Burial at Sea

by Khushwant Singh

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Ma. No one is going to kill me,’ he assured her. ‘I haven’t done enough good to people yet.’

  He drove to the cremation site at Nigambodh Ghat that night. He sat there till morning, watching the dying embers in the funeral pyres. He meant to look death in the face. As dawn broke, he wasn’t sure if he had, but he felt less diminished. He would go back and continue his efforts for India’s prosperity, whether India deserved it or not.

  9

  * * *

  Years passed. Victor immersed himself in his work, spending more time in Jai Bhagwan Towers than he would have wished and travelling to his mills and factories all over the country. His shipping business remained a worry, but with Nair’s political activities taking up much of his time, Victor could bring in new, efficient managers without causing Nair any unhappiness.

  If you took away his work from his life, Victor would not know what to do with himself. His only other obsession was his daughter Bharati. One phone call from her and he would fly to Delhi to be with her, even if only for a few hours. Pampered by him—whose absence she often held up as her particular tragedy—and her Dadima, she had become headstrong and self-willed. After changing two schools, neither of which she liked, she refused to join any other, was coached by tutors at home but refused to take any exams. She read a lot on her own and when it came to conversation, could hold her own in any company. She also generally looked down on people. Much of this had to do with her looks. They were unconventional. She was too tall for her age, too thin, and not as fair as other Kashmiri Pandits. Since she spent so much time with her grandmother, she was awkward with forks and knives and wines and cheeses. Her cousins made fun of her table manners and her ill-fitting dresses. She dismissed them as semiliterate fools, though their mockery stung her badly. When provoked too much, she gave them such a tongue-lashing that they avoided her for weeks. She had the sharpest tongue in all of Delhi.

  Her aunts got together one evening when the entire family, including Victor, was at Shanti Bhavan and suggested that she be sent to a finishing school in Switzerland. Bharati protested mightily, but they made such a case for it that Victor agreed. She never forgave her aunts for this. She remembered, especially, what one of them had said: ‘She needs class. We are too important a family to risk inelegance, bhai.’

  Bharati was thirteen when she was sent to a residential finishing school outside Lausanne. The four years she spent there were the unhappiest of her life. She hated the cold, the antiseptic environment and the aloof people. She became cold and aloof herself. Because she had made a promise to her father, she endured it. It helped that Victor made frequent trips to Switzerland to see her. At the end of four years, she packed her bags and returned to Delhi. She was through with formal education; she would have no more of it, even if her Papi said it was his dearest wish that she go to Oxford. ‘I am a lady now,’ she explained to her father. ‘I have class—that much I’ll admit Switzerland did do for me. Your sisters need not be embarrassed of me. But no more, Papi. I’ll stay here in India, with you.’ Victor was stunned that she had been so hurt and he had not realized it. He loved his daughter too much. He gave in. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. I had no idea you were so unhappy. Very well, you will live here and there will be no talk of Oxford or further studies.’

  Bharati went back to reading, spending time with her Dadima or just lying in her room doing nothing. Although she had grown into a handsome young woman, she took no interest in young men her age. She had no friends nor seemed to want to have any. Her life was going nowhere.

  A year after her return from Switzerland, Victor decided it was time father and daughter had a heart to heart talk about their future. He asked her to come to Bombay for a few days, they could go sailing to Goa and Cochin and have time to themselves; they saw so little of each other. ‘I would love that,’ said Bharati. ‘Shanti Bhavan is too crowded for my liking. I could do with a period of quiet to restore my sanity. Sometimes I fear I will go mad here.’

  Three days later Victor and Bharati flew to Bombay. Victor spent his days consulting his senior executives and collecting reports and balance sheets of his companies to study on board his yacht. Nair was all over Bharati, loading her with bouquets of flowers and compliments about her looks. Full of self-love that he was, he was struck especially by her sharp nose and sharper tongue, both of which reminded him of himself as a young man. Bharati was not used to being paid attention to by a man, especially one almost the same age as her father, and happily responded to his show of affection.

  Victor and Bharati spent a week at sea sailing leisurely down India’s western coast, stopping at Goa and Cochin for a day and night either way to refuel and pick up fresh fruit, vegetables, poultry and fish. Victor spent most of his time in his cabin going over the files he had brought with him and writing his comments. Amongst them was a report jointly signed by senior members of his staff that the companies acquire a holiday home somewhere in the hills where they could take their families for vacations, as hotels were too expensive for them. Victor liked the idea, approved it and for good measure added, ‘Investigate possibility of acquiring a house on the upper reaches of the Ganga, not very far from Haridwar. The climate should be suitable for summer and winter as a pleasant retreat for any member of our staff who wants a break. Charges should be nominal. Employ a whole-time cook and staff of three. Meals supplied should be strictly vegetarian, in keeping with the traditions of the place.’

  At the time he could not have known how important a role the holiday home would play in his life.

  Bharati had brought a load of books and magazines with her. She spent most of her time reading on the deck and strolling around the yacht gazing at the coastline on the one side, the open sea on the other. They met at mealtime—briefly for a light lunch, longer for the evening meal. Victor took his quota of two pegs of Scotch and soda. He persuaded his daughter to try out light, dry French wines. In Switzerland she hadn’t much cared for wines, here she found them very palatable, both before and with her meals.

  When it was time to return to Bombay, Victor finally had the chat he had been meaning to with his daughter. ‘I am past fifty now, Bharati. That doesn’t make me old, I know, but I am finding the work I have to do too heavy for my shoulders. It leaves me no time to read, write or relax. You are grown up enough to share some of the burden; after all you are my sole inheritor. In retrospect I am glad you did not waste your time going to college and getting degrees or diplomas. They count for very little in life. What counts is work-experience. The sooner you get down to it the better.’

  ‘What do you have in mind?’ she asked.

  ‘It won’t be a bad idea if you went around all the factories we have. Spend a week or more at every place, examine how it is doing, see if it needs modernizing. We have to be a step ahead of everyone else. Then take a trip abroad. Visit Manchester, Sheffield, Germany, the United States and see if they are producing better goods than ours. A field that needs to be explored is pharmaceuticals. We produce very second-rate material and rely heavily on imports. We are short of power, we need electricity, we must modernize our railways, lay wide roads like they have in Germany and Italy. The list is endless. Start with England. We have a nice, cosy flat in Albion Mews; you can operate from there. Hire a secretary to help you.’

  Bharati kept nodding her head in agreement. And while he talked, she visualized the great new world she would be exploring all on her own without anyone keeping an eye on her. She was in for many surprises.

  ~

  Bharati spent the next few months touring India by plane, train and car, visiting all the factories her father had set up. She was well received by the staff and workers, saw the working conditions and heard whatever difficulties they or their families had to face. The workers were impressed by her brisk, no-nonsense manner. She did not talk much but she listened, and promised to apprise her father of any concerns they might have. Her demeanour reminded many of the Prime Minister’s daughter w
ho often accompanied her father on his tours through the country. It was true that though Bharati visited their modest homes and walked around like them in chappals in the blazing sun they did not sense the warmth they did with Jai Bhagwan. But then, he was a creature of the sky, a god to them.

  Before she finally returned to Bombay, Bharati took time off and spent a week at the holiday home purchased by the company from a local raja on the right bank of the Ganga between Haridwar and Rishikesh. It was being renovated. She was charmed by its setting in the green hills with the gentle roar of the river in the background as it ran over rocks and boulders. It was almost a mile away from the main road going into Tehri Garhwal. Its closest neighbour was a dilapidated ashram run by a woman tantric who was said to own a pet tiger, lots of black dogs and a few disciples. Bharati gave her father a lyrical description of the place over the phone: ‘It’s the kind of place I would like to spend my life in—river, mountains, lush greenery and peace that passeth understanding. I’ll be as happy here as you are on your yacht.’ Victor decided to name the holiday home after her, Bharati Bhavan.

  While she was away, Victor wrote to his business associates in Europe about his daughter’s impending visit and received assuring responses that she would be welcomed and given all assistance possible. Nair suggested that she extend her interests beyond the merely commercial and meet leaders of political parties, visit picture galleries, see plays and ballet programmes and attend classical music concerts. ‘She should broaden her horizons,’ he said. ‘Unofficially she will be a kind of roaming ambassador for India. She should be able to hold her own among the elitest of the elite.’ What Nair said made good sense to Victor. Nair added, ‘If you like, I will go with her, spend a couple of weeks in London showing her around and introducing her to politicians, poets and writers whom I have known over the years. That will get her started. Thereafter she will be able to handle things on her own.’ That also made sense to Victor. ‘I’ll ask Bharati what she thinks about it,’ he said.

  Bharati approved of the idea. ‘I’ll be lost in a strange place without anyone to show me around. Nair would be a great help,’ she said.

  Her father added a warning note: ‘Mind you, he has a very prickly personality. He picks quarrels with people. You’ll have to guard yourself against that.’

  ‘I haven’t noticed anything prickly about him,’ replied Bharati. ‘He is always charming and courteous towards me.’

  ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ said Victor. ‘I have known him since my days in college. I’ve always been fond of him but few others have.’

  Some days later Bharati and Nair arrived in London. Nair, who usually wore his Kerala-style kurta and ankle-length snow-white mundu in India, was turned out in a smart Saville Row suit and a silk tie. Bharati had an expensive shahtoosh shawl draped round her shoulders against London’s December cold. Though widely separated by age they made a handsome couple.

  Nair was all charm. Every morning he came to pick her up from Albion Mews, carrying a bouquet of red roses and a printed card with the day’ schedule: Visit to the Tate Gallery. Lunch at Savoy with the foreign minister. Visit to the Tower of London. Early dinner with the editor ofThe Observer. Theatre to seeMousetrap by Agatha Christie … The schedule varied every day. He had hired a Rolls-Royce for a fortnight to take them around and then drop him at his digs somewhere near Euston Station which he had kept ever since he passed out of Oxford.

  Though he paid Bharati full attention, he was always edgy and impatient to get on to the next item on the day’s programme. He barely ate anything at lunch or dinner beside slurping tomato soup and endless cups of tea. London had done something to him: he had become the Nair of thirty years ago. While others ate, he toyed with spoons and forks, pushing the food placed before him from one side of the plate to the other till it was removed untouched. ‘Nair, you will die of hunger and cold if you don’t have more to eat,’ said Bharati to him at one meal and filled his plate with boiled vegetables. He spiked a couple of potatoes with his fork, ate half of each and spat the other half back on the plate. ‘Do I look famished to you?’ he asked with a ghoulish grin. ‘You people eat and drink too much. Remember Gandhi? One glass of goat’s milk, a few dates and nuts. He had the energy to take on the British empire at the zenith of its power.’

  ‘He’salways been like this—ever since I’ve known him these thirty years,’ gushed one of the lady friends he had invited for lunch, ‘ask any of his old girlfriends. Everyone wanted to mother him.’

  Bharati had heard Nair had many English girl friends, some from rich families who were drawn to his ascetic way of life. They loved to look after him. Bharati, though young enough to be his daughter, also wanted to mother him. Many a time while being driven to places she watched him shiver in the cold and felt a great tenderness for him. ‘Your hands are icy!’ she said to him in the car one night. ‘Here, cover your hands and knees with my shawl, it is the warmest covering in the world.’ They shared the shahtoosh and held hands under it. His were bony, like the claws of a predator; hers warm and soft and still forgiving, for she was only a girl yet, barely eighteen.

  They were still in London on Christmas Day. The city bore a deserted look. Nair suggested a drive to Eton so Bharati could see the school her father had gone to. It would be closed but they could see the buildings and Windsor Castle. Bharati agreed readily. It would be his last day with her as he was due to fly back to India the next morning and the idea of a long drive with him appealed to her. She had grown fond of this eccentric, indulgent man who gave her so much of his time. It was a sunny day, nevertheless Bharati shared her shawl with Nair and held his hand. She was already beginning to miss him.

  By the time they returned it was dark; church bells were tolling for evensong. Bharati lit the gas fire and made a pot of tea for Nair. She took out a bottle of French Beaujolais and put it on the table with the teapot and a plate of salted biscuits. While she was busy Nair was warming his hands in front of the gas fire. ‘Feel my hands now,’ he said cupping her cheeks, ‘warm as toast, as they say.’ She came closer to him. He planted a kiss on her forehead.

  They sat at the table; he sipping tea and nibbling salted biscuits, she taking gulps of white wine. She rarely took more than two small wine glasses; she was on to her third. After a long day and an empty stomach with only a sandwich for lunch, the wine went to her head. She began to slur in her speech. She noticed him take a quick glance at his watch. ‘Youaa in a hurry to get away. Stay. A while longer.’

  ‘Young lady I think you are a little drunk,’ he said with a smirk on his face.

  ‘Thathiam,’ she lisped. ‘I’ll lie down for a while. Don’t … don’t you run away.’

  She lay down on the sofa-cum-bed. He came and sat by her pillow and brushed her forehead with his claw-like hands. He took the liberty of kissing her on her lips, half expecting to be repulsed. She grabbed his hair and pressed his lips harder against hers. ‘Young lady,’ he said hoarsely, moving a hand down to her breasts, ‘is there anything I can do for you before I go?’

  ‘Make love to me,’ she moaned, ‘no one has ever made love to me.’

  Nair needed no further invitation. He wanted to settle scores with Victor for all the good he had done him. Seducing his teenage daughter would be the ultimate revenge against his benefactor. He proceeded to undress her, then himself, slobbered over her ripe young breasts till she was roused to a frenzy. He entered her. ‘Ouch,’ she screamed, ‘but don’t stop.’ He did his best. At his best he was not patient enough to fulfil his partner’s desires. A few violent thrusts and he was finished. He buttoned his trousers and hurried out of the mews. He laughed maniacally to himself as he emerged on the road outside, startling an old lady walking her dog.

  Many Christmases ago her father had lost his virginity on the same sofa-cum-bed to a London whore. Many Christmases later Bharati lost her virginity on the same sofa-cum-bed to a sophisticated but incompetent gigolo.

  10

  * * *
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  While Bharati and Nair were away in London, Victor suffered a health scare while he was in Delhi visiting his mother. It happened one morning in the shower when a vicious shooting pain in his chest made him all but collapse on the floor. The doctor diagnosed it as angina and assured him that he was in no danger, provided he was careful about his diet and took some exercise and the medicines he prescribed. But Victor was shaken. There was so much to be done still. He was too young to die. A sense of impending doom seized him. He made a will and posted it to his lawyer in Bombay. He found it difficult to concentrate on anything. Perhaps a few days alone in his newly acquired holiday home might help. If it did not work out he could return to Delhi in a few hours. The next day he set off for Haridwar by car with his secretary, cook and bearer following him in another. By noon they passed through Haridwar. Half way on the road to Rishikesh they turned downhill towards the river and reached their destination. Victor was pleased with what he saw: a spacious lawn with flower beds and the white double-storeyed house gleaming in the crisp sunlight. The sight soothed him. The caretaker and gardener touched his feet and escorted him indoors. There was a large reception hall with a part set aside as a dining room, and three sets of bedrooms with bathrooms. A broad staircase led to the upper floor which had another couple of bedrooms and a drawing room opening out into a large open balcony which gave a splendid view of the mountains and the sparkling river flowing in the valley. Victor gazed at the scene in awe and wonder. ‘Very beautiful!’ he said to the caretaker. ‘I should have come here sooner.’

  ‘Yes sir, Raja Sahib used to spend all his evenings gazing at the Ganga till it got dark. He would have never sold this property but for the litigation with his brothers and his state being taken over by the government,’ replied the caretaker.