by Sharon Maas
'Westerners sit in such a method as to be highly disturbing to the digestive system,' Gopal explained, 'but worst of all is the system of defecation here. Do you sit on the toilet seats to defecate? You should not, you know. I myself always get up on the seat and squat like we do in India. I will show you. If you sit like this,' Gopal demonstrated a sitting position, 'the excreta cannot sufficiently pass through the digestive tract. The intestines are crushed. The result is constipation. But if you squat like this, your digestive system is in an excellent position. The knees are up, the anus is down, and excreta can pass through swiftly and emerge from the body with ease. The very power of gravity forces the faeces vertically downwards. The intestines are wonderfully loose and relaxed. And for sitting the half-lotus position is the best. I would actually prefer to sit on the floor but as you are not accustomed and as it would not be fitting for the elder to sit lower than the younger I am quite content with this chair.'
Having said that, Gopal resumed his half-lotus on the chair, and his speech.
'Your mother, even though she was born and bred in India, always maintained it was unladylike to sit in a half-lotus and refused to defecate in a squatting position. It was a subject of great dissention between the two of us. Fiona was extremely headstrong in such matters but also in matters of diet, and as a result she suffered greatly from constipation. She insisted on eating a non-veg diet which gave her stool a solid consistency and a dark pigment which could have been avoided by correct diet and correct position for defecation.'
Nat resolutely turned the subject back to his mother herself, away from her stool.
'Her name is Fiona Lindsay. So I suppose she's a relative of my father?'
'Of David, your adoptive father. I am your true father. Yes, Fiona was David's sister. I was of humble though high-born Brahmin Indian parentage. My father was a cook at the Lindsay estate and therefore we were treated as mere lowly servants by the parents. But Fiona and I loved each other from the time we were little children. We were forced to keep our love a secret but when we were of age we eloped. Scorned by our families, nevertheless our love was strong enough to overcome all obstacles. Apart from the subject of her nourishment we were a blissfully happy couple. Our relationship was pure bliss...'
'What happened to her? Where is she now?'
'I told you, she was killed in a tragic car accident.'
'But that’s not what you said. You said she was killed by Muslim marauders during the Partition disturbances.'
'Yes, yes, it is all quite true. It was a slaughter and a car accident. It was a burning car. It was the Muslims. I was left with the ruins of my love and with a little baby.'
'Whom you immediately placed in an orphanage.'
'What else could I do?' Gopal cried. 'I was in no position to care for you! My family would not take me in with a half-caste child and what do I know of the care of a small infant! So I placed you in an orphanage, meaning to retrieve you the moment I remarried.'
'Why didn't you?'
'Alas, my second wife refused also to take a half-caste child. She was pure Indian and wanted children of her own. However she was barren. Several years passed before she would accept the fact that she would not bear children of her own and was finally prepared to take you in. But by that time David had stepped in to gain custody of his dear sister's child and I legally handed him the reins of custody, thinking it would be in your best interest.'
Gopal beat his brow with his fists, and whined, 'Oh, what a fool I was! How I bitterly regret that move!'
Lucky for me, thought Nat.
'But why didn't you at least keep up the contact with me? I'm sure my father would have been happy to share me with you.'
'Oh, you do not know the true face of that David! He has treated me most cruelly. He refused to let me visit you all through your childhood, for he wanted to keep the truth of your parentage from you. He is a most dastardly villain.'
'Why? Why didn't he want me to know I was his sister's child? That makes him my uncle…'
But Gopal merely shook his head and muttered something about 'dark secrets'.
'But once I was an adult you could have traced me. You could have written to me. Why do you turn up now, of all times? Why have you left it so long?'
'Oh, my son, my son! What do you know of the feelings of a father? How I have yearned for you! Yes, I should have made contact with you earlier. But how to explain my great shame of having neglected my duty as a father! Of placing you in an orphanage! But now I have found you I will never let you go again. And I have come into your life with a great purpose. This has given me the courage to make myself known to you. It is time, my dear son, that you marry and settle down. And I have found the ideal girl for you.'
'Hello, hello, hello! I have been waiting for you these past thirty minutes! I have brought somebody along!'
A grinning Gopal emerged from the anonymous crowds at Notting Hill Gate tube station, planting himself firmly in Nat's path. He gestured with palpable pride at a young man in his wake — a tall and lanky young man, Indian, with long black hair tied back in a pony-tail and a hippie bandana around his forehead, in polka-dot bell-bottom trousers and a washed-out T-shirt of indeterminable colour. The man smiled amiably and greeted Nat with a peace sign.
'Ganesh,' he said.
'Ganesh is my nephew, also long-lost. I met him first time this morning. My heart is overflowing with emotion at all these long-lost relatives I am having the pleasure of meeting in London! Today I decided to establish contact with the girl in question and also with her family and I met him. He has been abroad for several years and has just arrived day before yesterday. He is your cousin, the girl's brother!'
Ganesh rolled his eyes and Nat laughed. Their eyes locked, and Nat felt an instantaneous rapport with Ganesh. The three of them walked towards Nat's flat.
Nat turned to Ganesh. 'Don't tell me you're in on this conspiracy to marry me off !'
'But of course!' said Ganesh, laughing. 'Nothing could please me more than to see Saroj married off to a suitable boy. You look decent enough . . .' He pretended to inspect Nat, letting his eyes slide down the long, lean form walking beside him. 'But to meet Saroj's standards you'll have to have brains as well as looks. She is a studious girl. Quite brilliant.'
'Can't stand the type.'
'Oh, come on, give her a chance. If you don't marry her, who will? The poor girl'll never find a husband at this rate.'
'Thanks for the recommendation!' Nat yawned ostentatiously and kicked at an empty Marlboro pack lying on the pavement.
'No, but she's really lovely, understand? That's the thing. A brilliant girl, but lovely. Beautiful, in fact.'
'A fatal combination.'
'A most wonderful girl!' cried Gopal. 'I have never in all my life seen a girl of such spectacular facial qualities. If she came to Bombay with me I could make of her a film star. I know all about the film business. I have worked with the most beautiful actresses and never in all my life have I seen such beauty.'
Ignoring Gopal, Nat turned to Ganesh. 'Look, Ganesh, do me a favour,' he said, suddenly turning serious, 'and don't try to fix me up with her, okay? I've had enough of people trying to marry me off to their daughters, nieces, sisters, second-cousins, and friends-of-sisters. The moment I hear the words "she is of marriageable age" an alarm starts buzzing in my head. I told Gopal last night, and I meant it: I'm not in the marriage market. Definitely not. After my residency I'm going back to India, for good. There's no place in my life for a woman right now. And apart from that, this girl's my cousin, and...'
'Cross-cousin marriages are highly auspicious!' cried Gopal. 'Most auspicious. And moreover, this girl is…'
Ganesh interrupted, 'Don't worry, Nat. Apart from all your objections, Nat, Saroj herself has no intention whatsoever of marrying. I saw her myself yesterday; why don't you admit it, Gopal, she sent you packing! I could have warned you! You know what they used to call her at school? The Ice Queen. And she hasn't changed one bit s
ince then. If anything she's worse.'
'Yes, she is rather uppity,' added Gopal, wrinkling his forehead in vague concern.
'Sounds really delightful,' chuckled Nat. 'I must say, Ganesh, as a go-between you're not much use!'
'Oh well, I tried my best,' sighed Ganesh. 'But I must say, Nat, compared to some of the prospective bridegrooms she's had, I wouldn't mind you as brother-in-law.'
'You'll have to make do with me as cousin.'
Two days later Gopal, deeply disappointed at the failure of his mission, returned to India and faded into the past. Nat was not sorry to see him go.
As for Saroj, she applied herself to her studies with doubled zeal. But Ganesh and Nat remained the best of friends.
52
Chapter Fifty-two
Savitri
Singapore, 1941-1942
Several months passed before, like a gift presented to them on a silver platter, David and Savitri had a free weekend — together.
Friends of David's, an English family in the rubber trade, owned a beach bungalow near Changi. The women and children of the family had been evacuated to America, and the man had no interest in going to the beach alone — especially not at a time like this. He gave David the key.
One Friday afternoon David picked up Savitri in an old Morris borrowed from a doctor friend, and drove her out to the beach. They had no need of speech. David laid a hand on her knee, which she covered with her own slim, long-fingered hand, and their fingers played together gently as David drove. Now and again they glanced at each other, their heads turning towards each other as if at a signal only heard by them, their eyes meeting and smiling for a moment of accord, and turning away again, David's to the road ahead, Savitri's to the roadside, where fleeting scenes of Singaporean life slipped past her window.
Arriving at the bungalow, David slung their two overnight bags across his shoulder, took her hand, and led her up the wooden steps on to the verandah. A slight breeze, cooling and fresh, played with the hem of Savitri's sari, and she laughed out loud in a spontaneous outburst of unalloyed joy, throwing her arms up above her head and flinging them around David.
'Oh, David, David! This is paradise! I can't believe it — alone at last, in this heaven, just the sea, and the sky, and us!'
David laughed too, clasped her around her waist, and lifted her as if she were a feather: he swung her around, faster and faster, till he stumbled against the verandah's railing and they collapsed in a helpless heap of laughter on the floor. Then, again as if to a secret signal, they both, in unison, stopped laughing. Savitri lay still on the floor, her hair, shaken out of its chaste knot, fanned out around her face. She looked up at him, propped on his arms above her, flooding her with a silent love so profound, so brimful of joy, she could not bear it and closed her eyes. She felt him kiss her eyelids, gently, like the brush of a butterfly's wing. And then her lips, her forehead, her cheeks and chin.
'Two days, two nights. Just us, the sea, and the sky,' David murmured. 'I can't believe it.'
Eyes still closed, Savitri smiled.
'But it's true.'
The morning they left the beach hut David told Savitri: 'I've made my decision, Sav. I've written to Marjorie. I told her about you, that you're here, that I love you and always have, and want to marry you. I asked her for a divorce. When this war's over, Sav, we'll marry, and that's why I want you to leave Singapore. For me.'
Tears gathered in Savitri's eyes. She said nothing, only shook her head. 'I can't go, David. I’ve only just found you—how can I leave you again, just to save my own hide? Leave you in a war zone? What else have I to live for? And it's not just about you. My patients… how can I leave them? My whole life is here, now.'
They drove back to the city without speaking another word. When they got back they heard the news: Japan had bombed Pearl Harbor, and the war was upon them.
Around them the world was falling apart. Japanese air raids left devastation in their wake. Both General Hospital and the Alexandra were full to overflowing with the wounded, either from the raids or with injured soldiers brought in by the trainload from Malaya; the ambulances lined up at the railway station, waiting to rush the wounded to the various hospitals.
Savitri became an expert at changing dressings. Night after night she walked the wards, lighting her way with a torch, stopping at each wounded man, bending over him, speaking words of comfort, and with a pair of forceps carefully removed the maggots from his open wounds, laying them in a kidney basin, maggots hatched from the eggs laid by the ever-present flies. She lost count of the patients dying in her hands. Their bodies too destroyed for those hands to heal, all she could do was bring them peace in their last moments. No miracles of healing occurred. But Savitri's presence alone alleviated pain and suffering. The warmth of her voice, the compassion in her eyes, the gentleness of her touch — it was what her patients waited for day after day, and that was the true miracle.
Women and children were being evacuated from Singapore. Mrs Rabindranath, at the insistence of her husband, left. David again begged Savitri to leave. She refused.
Her eyes brimmed with tears. 'I can't, David. Don't ask me to go. How can I leave you! My patients!'
'Sav, listen: you must go. Really. It's our only chance! Look, don't worry about me. When the Japs take Singapore — not if, but when — I'll be interned. I'll be safe — but you, as a woman, a civilian, a foreigner! Foreign women will be raped and killed. Our only chance at a future is for you to leave, Sav.'
She would not answer, but only shook her head.
'Think of our future, Sav. When the war's over we'll marry and have children. Go back to Henry and June, wait for me in Madras. Please. I beg you! I'll come when this madness is over. I'll be safe as a prisoner of war — but your only chance is in leaving.'
But again, she only shook her head, wordlessly. He wept then, and so did she. They wept for they both knew that the end was near, and both knew that for all their planning and all their hoping there was nothing they could do, no trump could cancel the evil that was round about them, in the very air they breathed, and waiting around the corner.
Rooms and corridors of the General Hospital were packed to overflowing. By the end of January 1942 over ten thousand sick and wounded had been evacuated from the Malayan mainland. Savage air-raids, round the clock, played havoc with Singapore city: the menacing screech of sirens followed by a never-ending, sinister silence and then the blast of a bomb, somewhere, near, nearer. Screams and cries, the whimpering of the dying, feet running, the cry of a lost child among the ruins. Noise, fire, blood, dying, dead. Pandemonium. The noose tightened around Singapore.
Amidst it all, war's silent soldiers fought on: the nurses, military, civilian, and volunteers. Husbands sent their wives out on the last ships leaving. Many refused to leave.
'I beg you, Sav. Go!'
'No.'
On the evening of the twelfth Savitri was waiting outside the Alexandra as a weary David left the hospital. She collapsed against him; he folded his arms around her.
'Oh David, David!' she sobbed. 'They've gone! All the army nurses and sisters have gone! They've been taken away secretly, leaving us volunteers to do all the work ... but we can't! So many of us are untrained, we just can't cope! They promised they'd let them stay and that's why we stayed and now they're all gone!'
'And you go too! Tomorrow!' David knew he had won. Savitri had broken.
'Yes. Yes. You're right. I have to go. I would have stayed even now but — oh David, I'm going to have a baby!'
David's cry of relief made her look up at him, and she couldn't help smiling at his joy. 'Thank goodness! Oh, thank God! I've been hoping, praying you'd be pregnant. I knew there'd be no other reason on earth for you to leave Singapore! Why didn't you tell me before? Are you certain?'
'I'm certain, I know the signs. I didn't want to tell you before — I knew you'd force me to go and I had to make the decision myself. I'd have stayed, David; I couldn't choose to flee, not eve
n for the baby's sake. But when I heard how the Army deceived us, I just broke down. And I want this child. I do want this child, so much! So I'll go.'
'What a cockup!' said David. 'What a betrayal. But if that's what it takes to get you out then I can only say, in all selfishness, Sav, thank goodness.'
53
Chapter Fifty-three
Nat
London, 1970
Ganesh became the first male friend Nat made in all his years in London, and though they were quite different in their goals and their outlook, there was an unspoken understanding between them, a bond, the comfortable feeling of being able to be oneself in the presence of the other, almost as if they were brothers. After all, they were cousins— and that explained it.
They had a similar sense of humour, a similar lightness of being. They sat for hours on the patch of grass behind Ganesh's Richmond home and philosophised about the nature of God, the universe, man, woman, the human soul, and the English, sipping rum-and-coke and nibbling the samosas Ganesh had conjured in Walter's kitchen. Nat told Ganesh about his father, the village, the work, his studies, his dream. Ganesh told Nat about his father, his mother, his sisters, his home, but did not show him any photographs, which might have explained much, and concluded more. Hearing that Ganesh was out of work, and destitute, Nat got him a job as a cook at Bharat Catering. However, they lived too far apart, Nat in Notting Hill Gate and Ganesh in Richmond, to see each other often.
Ganesh invited Nat to his birthday party. Saroj refused to attend because Deodat would also be present. Ganesh must choose between her and Deodat, she said petulantly, yet was peeved when he chose their father.
