In fact, it was several months after the girls had christened their governess FBB that Mattoo and Valerie became truly intimate. One evening, after a particularly busy day, Mattoo requested Valerie to make him larger drinks than usual. By his third drink he had become maudlin and was telling her how lonely he was because he had married the wrong woman. Valerie protested that he was being unfair to Madam. She also urged him to lower his voice; his family and servants should not hear him say such things. Mattoo responded by walking to the door and bolting it shut. He walked back to the sofa and dropped heavily to his knees before her. ‘I am a lonely man,’ he wept, ‘help me.’ Because Valerie’s heart went out to him, she unbuttoned her blouse. Her breasts spilled out and a grateful Mattoo buried his face in them with a sigh. ‘The family will begin to wonder; we don’t have much time,’ Valerie whispered. Pleased with her eagerness, Mattoo sat back and commanded her to strip and bend over before him. She did, offering him her generous buttocks. Mattoo grunted softly to express his delight. He went up on his knees again and entered her from behind. ‘It will be faster this way,’ he said. ‘You are a savage, sir,’ the missionary’s daughter giggled, and Mattoo heaved into her with schoolboy impatience. At forty he had finally realized a childhood fantasy—to fuck a white woman, a gori mem.
~
Five more years went by. Jai Bhagwan, Victor to everyone including himself, looked every bit the son of an English county gentleman: cravat, waistcoat, striped trousers. And impeccable manners. ‘I want him to go to the best public school in England, then Oxford or Cambridge and the Inns of Court,’ said Mattoo to Valerie one evening. ‘How does one go about it?’
Valerie thought over the matter before she replied: ‘There are lots of excellent public schools in England. There are Eton and Harrow, of course. Equally good are Rugby, Winchester, St Pauls, Hailbury and some others. I could write to them on your behalf and get application forms. A reference from an alumni in a good position would be a great help. I am sure the Viceroy and Governors of some provinces are products of one or the other of these schools. You must know some of them.’
‘No problem,’ replied Mattoo. ‘You get the application forms, I’ll do the rest.’
It was easier than Mattoo had apprehended. On legal business in Allahabad he called on the Governor and told him of his plans for his son. ‘Jolly good idea,’ replied the Governor who turned out to be an Etonian. ‘The best place in the world to knock fancy notions out of a lad and turn him into a worthy gentleman. I’ll write to the headmaster about him. What did you say his name is?’
‘Jai Bhagwan Mattoo. He’s been schooled at home by an English governess of the name of Miss Valerie Bottomley. A most worthy lady, if I may say so. An English public school isheridea. She’s given my son an English name, Victor, after Jai Bhagwan.’
The Governor made a note on a slip of paper. ‘I shall send across a letter, attach it to the boy’s form for admission.’ After a pause he added, ‘If I were you I would drop the Mattoo part of his name while he is in England. Victor J.B. would be easier for him. Next time you are in Allahabad bring the boy with you. I’d like to give him a dekho.’
Mattoo returned to Allahabad a week later, taking his son and Valerie Bottomley in tow. All three were invited to tea by the Governor’s wife. Victor had been coached how to address his host and hostess. His manners, as always, were impeccable. ‘How kind of you to invite me, Your Excellency,’ he said to the Governor’s wife as he put out his hand to shake hers. Valerie curtsied to both of them and did not open her mouth till she was questioned. The Governor asked Victor a couple of questions. ‘How old are you, young man?’
‘I will be thirteen next birthday, Your excellency.’
‘Good, good. And what do you plan to become? India’s leading lawyer or judge of a High Court?’
‘I haven’t yet made up my mind, Your Excellency. My father would like me to take over his practice but I want to make things like railway engines, cars and trucks. I think India needs those things more than lawyers.’
Everyone laughed. ‘You are absolutely right,’ said the Governor. ‘Don’t mind my saying so in front of your father, but lawyers are an absolute nuisance.’ There was another round of laughter. The Governor turned to Valerie Bottomley. ‘I don’t think he need go to a prep school, do you Miss Bottomley?’
‘No, Your Excellency. I’ve taken him over all the subjects they teach in prep schools. He’s old enough to join any public school. And bright as they come.’
‘I’m sure. The little I’ve seen of him, you’ve done a good job.’
‘Thank you, Your Excellency.’
A second letter to the Head Master of Eton followed: the boy had been interviewed by a distinguished Etonian. That settled the matter—Master Victor J.B. could join school beginning of the Michaelmas term.
Mattoo wrote to Gandhi telling him of his son’s admission to Eton and asking him for his blessings. Gandhi replied on a postcard approving of his decision. ‘We must get the best we can out of the English to enable us to fight them on equal terms. But as I have said before, our roots must remain embedded in our Indian soil,’ he wrote. ‘If I happen to be in Bombay, which I often am, tell Jai to see me and receive my blessings for whatever they are worth. I may be a Mahatma in the eyes of others, I am Bapu Gandhi to him.’
Mattoo showed the letter to his daughters and read it out to his wife. They felt terribly proud of Victor; he was the favoured child of Bapu Gandhi! They were all in awe of the Mahatma: Mrs Mattoo had taken to spinning the charkha for an hour every afternoon; the girls had taken to wearing handspun khadi. Mattoo made no such compromises with his style and comfort but continued to be Gandhi’s greatest admirer. Valerie Bottomley too became conscious of being the mentor-guide of a boy who would be equally British and Indian of the highest order. Some weeks before his departure she asked Victor to write an essay on ‘The India of My Dreams’ that she could send to Gandhi before they met in Bombay.
Victor was a serious-minded young lad, but he had not yet thought much about what he would like the India of the future to be. His mind was usually too full of the deeds of Alexander and Napoleon and images of cars and machines that he never saw in his country. He had vague notions of what Gandhi had in mind; he asked his father to explain it in detail. His father gave him a few reference books to read. ‘Don’t be influenced by what Gandhi or anyone else has to say. Try and make up your own mind,’ Mattoo advised him.
Victor went about the task with a zeal no one expected from a boy of thirteen. He made notes, made drafts, tore them up and started all over again. He questioned his father, sisters, mother and his governess. ‘Cocky little prig; he thinks he is about to draft the Constitution of modern India,’ remarked his eldest sister one morning. Victor ignored her sarcasm.
After a fortnight Victor had his final draft ready. His essay began with a quote: ‘I see a great nation poised as in a dream—waiting for the word by which it may live again.’
‘Where did you get that from?’ asked Valerie Bottomley.
‘From someone called Edward Carpenter. I liked it.’
‘Then you must say who said it. You must not take credit for something said by another person.’
Victor felt snubbed. ‘Very well. I’ll acknowledge his words,’ he said.
Valerie went on to read what he had to say. He contradicted everything Gandhi stood for: handspun cloth, self-sufficient villages, very basic education. Victor wanted to see an India which had modern textile mills, steel plants, automobile factories, huge dams and thousands of miles of canals, every village connected by road, more schools, colleges and hospitals. In short, the most prosperous country in the world, free of religious and caste prejudices, etc., etc. He ended his essay with the Latin phrase ‘Novus Ordo Seclorum’—‘new order for the ages’.
Valerie smiled to herself. The boy was a bit of a show off. She had taught him some Latin but was not familiar with this motto. ‘And where did you get this from?’ she asked.
‘American Constitution,’ he replied smugly.
‘I don’t think the old man will like your views,’ said Valerie. ‘You better let your father take a look at it.’
Mattoo read his son’s essay many times. He had several copies made of it, posted one to Gandhi, one to the Governor of the United Provinces, and others he gave to friends. Everyone sent back notes of appreciation. ‘If he can write this kind of essay at thirteen,’ wrote the Governor, ‘he will go a long way.’ Mattoo had no doubt his son would go places but was still a little apprehensive about how Gandhi would react to his ideas.
Some weeks later Victor and Valerie Bottomley took the Frontier Mail for Bombay. They were given a grand farewell at the Delhi railway station. All Mattoo’s relations and friends were there with garlands. Even the family priest who had some reservations about Brahmins going overseas said prayers to absolve the boy of the sin of crossing the dark waters. Victor’s mother and sisters could not hold back their tears. His father kept a straight face and simply said: ‘Send me a cable when you get to England. And don’t forget to ring up every Sunday to give us your news.’
Valerie Bottomley was accompanying Victor to see him settle in Eton and take the leave due to her. She quietly bade farewell to members of the Mattoo family and got into the first-class coupe reserved for them. As the train pulled out of the station she noticed Victor had tears in his eyes. He was not an emotional boy, but taking leave of his family he would not see for some years was a bit too much for him. He took off the garlands round his neck and put them on the table, then sat quietly at the window watching the countryside. It was an express train; it did not stop at Mathura, halted a brief five minutes at Agra and sped on its way to Bombay. Valerie did not disturb him. They sat in silence till it was time for lunch. She opened the hamper Mrs Mattoo had packed for them and laid out small plates, forks and knives.
‘Cheer up lad!’ she said jovially. ‘You are going to have a wonderful time in Old Blighty. Sons of the best of English society at school to play with; pretty English girls to flirt with while you are on vacation in London. I will find you a nice flat in some mews near Hyde Park where you can entertain your friends. Enjoy yourself. Travel round the country and Europe. I know you will love it.’
Victor knew he would. He had dreamt about it for months now. He had collected pictures of Eton, Windsor Castle, London, Oxford, Cambridge, the New Forest, the Cotswolds, the Midlands—all very picturesque. Also of ballet dancers and pretty English girls on horseback and bicycles. They had stirred in him a desire to get to know them. But there was still a heaviness in his heart and he ate in silence, waiting for the sadness to go away. He was not familiar with this feeling. He did not know how to deal with it.
They dozed after lunch, saw more of the countryside through which they were passing and by late afternoon Victor was feeling lighter. They had cheerful conversation at dinner before they rested for the night. Next morning the train pulled up at Bombay’s Victoria Terminus. One of Mattoo’s industrialist friends had sent his secretary to meet them and bring them to his home on Malabar Hill. They were to spend two days in Bombay before boarding a PO steamer, theStrathclyde, bound for Southampton.
Victor had never seen the sea before. He gaped with wide-eyed wonder at the vast expanse of water on the drive along Marine Drive. His room on the Malabar Hill mansion gave a splendid view of the Arabian Sea. That this vast expanse of water was also part of India made him suddenly and unaccountably proud of his country. Everything seemed possible here. That morning he made a deep connection with the sea that was to grow stronger as the years passed.
Valerie and he joined their host, hostess and their family of several sons and daughters at lunch. It was Gujarati vegetarian fare served in silver thaalis and katoris. They had to use their fingers and it was clumsy business but their hosts did not appear to notice. The family were overawed by the handsome Kashmiri boy’s stature and the fact that he was going to the very best public school in England. They were even more impressed when their father announced that Gandhi had come all the way from his ashram in Gujarat to meet the boy. He was to call on the Mahatma next morning at 11 a.m. sharp (Gandhi was very fussy about punctuality, they all knew) at the house of another industrialist where he was staying. It was only a few minutes’ drive but he must be sure to be there on the dot of time.
Victor went to see Gandhi by himself. He was shown to the large room occupied by the great man. He was sitting on the floor writing replies to letters on postcards stacked by his side. As Victor entered, he told his secretary they were not to be disturbed for the next half hour. ‘Come beta, sit in front of me; it is not very comfortable on the floor but that is what most of our countrymen and women sit and sleep on.’ Victor felt an instant calm in Gandhi’s presence; he had the warm, soft scent of his mother. Gandhi had Victor’s article by his side. ‘I’ve read all you have written here very carefully. You don’t seem to approve of my idea of what we should make of India. You want to see India become westernized and full of material goods. You may have a point there as most Indians might want to become rich, live in big houses, have motor cars, wear fancy clothes. I am sure they will achieve these material ambitions but in the process lose their souls and their Indianness.’
‘Bapu, I don’t understand souls,’ interrupted Victor.
Gandhi smiled and asked, ‘Do you believe in God?’
‘I am not sure,’ replied Victor. ‘I have never seen him.’
‘You believe in truth?’
‘I do. That is why I wanted you to read my essay. I feared you would not like what I have written, but it comes from my heart; it is the truth as I see it.’
‘If you believe in truth you believe in God. There is nothing more to be said on the subject,’ Gandhi said and put a hand on Victor’s head to bless him. ‘So you are going to Eton and then Oxford. You could not do better. Also join the Inns of Court and become a barrister. I was at the Inner Temple. I became a barrister but I gave up legal practice after a few years. I felt there were more important things to do than earn a living off other people’s quarrels. Don’t you agree?’
‘I do. But I want to stand on my own feet before I put my ideas into practice.’
‘You have my blessings. Write to me whenever you feel like it. My answers may be brief but I answer every letter I can. May God be with you.’
It was a brief ten-minute interview. Victor touched Gandhi’s feet and left—elated as anyone would be after receiving a saint’s benediction.
Valerie and Victor spent the next day driving around Bombay. They went to see the Elephanta Caves and ate their meals at the Taj: neither could stomach the Gujarati vegetarian food their hosts served. ‘There is nothing Indian about the city except the people,’ remarked Victor as they emerged from the Taj after dinner. ‘All the big buildings are of British design. The only genuinely Indian structure is Elephanta and that is a couple of miles offshore.’ Valerie wasn’t sure if this was a complaint or merely an observation and decided not to respond.
The day following, their host accompanied them to the docks where theStrathclyde was anchored. There were two gangways, one for first-class passengers, the other for economy class and porters. There were barely two dozen whites on the first-class gangway; Victor was the only Indian. The other gangway was crammed with Indians and porters carrying their baggage. Valerie and Victor took leave of their host and went up to the deck where they were met by the bursar who escorted them to their cabins alongside each other. An hour later theStrathclyde’s sirens boomed across the city; it was unfastened from its moorings and gently glided out into the open sea. Victor watched the Bombay skyline recede into the distance. It would be some years before he saw India again. His voyage of the discovery of the new world had begun.
3
* * *
It was mid-September but the aftermath of the monsoons still made the sea turbulent. Valerie and Victor were given a table for two but before they could get to the second course
of their lunch, Victor asked to be excused and went back to his cabin to lie down on his bunker. About an hour later Valerie brought him some fruit and bread rolls. ‘Are you all right, Victor? You better have something to eat,’ she said putting the plate on his side table. ‘Just a little queasy in the stomach,’ replied Victor. ‘Not used to the rocking and rolling. Don’t worry, I’ll get the better of it soon.’
Victor didn’t touch the bread or the fruit, nor joined Valerie for tea. He just lay flat on his back and was angry with himself. ‘If Valerie and the other whites can take the pitching and rocking in their stride, why can’t I?’ The years of sheltered, privileged upbringing had bred in him an easy pride; he hated to be seen as awkward and out of his element.
In the evening he willed himself to get up, changed into a dinner jacket his father had got tailored for him and went out on the deck to take a stroll. There were very few people about. He strode up and down the deck, watching the sun go down under the soupy-grey waters. As the dinner gong was sounded he was at his seat in the dining room. Valerie joined him shortly afterwards. She had put on a long black dress and looked more lovely than she ever had in all the years Victor had known her. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere, you were not in your cabin nor in the bar. What were you up to?’
Burial at Sea Page 2
