by Shona Patel
A faint bell sounded far away. Biren peered over the top of the windowsill and saw a small boy with a hand bell run across the playground and disappear around the corner of a building. Seconds later a frightful din ensued. Chairs scraped, desks slammed and there were whoops and yells as hundreds of students poured out of several buildings at the same time. They were all dressed identically in gray-and-white uniforms, and Biren watched openmouthed as they pushed, shoved, loitered or hurried from one classroom to another. Three minutes later, they were all inside. Then, miraculously, abrupt silence. Again the only sound came from the same solitary sparrow chirping outside the window.
It was uncanny. How was it even possible for several hundred students to all become quiet at the same time? It sounded like the noisy transfer of glass marbles from one tin can to another: a sudden burst of noise, followed by pin-drop silence. How different it was from his village school. The schoolmaster would have to rap the edge of his desk with his ruler several times and scream, “Quiiiet! Quiiiet!” in a nasal shriek while the boys continued to chatter and misbehave. One or two of them would invariably get their ears twisted before they settled down.
Biren had yet to learn that discipline was an inner mechanism that grew out of a structured and regulated life. It could never be enforced from the outside.
* * *
The students of Saint John’s consisted mostly of Anglo-Indian orphans, or the sons of clergy. There were only a handful of other Indian students, and they were the sons of progressive Bengali families of Calcutta with Anglophile leanings.
Student accommodations were organized in eight separate boardinghouses, each under the care of a housemaster and a matron. New students were required to undergo an orientation program to familiarize them with the rules of the school. There were twelve new students in Biren’s class, aged eight to ten. None of them had ever lived away from home and they all had the same look of terrified kittens abandoned under a bridge.
Biren’s house matron was a bosomy Anglo-Indian lady with shrewd eyes and sparse curls named Mrs. Clarks. The students called her Mrs. Clucks because she had a habit of clucking her tongue and saying, “Now-now-quickly-quickly,” in a firm but kindly manner.
All students were given identical uniforms: gray pants, white shirts and an ash-and-navy-striped tie, which they had to learn to tie in a Windsor knot, like adult men. To remove some of the intimidation, Matron devised a tie-knotting game, and by the first week all the new students were tying Windsor knots in various sloppy lengths. The sloppy length was forgivable, but what was not forgivable was the untucked shirt, dirty shoes or uncombed hair. At first, the student got off with a warning but after that it was detention. Mrs. Clucks also made sure the boys made their beds correctly, with the sheet corners squared into envelope folds and tucked tightly into the mattress and the blue counterpane spread with the two hanging sides perfectly even.
Biren learned to say “thank you,” “please” and “I beg your pardon.” He was taught to use a fork and spoon and line them up on his dinner plate when he was done. The hostel food was spiritless but tolerable—mostly Anglo-Indian fare that consisted of watery porridge, rough bread with bits of rope from the flour mill baked in, gristly meat stew flavored with curry powder and gray wobbly blancmange for pudding.
Unlike the village school, where the entire focus was on studies, the education at Saint John’s pushed all-round development. Physical education, swimming, elocution and drama—irrespective of a student’s aptitude or inclination—were compulsory and a part of the curriculum, while music, metallurgy and woodworking could be picked according to interest. Every student was required to play at least one team sport. There was football, cricket, badminton and hockey to choose from. Competitions were fierce between the different houses. Sometimes the senior students challenged the seminary priests to a match. Once during a tug-of-war there was a great deal of hilarity when the rope went slack and all the priests fell backward in their white cassocks and flattened one another.
The hectic daily routine left Biren breathless. Even Sundays were busy. Attendance at church and Bible studies was optional, but that did not mean non-Christian students could idle around on Sundays. In lieu of church, they were put to work tending the vegetable garden or doing repairs around the school. What a monumental change from village life with its idle loitering and siestas!
Boarding school was also a great equalizer. Everybody dressed in the same clothes. You had the same amount of pocket money. You had to make the attempt to get along with others, work as a team and get things done. The most important lesson Biren learned in boarding school was that one kind of work was not more valuable or superior to another. Back in the village, he would never have had the opportunity to learn leatherwork, carpentry or metallurgy, as they were the occupations of the lower castes. In boarding school he was allowed to try his hand at different vocational activities, and because there was no pressure or expectations, he excelled at them all.
Every week letters came from home. Shibani’s letters always felt like a soft embrace; Nitin sent him a drawing of two ants sailing on a boat. On the days the letters arrived, Biren was deeply homesick and he cried silently at night, stifling his sobs into his pillow. Mrs. Clucks must have known this because in the morning she knotted his tie and combed his hair for him. She told Biren to wait after class for a senior boy who would come to talk to him.
The senior boy turned out to be an Anglo-Indian with a pasty complexion and light brown hair, which he wore in a duck curl to one side of his head. His name was Harold D’Souza.
“I thought we could have a little chat,” he said. “Let’s go sit by the tennis court. So how are you liking school?”
“Fine,” said Biren.
“Do you still miss home a lot?”
Biren hesitated, and then gave a slight nod.
“You know, I used to cry every night when I first came to Saint John’s,” said Harold. “But it won’t always feel so bad after a while. Do you go to church?”
Biren shook his head.
“Everything changed for me the day I accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord.” His eyes burned with feverish intensity. “Accepting the Lord as my savior is what changed my life. I have never felt lost or lonely again. I wish you could feel as comforted as I do. You can come to church with me next Sunday, if you like. Only if you want to, of course. Not everyone is called to the path. I am one of the chosen ones. Maybe you will be, too.”
* * *
In church, they sang Latin hymns in great big waves of trembling sound that floated up to the high vaulted ceilings. It gave Biren goose bumps and brought tears to his eyes. The sun streamed in filtered ribbons through the stained-glass skylights and covered the congregation in a warm and wondrous glow. After the service when Biren emerged outside, the trees looked more vivid and the sky smiled a clear and friendly blue.
However, the ethereal feeling did not last.
Many years would go by before Biren would understand the reason why. He continued to attend church for six months. He did indeed feel a sense of belonging and wholeness; the feeling of loneliness went away. Then one Sunday, for no reason, he skipped church and went back to gardening. The next Sunday, he did the same. Nobody said anything or asked him why. The real reason why Biren stopped going to church was because he had unwittingly discovered he got the same spiritual comfort when he did gardening or for that matter any focused task—woodworking, metallurgy or even making his own bed—with a certain inner mindfulness. Performing simple physical tasks gave him a sense of joy that was no different, really, from singing a powerful hymn in church. It would only be many years later, after studying the Bhagawad Gita, that Biren would learn that he had accidentally stumbled upon the spiritual principles of karma yoga.
His father had once told him Charulata did not have to go to the temple to find God, because she had discovered her own inner shrine
. The power of the universe was disguised in the patterns of daily life and somewhere, unconsciously, Biren had made that connection.
CHAPTER
20
Nitin suffered an attack of scarlet fever followed by two years of poor health. He was admitted to Saint John’s Mission only when he turned eleven. By then Biren was a senior and well molded by the English school system. At fifteen, he was the tallest in his class, slim and strong with dark steady eyes. His hair grew out in disobedient curls, and just as disobedient was his voice, because no matter how hard he tried he could never tame it into submission. When it behaved, his voice was a rich and pleasing baritone, but with no warning it switched to a falsetto and often ended in an embarrassing squawk. Greatly alarmed by its unpredictability, he chose to speak little and cultivated instead a scholarly air in keeping with the image he wanted to present to the world.
Meanwhile eleven-year-old Nitin arrived at Saint John’s thin and spindly legged, looking like a village cowherd. By then his classmates were already polished with their boarding school manners and established in their friendships. Biren worried Nitin’s adjustment would be hard, and he kept a protective eye out for his young brother.
On Nitin’s second day in school, Biren saw him at morning assembly with his hair neatly combed in a side parting and sporting a perfectly knotted tie. Assuming Mrs. Clucks had given him a hand, he was surprised to learn Nitin had groomed himself. Mrs. Clucks was so pleased, Nitin said, she gave him a piece of chocolate fudge. By the end of the second week he had made it into the junior football team. Nitin’s sweet nature endeared him to all. He made the boys laugh by drawing funny cartoons of the teachers as ants with witty blurbs above their heads. Unlike Biren, who tended to be pensive and solitary, Nitin made friends easily. To Biren’s intense relief, Nitin took to boarding school like a duckling to water. He never once looked back.
* * *
During the summer months the boys came home for seven weeks. Each year the gap between village and city life became more evident. Not a single twig changed in the village. The rusted tea shop on Momati Ghat still leaned on one side; the fishing boats sailed up and down with their ragged sails; the paddle steamer gushed past in the sleepy afternoon and the flame tree blazed a deep and torrid red.
At the basha, things had deteriorated. Grandpa developed cataracts in both eyes, Uncle got pyorrhea and lost all his teeth. Uncle lost his wife, as well. Following a big fight, the gloomy aunt had packed her trunks and went off to her father’s house. This was two years ago, and it was unlikely she was ever coming back.
The most marked change was in Shibani. The part-time maid had been let go, and all the backbreaking household chores were thrust upon her. Shibani woke at dawn to light the fires and draw water from the well. All day long she cooked and cleaned, scrubbing heavy cast-iron pots with coconut husk and ash until her fingers bled. Her skin had turned a patchy gray; her nails were cracked. She looked like a beggar woman. When she embraced the boys, she reeked of lime and cow dung smoke, the unmistakable smell of the poor. For the boys, she was still their mother and they burned with a fierce love for her. They spent most of their time in the woodshed, which had been turned into her Spartan living quarters. They ate her bland vegetarian food, refusing the nice treats their Granny prepared for them. Careful all the while not to disrespect their grandmother, they slyly maneuvered their way out of her affections, proving that they had grown beyond her sphere of influence.
Biren and Nitin were no longer village boys. They walked and talked like belaytis and spoke to each other in boarding school slang that nobody in the basha could understand. Only Shibani looked on dotingly at her sons, her eyes soft with love. Her hand occasionally reached out to caress one’s cheek or smooth back the other’s hair. They stole chili tamarind, pickles and sour plums for her and acted as secret messengers between her and Apu. They were both big boys, bony and angular, but they still wanted to snuggle like little children under her patched quilts and listen to stories about their father and the things they used to do when they were young. To entertain her they told her stories about Mrs. Clucks and the senile priests in their boarding school.
“Father Lewis is so old he falls asleep during assembly,” said Biren.
“And one time he fell—like this,” said Nitin, and toppled facedown on the bed. “The next day he had a big potato on his head.”
All too quickly, vacation would come to an end. Shibani became matter-of-fact, almost brusque, as the time to leave drew near. She brushed them off like crumbs from her sari, acting as though she didn’t care. There were no tears, sentimental words or lingering embraces. Yet when she kissed them on the forehead one last time they could tell by her trembling lips her heart was breaking like their own, but they also knew her greater joy came from setting them free.
CHAPTER
21
Father Anthony, the principal of Saint John’s Mission, proudly displayed two beautiful handcrafted items on his big mahogany desk. One was a rosewood box, with the design of a Celtic trinity knot carved on the lid, which if you looked closely were actually the forms of cleverly braided fish. The second was a cast-iron bell with a clear sound and rich overtone. A gifted student named Biren Roy had made both items.
Father Anthony had picked them up at the annual charity auction to raise money for student scholarships. He had admired the box and the bell so much he’d ended up bidding well beyond his means for them. They were impeccably crafted, and every day he derived great pleasure just to look at them sitting on his desk.
Biren Roy was an exceptional student. He was meticulous, a perfectionist. His single-minded concentration and monk-like devotion to any given task was rather unusual for one so young. That child would make an excellent priest, thought Father Anthony. What a pity he had chosen not to embrace Christianity.
At first, Father Anthony was delighted to see him at church, but for some unknown reason the boy stopped coming. The child did not appear troubled in any way. He cheerfully did any chore he was given on Sundays; he just chose not go to church, for reasons of his own. Normally Father Anthony would have had a private conversation with a student to find out the reason for his change of heart, but he did not feel the need to do so this time because Biren was an exemplary student in every way. In fact, he was the very poster child of the same Christian values the school tried to instill in their students.
Father Anthony had already made up his mind, when the time came, to recommend Biren Roy for the Cambridge scholarship. The boy came from a poor village in Sylhet, he had lost his father at a tender age and nobody was more deserving than him. This fine young man would do Saint John’s Mission proud, of that Father Anthony had no doubt.
London
2nd March 1889
Dear Biren,
It is a miracle to connect with you after all these years! I am very excited that you will be in England soon, and congratulations, dear friend, on your scholarship to Cambridge. Why am I not surprised?
I tried several times over the years to get in touch with you. My relatives in the village told me both you and your brother were studying in an English boarding school in Calcutta but they had no further details. I was very sorry to hear about your father’s tragic death. The relative I wrote to ask about your whereabouts was reluctant to meet with your mother. Therefore, you can imagine my joy when you went to our village home and got my address and wrote to me. Now you are coming to England!
After completing my schooling in Harrow, I studied in Cambridge for a while. Now I am studying for my law degree in London. My older brother, Diju, and his English wife, Veronica, live in London and I stay with them. My mother and my immediate family are in Calcutta. A few of my relatives, including my grandmother, still live in our village home, the house with the big sour plum tree, do you remember?
Please let me know the details of your travel so I can meet your ship
in London. You must spend a few days with me so I can show you around the city.
I will write more about myself in the next letter.
With best wishes,
Sammy (Samir Deb)
On August 15, 1889, Biren Roy, aged seventeen, boarded the P&O liner the Britannica and set sail for London. He carried sixteen shillings in his pocket, and inside his steel trunk packed lovingly by his mother were two hand-knitted mufflers and a three-year supply of dried ginger root to ward off the dreaded cough of England.
A feeling of desolation came over him as the ship pulled away from the Calcutta shoreline. Biren had lived away from home for most of his growing years, but he had never experienced the terrifying sense of disconnect he felt now. To be cut off from his birthplace by the endless sea seemed cruel and final—like a feather plucked from a wing. This separation would leave Biren forever stranded between two worlds with a finger stretched toward his homeland, almost touching, but never quite making the connection.
London
23rd September 1889
London is bewildering!
People rush in and out of buildings, step in and out of carriages, fold and unfold umbrellas—everything is in constant motion. What a contrast to village life in India, where boats, bullock carts and people flow, sway and amble along like they have all the time in the world.
The jittery haste of London has much to do with the inclement weather, I have concluded. One never knows what to expect. In a single day I watched a sparkling morning collapse with a thundery squall into a wet squelchy afternoon. The evening, surprisingly, was marvelously clear and enjoyable.
