Belonging

by Umi Sinha

‘Just some old things I don’t need any more.’

  He nods. ‘Want to walk?’

  I join him on the path and we make our way up to the top of the dyke. My eyes and nose feel hot and swollen with weeping, but my mind is empty. I am cried out. I am also hungry, and realise I haven’t eaten for over twenty-four hours.

  We sit down and Simon hands me a sandwich. ‘I’m sorry about Jagjit. But he does have reason to be bitter. Townshend appears to have had it in for the Indians from the beginning, accusing them of malingering and blaming them for all his failures, although their officers say they fought bravely. And now this business in Amritsar that his father mentions… They’re trying to hush it up; they’ve even blocked the post from Punjab to stop word getting out here.’

  ‘What happened? Do you know?’

  ‘Apparently there was some sort of political meeting to protest about the Rowlatt Act. Political meetings are banned and it looks like General Dyer panicked and opened fire on a crowd of unarmed civilians in an enclosed space from which there was no escape. Hundreds were killed, including women and children… They’re calling it a massacre and the nationalists are up in arms. It’s hardly surprising that Jagjit is angry.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why he signed up. Why either of you did…’

  He grimaces. ‘The truth is that it was his idea… I wouldn’t have had the courage. I only did it because I thought we’d be together. I stupidly assumed if we signed up at the same time they’d put us in the same regiment, even the same company. And when they refused him it was too late; they’d already accepted me for the Reserves. Maybe I could have changed my mind but I didn’t want him to think me a coward. It was stupid, but the strange thing is, horrible as it was, I miss it.’

  ‘What is it that you miss?’

  ‘The men, strangely. Their camaraderie… It was all so beastly and yet they were always cheerful: whistling, ribbing each other. And their gallows humour that somehow made light of even the worst moments. They have a gift for happiness. I envied them because they didn’t seem to have the expectation that life should be good to them. They’re not brought up, as we are, to feel that they need to stand out in some way, to be different, which is just another way of saying to be alone. They’re happy to be ordinary – just to be alive is enough, and in each other’s company. They don’t feel they have to change the world. And here I am, alive, and knowing I’m lucky to be, and yet life seems so empty, so flat… There’s absolutely nothing to look forward to, because what could possibly matter after that?’

  He turns his head away, but not before I see that his eyes are brimming with tears. As mine fill in sympathy, I realise that I have lived with that feeling ever since Father died. Since then I have had no one, nothing of my own. Jagjit was the only person I trusted, the only one who seemed to care for me above everyone else, the only person with whom I felt I belonged.

  I picture the empty years stretching ahead of us and I think of the people all over the world who have lost someone, and all the pain that has been, and is, and is to come, and it feels as though my heart is cracking and then I start to shake and I can’t stop. Simon turns to look at me and I try to hold myself together but I can’t.

  ‘Lila, what is it?’

  I try to speak but my lips are quivering and strange blaring noises are issuing from my mouth. I turn away but he pulls me towards him and holds me tight against his chest, his arms hard around me. ‘It’s all right,’ he says. ‘It’s all right.’ He strokes my hair and talks to me and then there is nothing but the darkness and the shadowy god dancing and the whole world shaking and blood fountaining and I know it is the end, the Kali Yuga, and I am glad.

  When I come to, I am lying in Simon’s lap. I look up at him, confused.

  He smiles down at me. ‘Just rest. You’re all right now. It’s shock. I’ve seen it happen time and again.’

  I sit up and he hands me his handkerchief. I feel drained. We sit looking out over the fields and church spires and small villages, a quiet landscape that gives no sign of the sadness and suffering that lies behind the façade of every house.

  ‘Why is life so bloody, Simon? What’s the point of it all?’

  He shrugs. ‘You’re asking the wrong person. Jagjit was always the one with the answers. We used to talk all the time… about life and what it meant, especially when we were travelling in Europe. We’d lie awake the whole night sometimes, just talking. He seemed so wise; I really thought he knew everything.’

  ‘Why did you stop writing to each other?’

  He hesitates. ‘He turned out not to be as understanding as I thought.’

  I wait, sensing he is balanced on the edge of telling me something. His eyes shift away and back and I see he has made the decision. He says slowly, ‘You know the day we saw him off…?’

  I nod, remembering him helping to take Jagjit’s cases down to his cabin and the awkward atmosphere when they came back.

  He turns to look at me. ‘Did you ever know how jealous I was of you?’

  ‘But why? I thought I was in the way, a nuisance… because he was your friend and you wanted him to yourself.’

  His eyes hold mine. ‘It was more than that, Lila.’

  For a moment I don’t understand what he means and then I do. I stare as my mind goes back, reliving and reinterpreting all the times we spent together.

  He smiles. ‘I loved him. Does that shock you?’

  ‘No. I didn’t… it never… How stupid of me!’ I remember Jagjit complaining that Simon never left him alone, about his possessiveness, and suddenly I’m worried for Simon. ‘Did he know?’

  ‘Not till that day.’ He smiles at my concerned expression. ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t go down on my knees and declare my passion, but I might just as well have done for the reaction I got. He’d sat down at the table to write out his address in India for me. I was standing beside him and I wanted so much to touch him – more than I’ve wanted anything in my life – just to put my hand on his shoulder. It would have been a natural thing to do but I didn’t dare. I didn’t intend to say anything either, but when he stood up and handed the paper to me he said, “Now you’ll have Lila all to yourself,” and I realised that he was jealous. And I … I just blurted out, “It’s not Lila I’m in love with.” And he laughed and said, “Who, then?” and… my face must have told the story, because his changed…’ He pauses and swallows. ‘And I knew I’d made the most awful mistake. I mean, he was perfectly polite – that was what was so terrible – his sudden politeness, as though we were strangers who’d just been introduced. He put a good face on it, but that was the last I heard from him.’

  ‘Why didn’t you write? I remember now. He did ask you to write to him.’

  ‘Why do you think? I felt humiliated. I didn’t want him to think I was pursuing him.’ He’s silent for a moment. ‘It was a shock, because of all the people I’ve known he was the least inclined to condemn anyone.’

  ‘I have Indian blood, you know.’ The words are out before I have time to think.

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘That’s a sudden change of subject.’

  ‘I’ve just found out. I wasn’t sure I’d dare to tell anyone. My mother, apparently… Are you shocked?’

  He considers for a moment. ‘I don’t think so, but then I haven’t had time to get used to it. You’re still you.’

  ‘And if you’d just met me?’

  ‘And knew? Would I have a preconception about you? Probably. It’s how we are. What about you? Are you shocked?’

  ‘Um… not really. Well, maybe a little. More surprised… but again, if we’d just met…’

  We smile at each other. This is the most relaxed I’ve ever seen him, the most relaxed I’ve ever felt with him, or anyone since Father died. Even with Jagjit, I always wanted him to like me, so I was never fully myself. I look out at the great open plain below us; for the first time in a long time I feel as if I can breathe.

  ‘Simon, if you could go back to how you were befo
re the war, would you?’

  There is a long silence while I watch the clouds blowing towards us over the patchwork of fields below. It is still where we are, but up there the wind must be fierce, pulling the clouds into different shapes before shredding them. I watch an elephant change into a roaring lion and then an old bearded man, his mouth agape as though bellowing curses or prophesies. I hear that vibration again, for the first time in a long time. The syllables reverberate through my mind. I know what they are now.

  He says quietly, ‘If I could turn back the clock and save all those men, take the whole world back to before the war, of course I would. But go back myself? Do you know, I don’t think I would. I like myself better now.’

  ‘I do too… like you better now, I mean. But also me. I was so wrapped up in myself before. Poor Aunt Mina. Father wished he had given me to her to bring up. He thinks… thought… I would have had a better life.’

  He looks at me. ‘But then you wouldn’t be you. You wouldn’t be so understanding. I wouldn’t be able to tell you things I can’t tell anyone else.’

  After a while I say, ‘But we’re still both in the same boat.’

  ‘With a shameful secret, you mean?’

  ‘No. Well, yes, but with Jagjit, I meant. He doesn’t want either of us.’ And as I say it my eyes fill with tears again.

  ‘Oh, come on, Lila. You know he wants you. He always has.’

  I give a small snort. ‘He has a queer way of showing it.’

  ‘He’s afraid.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘That he’s forgotten how to love? That he doesn’t deserve love? That it will be snatched away from him?’

  I know how that feels. ‘Tell me what to do, Simon.’

  ‘Do you love him?’

  I look at him.

  ‘Then what are you really afraid of?’

  I open my mouth but no words come. I’m afraid of so many things. I have always thought I was brave, self-reliant, but I see now that I am just a coward… that all my life I have withdrawn from people, shut them out, told myself I didn’t need them. I think of Aunt Mina, of the losses and rejections that made her withdraw into her own Fort of Despair, of Mother, frozen in her fear, and realise that I am not so different. Since Father died I have made myself an island.

  He touches my arm. ‘What were you planning to do before you got his letter?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’d decided to go back to India… I’ve always felt it was my home. Your mother encouraged me to apply for a place at the King Edward Medical College in Lahore. They would have me, but I don’t know if I want it now.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Same reason as you… it’ll look as if I’m pursuing him.’

  ‘So you’re going to sacrifice everything to your pride? Or is it fear?’

  I think of Mother again, fear turning her to stone. ‘Simon, what would you do if you were me?’

  His eyes are the same shade of silver-grey as the clouds behind him, and for a moment I feel as though I am looking through the empty eyeholes of a mask and the sky is speaking to me.

  ‘The only thing there ever is to do. Choose, and accept the consequences.’

  And so I do. I choose to go home.

  Acknowledgements

  To my two generous friends, both of whom read several drafts of this book and gave me unconditional encouragement and support at either end of the project: Kevin Parry, for knowing what this book was about before I knew it myself, and for reminding me when I forgot, and Firdaus Gandavia, for insightful suggestions and encouragement when I was ready to give up.

  Also to Peter Abbs, James Burt, Jamie Crawford, Celia Hunt, Chandra Masoliver, Bill Parslow, Dorothy Max Prior, Indra Sinha and anyone else who read one or more drafts, especially Dylan D’Arch for valuable military tips, and India Stoughton for being my biggest fan.

  To Maggie Phillips of Ed Victor, without whose encouragement and reminders I would never have finished the first draft, and to Candida Lacey, Vicky Blunden, Linda McQueen, Dawn Sackett and all the other staff at Myriad, for being a joy to work with and for their total commitment to making this book as good as we could make it.

  Finally, to David, India and Jared Stoughton for their love, support and tolerance of my abstraction during the years it took to write this novel.

  Sources

  The events in this book are all based on real historical events and many of the background characters are real, although the main characters and their personal histories are invented. However, I have sometimes borrowed incidents or snippets of dialogue or description from contemporaneous accounts to add veracity.

  On p.20 the lines quoted are from the Bhagavad Gita, translated by Juan Mascaró with introduction by Simon Brodbeck, Penguin Classics 1962, 2003; translation copyright © Juan Mascaró, 1962; introduction copyright © Simon Brodbeck, 2003.

  The text on pp.42–3 is excerpted from the article ‘Encounter at Kurusetra’ by Ravindra Svarupa Dasa in Back to Godhead magazine Vol.19.1, 1984, copyright Bhaktivedanta Book Trust International, www.krishna.com. Used with permission.

  On p.82 and 164 the lines quoted are inspired by a poem by Mir Taqi Mir, loosely translated by Indra Sinha.

  On pp.110 and 311 the passages of the book Simon reads aloud are taken from Candles in the Wind by Maud Diver, Wm Blackwood & Sons, 1909, pp.45–6.

  On pp.31, 181 and 311 the story referred to or quoted from is ‘The House of Eld’, from Fables by Robert Louis Stevenson, Association for Scottish Literary Studies Scottish Literature, University of Glasgow, www.asls.org.uk.

  My research sources are too numerous to mention but the main ones are as follows.

  For the Indian Mutiny, Our Bones are Scattered: The Cawnpore Massacres and the Indian Mutiny of 1857 by Andrew Ward, John Murray, London 1996, tells the story of the entire mutiny in an admirably lucid and accessible way.

  The events at Cawnpore as described by Cecily and Arthur Langdon are based on accounts in: The Story of Cawnpore by Mowbray Thomson, Richard Bentley, London 1859; Cawnpore by G.O. Trevelyan, Macmillan, London 1865; The Tale of the Great Mutiny by W.H. Fitchett, Smith, Elder & Co, London 1901; and Annals of the Indian Rebellion 1857–1858, compiled by N.A. Chick, Sanders, Cones, Calcutta 1859.

  Cecily’s voice and some of the anecdotes she relates were inspired by Tigers, Durbars and Kings: Fanny Eden’s Indian Journals 1837–1838, John Murray, London 1988, and Traveller’s India, An Anthology, Oxford University Press, Oxford 1979.

  Information about the local women’s suffrage movement came from newspapers and articles in the Special Collections at Brighton library.

  Information about the Indian Army in the First World War came from A Matter of Honour: An Account of the Indian Army its Officers and Men, by Phillip Mason, Jonathan Cape, London 1974, which was one of the surprisingly few books I found about the First World War in which the contribution of the two million Indian soldiers is explored or even mentioned. In a surprising number of books about the war, the word ‘Indian’ does not even appear in the index.

  The description of the Indian Hospital at Brighton is based on: Dr. Brighton’s Indian Patients – December 1914 to January 1916, by Joyce Collins, Brighton Books Publishing, Brighton 1997; and Blighty Brighton: Photographs and Memories of Brighton in the First World War, QueenSpark Books, Brighton 1991.

  Books useful in researching the Mesopotamian campaign in the First World War were: Kut: Death of an Army by Ronald Millar, Secker and Warburg, London 1969; and The Siege by Russell Braddon, Jonathan Cape, London 1969.

  And finally, my thanks to the Imperial War Museum, the Army Museum, Chelsea, and Colindale Newspaper Library, whose staff were extremely helpful during my research in the days before some of these resources were available online.

  And of course Wikipedia has been useful for quickly double-checking dates and facts from more reliable sources.

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  About the Author

  Umi Sinha was born and grew up in India. She has an MA in creative writing and taught at the University of Sussex for ten years. She runs writing classes and a mentoring service for writers, and co-runs a performance storytelling club in Sussex.

  Copyright

  First published in 2015 by

  Myriad Editions

  59 Lansdowne Place

  Brighton BN3 1FL

  www.myriadeditions.com

  Copyright © Umi Sinha 2015

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available

  from the British Library

  ISBN (pbk): 978-1-908434-74-6

  ISBN (ebk): 978-1-908434-75-3

  Designed and typeset in Baskerville

  by Linda McQueen, London