me. ‘I promise I’ll keep it safe till I can return it to you myself.’

  I stood on tiptoe and raised my face to his. He hesitated, then bent his head and kissed me. The conversation around us died for a moment and in the silence the second whistle went and it was time to go.

  That night I dreamt Father was alive again. I was back in the bungalow in Peshawar, with the white muslin curtains lifting in the breeze, but this time there was a figure half-concealed behind them, silhouetted by the moonlight. A thrill of fear went through me but I found myself compelled to move closer. Then, as the curtains lifted again, I recognised her. Mother, in a white dress, smiling, but her eyes were as clear and empty of life as chips of green sea-glass. I turned and ran and found myself standing outside Father’s study door, which was outlined in a glaring white light. With a feeling of dread I put my hand on the smooth brass doorknob and turned it. The door opened and there was Father, sitting behind his desk, with the statue of the dancing Shiva on the shelf behi
nd him.

  ‘Hello, Lila,’ he said, as though nothing had happened.

  I said, ‘But it can’t be you.’

  He looked amused. ‘Why can’t it be me?’

  ‘Because you’re dead,’ I blurted, and then realised that he didn’t know.

  He laughed. ‘You can see I’m not!’

  ‘But I was here. I saw it…’ I looked up the wall behind him but it was clear of stains. Had I dreamt it? ‘Then where have you been? Why did you go away?’

  He looked surprised.

  ‘I was with Gavin… on one of our missions. You know I would never leave you. Why didn’t you wait? You must have known I would come back.’

  I shook my head. ‘I thought… But you were… I saw…’ I swallowed hard, tears coming to my eyes, thinking of all those years wasted.

  He smiled indulgently. ‘O ye of little faith! You still don’t believe me, do you?’ He pushed his sleeve up and held his arm out across the desk. ‘Here, touch me. I’m real. You know you can’t feel things in dreams.’

  I reached out and took his arm between my hands, feeling its weight and warmth, smelling the sun-warmed skin, seeing the skin wrinkle under the pressure of my fingers. It was real. Tears welled up in my eyes. He was alive! Joy flooded through me.

  Then I woke up.

  Henry

  Bhagalpur, Bihar, 5th November 1880

  Taking over as acting magistrate from Thornton has proven to be more challenging than I expected. On my arrival here I went to introduce myself to him at his house, since he was unwell. Even as I greeted him, it was apparent what the cause of his ‘illness’ is, for over the course of the evening he consumed almost a whole bottle of whisky. His briefing consisted of a rambling complaint that India was a ‘hellhole’, the job ‘thankless and deadly boring’ and that he would be glad to quit it. His exact words were, ‘You don’t want to believe a word those native sewers tell you. Pigs and liars, the lot of them. Doesn’t really make any difference whose favour you find in. Hindu, Mussulman, Christian – they’re all as bad as each other.’