Burial at Sea

by Khushwant Singh

  ‘Sure you won’t change your mind and come with me to Harrow? Sure you want to be by yourself on your first Christmas in England?’ asked Valerie as she cleared the lunch things, washed the plates and put them in their place.

  ‘Quite sure,’ replied Victor. ‘I’ll stroll round London and see how others enjoy themselves.’

  ‘You won’t find many people on the streets. Good people will be with their families. There’ll be lots of drunks in the pubs. Be careful crossing roads.’

  ‘I’ll look after myself, don’t worry,’ replied Victor. ‘I have to be back in school after Boxing Day.’

  ‘And I’ll be back here the same evening. Merry Christmas and do look after yourself,’ she said as she kissed him on both cheeks. She picked up her small valise and parcels of gifts for her family and left.

  Victor stretched himself in the armchair. It was wonderful to be alone and away from the noise of traffic and small talk. He had nothing against people, he liked them well enough. But sometimes they tired him, because for as long as he could remember, he had felt superior to others. He was special, he knew it in his bones; he had known it ever since he was five and Bapu Gandhi had sat him on his knee and predicted that he was destined for greatness. It was when he was alone that he felt this most strongly. That Christmas at Albion Mews was the beginning of a pattern of regular periods of solitude that would mark the rest of his life.

  He decided to take a short snooze before he stepped out. Beneath his pillow he found a small packet tied in a red ribbon with a card depicting a red robin and holly leaves. It read: ‘Merry Christmas and love from Val.’ He opened it. It contained a silk tie with blue and white stripes and a silk handkerchief to go with it. It struck him that he should have also given her a Christmas present. He decided to get one for her for the New Year.

  Later in the evening he went out to see what was going on at the Speaker’s Corner. It was deserted. He walked along Oxford Street. All the stores were brightly lit up with Father Christmases and their reindeer sleighs. They were crammed with people doing their last-minute Christmas shopping. He turned into Regent Street. It was the same but with fewer people. Piccadilly Circus was again crowded with young men and women sitting round Eros Statue. He turned towards Leicester Square and found Gerard Street. He had been told it had the only two Indian restaurants in London. He went past several painted women Valerie had warned him about. A few propositioned him: ‘Like a good time, dearie?’; ‘Give you Christmas concession. Only five pounds.’ He ignored them. He found the big Indian restaurant Koh-i-Noor and entered it. The smell of stale curry and spices assaulted his nostrils. He had not smelt Indian food for some months.

  He took his seat and examined the menu. Every item was highly priced. He chose chapattis, daal and lamb curry. The Indian waiters took his order without a smile. He wasn’t much of a customer. This angered him and he wished he had fistfuls of money to throw in their faces. There were very few diners: two Indian families gobbling food with their fingers, and a couple of Englishmen still drinking their Scotch and soda and nibbling ‘pappadams’. The atmosphere was dingy. Victor relished the food only because it was Indian. There were a variety of chutneys and pickles on the table. He spiced his daal with them and decided it was worth the money.

  He walked back the way he had come. The shops had put up their shutters. It had turned cold; there were fewer people on the streets. Only prostitutes lolled about their beats hoping for customers so they too could get a hot meal somewhere.

  On Christmas Day London was strangely quiet. Hardly any sound of traffic. Church bells tolled. It was a bright sunny morning. Victor took a walk in Hyde Park. There were few people about. Silence pervaded over Speaker’s Corner. The only sign of activity he noticed was men and women on horseback trotting along Rotten Row. It was a long two-hour walk in the crisp, cool air in what was aptly called the lungs of London. By the time he crossed over Bayswater to Albion Street he was tired and hungry. As soon as he was in his flat he switched on the gas stove and put a plateful of turkey in the oven. While it was being heated he uncorked the bottle of port wine and filled a wine glass. It tasted good and warmed his insides. He took another wine glass full and felt a little tipsy. He relished the warmed-up turkey and the stuffing. He washed his plate, fork and knife, lay down on his bed and switched on the table lamp to read the afternoon paper he had bought from a kiosk round the corner. Sleep overtook him. He dozed off without switching off his table lamp.

  It was a deep, dreamless slumber. He was woken by the sound of pealing church bells and realized it was time for evensong. He must have slept for over three hours. The port wine and so many hours of being by himself had given him a peculiar high and he found himself thinking of the Australian woman on theStrathclyde and the warmth of her hand on his thigh. He kept lying on his bed and fantasizing about Mrs Australian’s bright red lips and pale breasts. But the images kept fading. His mind turned to the whore on Gerard Street who had propositioned him with the promise of giving him a good time for five pounds. What would she have done? Taken off her clothes, and his, then what? He wasn’t quite sure but the possibilities gave him a painful erection. He played with himself for a while before willing himself to go no further. He used the Etonian antidote for the desire to masturbate. He went to the bathroom and poured a few jugfuls of icy cold water on the errant organ and tamed it to limpness. He decided another brisk walk in the park would clear his mind of libidinous desires.

  He washed himself, made himself a cup of tea, left the radiator on to keep the flat warm and stepped out once again. The city looked even more deserted than in the morning. He did not come across a single soul from Speaker’s Corner to the Serpentine. All the row boats were chained to their moorings; there were no boatmen around. A couple of old ladies were throwing crumbs of bread to ducks, geese and swans quacking and hissing around them. Otherwise the place was desolate.

  Victor turned his steps homewards to his mews. At Notting Hill Gate he took Bayswater Road towards Marble Arch. There was hardly any traffic and no one on the footpaths. Near Marble Arch he came across a solitary figure clad in a flimsy raincoat, a dirty muffler wrapped round her neck. As Victor came close to her she turned round and said, ‘Hello.’ She was shivering in the cold.

  ‘Hello,’ replied Victor, ‘what are you doing out in this cold winter evening?’ She looked to be in her early twenties. Her face was bloodless white with cold.

  ‘Waiting to earn my Christmas dinner, that’s what I’m doin’. You want to give it to me? It will cost you only five pounds.’

  Victor paused for a while before replying. He felt sorry for the girl, all alone in the freezing cold. ‘Come. I’ll give you a nice turkey dinner and Christmas pudding in my flat. It won’t cost you a penny.’

  The girl took a good look at Victor. He looked too young to do business with her. And though coloured, he behaved like a well-bred gentleman. She took his arm and said, ‘Come along then. The name is Jenny.’

  Her hands were icy cold and she continued shivering as they went along. Victor let her into his flat. ‘Oo, this is nice and comfy and warm as toast.’ She took off her scarf and raincoat, dumped them on the armchair and warmed herself close to the gas fire. ‘Live alone ’ere?’ she asked.

  ‘Yup. When I am not at school, I have this hideout.’

  ‘Warm and snug as a bug in a rug, ain’t it? Just the place for making love.’

  Victor ignored her second remark, though even as she spoke his erection had returned. ‘Like a glass of mulled port wine? It will warm you.’

  ‘That’ll be nice,’ she replied. ‘You are a nice boy. You shouldn’t be wasting your time and money on whores.’

  Victor did not reply. He put the leftover turkey and Christmas pudding in the oven and turned on the radio. It was still Christmas carols. ‘I love them,’ said Jenny. When it came to ‘Silent night, holy night’, she joined in the singing.

  Jenny laid the table for two, served up the turkey and the Cristmas pudd
ing. They had more port with their dinner. Jenny washed up the dishes, forks and knives. Victor wondered whether she would leave on her own or if he would have to ask her to do so. She sensed his mood.

  ‘You’d like to make love to me? I won’t ask you for any money; you’ve been good to me. I’d have died of the cold.’

  Victor did not answer her first question but replied, ‘Don’t you think you should be going home? It is very late.’

  ‘I have nowhere to go to. Please let me stay here for the night. If you want to make love to me, I’ll give you a good time. If you don’t, that’s fine too. But for God’s sake don’t throw me out. I’ll die of cold lying on some footpath. Please!’ She put her arms round Victor’s neck and pleaded, ‘Please, only for this night. I won’t bother ye again, I promise,’

  Victor yielded. ‘Okay. You sleep on the bed; I’ll sleep on the sofa.’

  ‘O thank you!’ she gushed and kissed him on his lips. ‘I promise I won’t bother you. I’ll be gone in the morning.’

  Victor got into his pajamas. He had no covering, so he decided to keep the gas fire going. Jenny stripped herself naked, tossed her clothes on top of the bed and said, ‘If you feel cold, join me in the bed.’

  Victor glanced at her. He would have liked to gape and stare to see what a woman’s body looked like but was too polite to do so. Jenny got into the bed; Victor stretched himself on the sofa and switched off the lights. A few minutes later he could hear her snore. Sleep would not come to him. So often he had fantasized about making love to a woman, thrashing around naked in bed with her, her breasts swinging and bobbing in his face. Here he was now with a woman lying naked in his bed, more than willing to be made love to, and he was a few feet away from her, spread out on a sofa. Was he a coward? Was he an ass? Lust got the better of his doubts and fears. He got up abruptly and lay himself by the naked prostitute. ‘It is cold on the sofa,’ he said by way of excuse. His erect penis told another story. ‘You’ll be warmer in the bed, come and lie over me,’ Jenny said. Victor did as she told him. She opened her legs for him. Anxious to seem in control, Victor froze above her, though his lungs threatened to explode. She did him the good turn of wrapping her legs around his waist and pulling him into her slick cunt. Victor’s breath escaped him like a gale. He could not believe sex could be so thrilling—his taut body achingly alive from his head to his toes. He wished he had more arms to entwine round the girl’s body and another mouth to suck both her breasts at the same time. It was his first time and lasted barely a minute. His body stiffened before he came like lava bursting out of a volcano and he yelped helplessly for longer than it had taken to spend himself. ‘You finished so soon?’ asked Jenny. ‘Never mind; it is always like that the first time.’ Half an hour later Victor was ready for more. This time Jenny put her legs on his shoulder, he plunged deeper into her with each thrust and it went on for much longer. Two hours later they were at it again. Now it was Jenny who went into a frenzy of biting, clawing and heaving, begging him to ‘knock the ’ell out o’ me.’ So he did.

  That was how Victor Jai Bhagwan lost his virginity when he was barely fourteen years old to Jenny, a flat-footed floozie of Bayswater Road. The rite of passage over, he went into the deepest slumber he had ever known.

  He woke to the sound of Jenny pottering round the kitchenette making herself a cup of tea. He decided to pretend to be asleep and save himself the awkwardness of saying goodbye to her. He heard her slip on her raincoat, go down the steps, open the front door and bang it shut again. He heaved a sigh of relief and was fast asleep within seconds. He was roused by the ring of the telephone. ‘Merry Christmas!’ Valerie’s cheerful voice came on the line. ‘And how did you spend last evening?’

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ replied Victor. ‘Very nice. I enjoyed the turkey and the pudding and the wine. I listened to Christmas carols. Couldn’t have been nicer. Say merry Christmas on my behalf to your parents and sisters.’

  Just as he returned to the sofa, the phone rang again. ‘Long distance for Mr Victor,’ said the operator. ‘I am Victor, please put them on.’ It was his father from Delhi. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

  ‘Enjoying myself being alone in London. How is Ma? And the girls?’

  ‘Here, talk to them.’

  He spoke to them in turns. The allotted three minutes were soon over. He went to the bathroom, had a shower and got into his clothes. He felt the hip pocket of his trousers where he kept his wallet. It was empty. He had fifteen pounds in it. He looked around the room. His Eton woollen scarf was gone. He sat down on the sofa with his head in his hands. ‘The bloody bitch! She charged me her usual rate; five pounds each fuck,’ he muttered. She hadn’t even left him money to get back to Eton. Where would he find the bus fare?’

  He spent Christmas Day in his flat reading desultorily and listening to the radio. He did not want to ruin Valerie’s Christmas by telling her what had rendered him penniless. It was only the next morning on Boxing Day that he rang her up and lied. ‘Valerie, my pocket was picked by someone in the crowded street. Can you lend me some money for the bus fare to school?’

  She was most alarmed. ‘You poor dear! You must be more careful going into crowded places. The place is full of thieves and pickpockets. Can you manage till tomorrow? I’ll be in good time to see you off in the bus for Windsor.’

  ‘I don’t need any money right now. There’s everything here. Tomorrow will be fine,’ he replied. He put the phone down and made a mental note not to mention anything about Jenny to the boys at Eton. If they found out he had been robbed by a whore, he would never live it down.

  Valerie arrived early in the morning carrying her valise. Victor had packed his clothes and books in his haversack to return to Eton. She gave him quite a scolding before she handed him fifteen pounds. ‘Never put your wallet in your hip pocket. Your father’s hard-earned money gone to some street rascal. However, you’ve learnt a lesson. Be more careful in the future.’

  She dumped her bag on the floor and went with him to see him off at the bus stand. Victor didn’t have to tell her about his school scarf. She didn’t ask him about it. The first thing he would do at Eton was to buy another at the school shop and no one would ask any more questions.

  5

  * * *

  Victor’s next six years were spent in Eton with vacations in Albion Mews, and short trips to Scotland, Wales, the Lake District, Stratford-on-Avon and whatever else took his fancy. He also attended debates in the House of Commons if it was discussing India and spent Sunday evenings listening to speeches at Speakers’ Corner. He kept in touch with his family through weekly letters and telephone calls. In the six years he grew from the 5’ 2” he was on arrival to an inch under six feet. From a pudgy little boy he became a handsome gentleman, though his voice remained a little thin, even squeaky. Years later, on the rare occasions when he was heard on All India Radio, people would remark on how much he sounded like Gandhi’s other favourite Indian whose stature equalled his own.

  Valerie returned to India after a six-month vacation in England. No one was quite sure why she did so as the Mattoo girls were already in college and did not need any help to get through their homework. The house ran more or less on its own with Mattoo giving orders for European meals, his wife eating her daal-roti in her room. Mattoo had provided Valerie with a single-bedroom cottage in the garden. It made life easier for them and sex more enjoyable since they could afford to be loud and furious. He saw more of her in the evenings than he did of his immediate family. Behind his back his friends described Valerie as Mattoo’s Mem—white woman. Others less friendly described her as Mattoo’s rakhail—mistress. Besides providing her with a home of her own in India, Mattoo assured her that the flat in Albion Mews would be hers for the rest of her life. Victor could use it whenever he was in London.

  Victor finished with Eton and got admission to Balliol College, Oxford. He could have gone to any college of his choosing in Oxford or Cambridge but he chose Balliol simply because it had m
ore Indians than any others. In the years that he had been away, his country and its people had become very precious to Victor. He wanted for them all the good things he saw in England. And he wanted to be the man who would give these to them. He happily agreed to spend the summer months before colleges opened with his family in Delhi. For his journey back home he took the Italian Lloyd Trestino boatMV Victoriafrom Genoa to Bombay. Besides an Indian prince and his family, he was the only other Indian travelling first class. He did not bother to talk to any of them nor they to him.

  On the train this time from Bombay to Delhi, Victor was more alive to India than he had ever been before. The vast countryside and the seething towns seemed full of tired, dispirited people whom their gods had abandoned. They had all the world’s natural resources around them and yet they were paupers beaten down by long years of colonial rule. His destiny lay among them. The British wouldn’t change India, Indians themselves would. They only needed the tools of industrial growth and some initiative. That would be his mission.

  At the railway station in Delhi, his father, sisters, Valerie, relatives and friends received him, all bearing garlands to put round his neck. As he stepped out of his compartment his father’s staff of clerks and servants raised cries ofJai ho! Chhote Sahib ki jai ho!—Victory to our little master. A flower-bedecked Oldsmobile drove him home with his sisters beside him and father in the front seat. ‘Where is Ma? Is she well?’ asked Victor. ‘She is waiting for you at home,’ replied his father. ‘She is in good health but didn’t want to risk being in the crowd at the station.’ This sounded strange to Victor and he looked at his sisters who stared back stonily and said nothing.