by Sharon Maas
'You're crazy, Gan! He can't travel alone, just as he can't live alone. He'd need someone to share his cabin and look after him.'
'Yes, well. Trix and I are planning on going home soon anyway,' said Ganesh. 'We could take him. We'll just bring forward the date, and take a ship.'
'You want to go home?'
'Yes,' said Ganesh. 'Trixie's homesick and wants to spend time with her mother, and have a honeymoon in Tobago; we could take him. The trouble is…’
'I'm the trouble,' said Trixie. She pouted. 'Me and my black skin and fuzzy hair. Deodat Roy hates my hide. Quite literally. And I don't see why I should…’
Ganesh scratched his temple.
'Well, you know. Time will help. If we gradually get him used to the thought of us being married. If he gets to know you better. Baba's changed a lot; he just had a shock, finding out the way he did.'
'As long as he hates me I'm not going chasing after him, thank you very much.'
'Anyway, I don't like the idea,' said Saroj. 'What about medical care over there? If he's got a bad heart he'll be better off staying here for treatment.'
'We're not going to live in the bush! Baba's best friend was Dr Jaikaran, and he's a heart specialist He'd be in good hands. And I could travel with him alone, and Trix could come later.'
'No, I bloody well won't! Either we go together, or not at all! You won't find me hiding from Deodat Roy, heart attack or no heart attack. I've a good mind to jump out on him just to…’
Gan stretched out a loving arm, wrapped it around Trixie, laid his hand on her mouth. 'Ssssh. You won't do a thing.'
'But Baba wouldn't want to live in Georgetown,' objected Saroj. 'He has too many bad memories, too many enemies there. He'd hate it.'
'Well, why don't you make a suggestion? One thing is for sure, he can't go back to Norwood. No way. Not alone. If he stays in England he'd have to stay with family,' replied Ganesh. He turned to Saroj. 'And the only ones who'd take him, that's us, Saroj. Either Trix and me, or you. And since Trixie's out of the question .. .'
'You're suggesting he lives with me? That I go and live with him in Norwood?'
They were all three silent. Gan and Trixie lowered their eyes, not looking at Saroj; A tide of refusal surged inside Saroj. It was one thing to reconcile with Baba, to pray for his recovery, to want him to live, to be up and about. It was quite another thing, she discovered now, with guilt clawing at her conscience, to take him in and care for him to the end of his days.
'I can't,' she said, and her voice was almost a squeak.
'Well, then,' Ganesh shrugged his shoulders, then stood up with an air of finality. He removed the empty teapot and disappeared into the kitchen. 'That settles it. Baba goes to India.' He raised his voice so Saroj could hear him from the kitchen.
'India?'
Saroj stared at Trixie, who only looked away, biting her thumb. Ganesh was back with a pot of fresh tea.
'Yes. India.'
'Gan, you've lost your senses. You can't be thinking of sending Baba back to his Bengali relatives! He doesn't know a single soul over there!'
'Yes he does. He's got a sister and two brothers, and their children,' said Ganesh. 'I met them all when I was over there. And as far back as I can remember India's been the one constant in Baba's life. The Promised Land. Baba's been in exile most of his life. He'd give anything to live out his last years there. But I wasn't thinking of Bengal.'
'Well, where then? Where?' Saroj looked first at Trixie, who still wouldn't meet her eyes, and then at Ganesh, who gazed back steadily, smiling slightly, mockingly, it seemed to her, the teapot still in his hands.
'Tamil Nadu. Nat offered to take him in.'
Saroj's heart took a running start and raced off at breakneck speed.
'Nat?'
'Don't look so shocked, Saroj. It's your own fault. You won't burden yourself with Baba, Trixie and I can't take him in, and you yourself rule out Guyana. Nat's all there is.'
'But . . . Why? How will . . .'
'Nat's a doctor, and so's his father. There's a hospital in the town near where they live, in case of emergency, and in Madras…'
'Is Nat still here, then? In London?'
'Yes, of course. But…'
Saroj jumped to her feet, almost ran to the telephone, grabbed the receiver and cried, 'What's his number?'
The doorbell rang. Trixie flew to open it. Saroj felt as shy and awkward as a veiled teenage bride at a Hindu wedding. Her heart cavorted like a hoof-flinging colt, her stomach turned somersaults and her tongue clove to the floor of her mouth. Nat walked in, a bunch of red roses in his hand. Was he glowing, or was it her imagination, or was it she herself who glowed? Or both of them?
She could not tell. She only knew that his arms had closed around her, that her face was pressed against his shoulder, that he smelled good and felt good and that in some indefinable way she had finally come home.
63
Chapter Sixty-three
Savitri
Madras, 1942-1944
Savitri, with Henry's help, searched for Nataraj. She discovered she had, without knowing it, signed over the custody of her son to Mani. She had signed the paper during labour without knowing what she was signing, for it had been in Tamil, and Savitri had never learned to read or write Tamil; she had simply trusted, and not bothered to ask, for the mind of a woman in labour naturally reaches out in trust to those who would help her through that labour.
Sister Carmelita had discovered through years of experience that it spared a lot of nerves this way. Heaven knew what became of the babies so removed by fathers and mothers and elder brothers! True, the girls got hysterical when they discovered what they had done but there was no denying it: however painful for the mother, it was most definitely best for the child. This child, this Nataraj, would be taken to a good Christian orphanage, and from there he would certainly find a good Christian home, light-skinned as he was. A pity, though, about his name. She had just given the baby's uncle the baby's birth certificate and the other papers when the mother had screamed like a virago at the window, and before she could say another word the uncle had made good his escape. So the child was cursed with the name Nataraj. A pity. Well, they'd surely find a suitable name at the Good Shepherd Orphanage, which she had recommended.
A good Catholic orphanage.
Henry engaged a lawyer who tried to prove that the signing over of the child was illegal. Savitri was euphoric with hope — at the beginning. But then they found themselves up against a wall of bureaucracy. A signature was easily made but impossible to undo. Documents were signed and passed around, flying between Madras and Pondicherry and getting lost on the way, buried under heaps of other documents. Officials gave their own version of the legal situation, opened and closed ledgers, slipped bribes into pockets, sipped coffee, went out for lunch, gave their profuse apologies, let their eyes glaze over, and forgot the matter. She applied to the court; received a polite letter from the Principal Sub Judge. Another from the Under-Secretary to Government Home Department. And nobody could help. The bureaucracy dragged on. Over weeks. Over months. Over years.
Savitri went to see Mani. She begged and pleaded with him to reveal Nataraj's whereabouts. Mani smiled nastily and treated her as what she was, a woman of sin.
'Remember, Savitri, India is a country of millions, hundreds of millions. Your son could be in Bombay, Calcutta, or Delhi. He could be in Kanpur or Amritsar or Bihar. He could even be in a village quite nearby. One of a thousand villages all over India. He could be dead. How will you ever find out?' he taunted and teased. 'You won't. Never.'
He would have continued to mock but a spasm of coughs overtook him and Savitri walked out.
Her eyes devoured every male baby she saw. He could be Nataraj. Everywhere she saw him: riding on the hips of strange women on the street, looking down at her from the window of a passing bus, on the streets, the sidewalks, in rickshaws, on the carriers and crossbars of bicycles, in the bazaar, in the shops, everywhere. She
found herself grabbing strange little boys, boys of the right age. Turning them around, walking around them, touching their necks. She knew she would never find peace again — not as long as she lived in a world or a country where Nataraj also lived, and where every child she met might be him, and she would not know it.
'In this country one needs to pull strings,' Henry said. 'If only we knew of someone of influence, anyone…'
'Maybe Colonel Hurst? He used to be so fond of Savitri…' June mused.
'No, no-one English! Not in today's political atmosphere! An Englishman trying to throw his weight around, to use his influence in an Indian affair would be fatal. And anyway, the Colonel isn't likely to help us find David's child!'
'But who would help us, then?' Savitri's voice was ragged with desperation.
But then… She gasped aloud. A sudden light of inspiration had flashed a name across her mind. She knew to whom she would turn. A man who would certainly help, for his heart was of gold. A man who would listen. A man, an Indian, whose influence in India was without limit. She would go right to the top, to a man second only to God in this country where God is all.
She took out her writing pad and wrote a letter, ten pages long, telling her story and begging for help, for the use of influence to move the wheels of officialdom. She reread it, folded it, placed it in an envelope, and addressed it to Mahatma Gandhi. She almost heard the loud thumping of her heart as she licked the stamp and pressed it into place. She walked, almost ran, to the post office. Her hand trembled as she slipped the envelope through the slot. He will help. I know it. Oh Bapu, Bapu, please, please help.
She no longer shed tears. Her soul was parched, scorched into tearlessness.
After six months Savitri's spirits were lower than ever. Gandhi had not replied to her letter. Inside, she was disintegrating. Do something useful, she told herself. She found volunteer work at the government general hospital in Madras, and they were glad to have her. Give yourself in the service of others, and then your own problems will shrink in magnitude. Keep on. Nataraj is somewhere, waiting. Thinking of him, worrying about him, will not bring him back. Do what you can to find him, but turn mind and body to a greater task. And so she worked on.
She held a baby who had been blinded and crippled by her own beggar father so as to earn more money; and she knew there was greater misery in the world than her own, and that sanity lay in that remembrance.
Fiona was already losing hers. When Paul could not be found she sank deeper and deeper into the slough of despond. Unable to keep herself, much less Gopal, fed, clothed, clean, alive, she had returned to Fairwinds; after all, it was hers alone, now, for her parents had been killed in a London bomb raid, and David… who knew where David was. A little Christian maid looked after her, and a Cooky cooked for her. Gopal drowned his sorrow in alcohol and a mountain of work, returned to Bombay and turned his back on the mess of his life.
Savitri alone refused to abandon hope. Henry and June regarded her with concern. Finally June said, 'Savitri, listen. Henry and I have decided to emigrate to Australia. For one thing his contract's running out at the end of this year, for another, the war's on our doorstep, and for another the English are going to be thrown out of India anyway. I've got a brother living in Perth; we're going to live there. We want you to come with us, to start a new life. There's so much strength still in you. Your life's not over, but you're wasting it here. We'd love to have you; we'll help you get whatever papers you need, get a job, everything.'
But Savitri merely shook her head.
Savitri bent down to pick it up. A letter. A personal letter, from him, from Bapu. Apologising for the delay: his wife had died earlier that year, his own health had collapsed. Malaria, dysentery and a hookworm had kept him immobile and unable to answer letters for some time. Reading her words he felt there was little he could do to intervene, but he would write a personal note to the authorities concerned. In the meantime, it was essential for Savitri to gain peace of mind. Peace of mind, Bapu said, must be found in all circumstances.
'There is a true Mahatma living not far from Madras. I will give you his address. Go to him,' he advised. 'There you will find true solace.'
64
Chapter Sixty-four
Saroj
London, 1971
Over the last few days Nat had gently coaxed and courted her. Like a rosebud she had opened one petal after another, hesitantly at first, for she was treading on new and unexplored ground and did not know her way; but he was gentle and he was strong, and his love was constant as a rock, and true, and the twilit areas of her soul reached out to him as to a gentle warm light, and she found words for him, and learned to transform the shadows into speech, and share all with him.
She had never really seen London, cocooned as she'd been within herself; now, Nat showed her the city. She saw, and yet she saw not, for more real than all was the love that buoyed her. Laughter spilled from her soul with Nat at her side, his eyes receiving her always, his arm across her shoulders, his hand around hers, or brushing the hair from her face, the warmth of his touch and the beauty of his laughter.
She had never known laughter like this; it transformed her mere physical beauty into brilliance, for it lit her from within, and filled her, and she flourished.
They met every day at Baba's bedside. Nat would already be there when Saroj came after work. She liked to approach silently from behind, and catch them at their conversation, and listen. Nat, she found, could beat Baba at his own game, turning up with arcane translations of Sanskrit texts, arguing him out of opinions and prejudices so ingrained in Baba's mind they seemed, to her, the very quintessence of Baba's being. In Baba's world every living creature had an established and indubitable place in the hierarchy of existence: ordained by God and eternally valid. Nat shattered that rigorously structured world with logic, tact, and humour.
'You see, Pitaji, I found that book I was telling you about. It's a centuries-old commentary on the Vedantic Sutras. One Sri Karapatra Swami condensed the salient points into twelve chapters and it's been recently translated into English. It's one of the finest Advaitic texts. It says there's no essential difference between a Brahmin and a Sudra.'
'What nonsense! The difference between a Brahmin and a Sudra is like the difference between a lotus and a clod of earth! Don't play with me!'
'Yes, but what do you bet that I can refute that belief ? That at the very core of the Vedas you will find the teaching that no difference at all exists?'
'The differences have been ordained since the beginning of time!'
'What do you stake on that?'
'Aha, now I know what you're up to! You're the evil Sakuni trying to defeat the good Yudhisthira with sly tricks!'
Nat chuckled, and wagged a finger at Baba. 'No no, Pitaji, none of that good-against-evil business! Your own Vedic scriptures say there's no distinction, I have it here in black and white. Shall I read it to you?'
By sleight of hand, it seemed to Saroj, Nat's hand, empty just a moment ago, held a little yellow book which he now waved at Baba. 'Give me that book!' said Baba, reaching for it.
'No, I'm going to read it to you. You can read it yourself afterwards. Listen.' He opened the book at a marked page. In the Sutra Samhita it is said that . . . Obediently, Baba listened as Nat read aloud. Turning a page, he held up his finger once more, saying: 'Now listen, Pitaji, here it is: . . . there is absolutely no distinction bearing on caste, stage of life or other similar matters. Be the seeker the foremost scholar, pandit, illiterate man, child, youth, old man, bachelor, householder, tapasvi, sanyasi Brahmin, ksatriya, vaisya,
Sudra, a chandala or a woman . . . This is the undisputed view of the Vedas and sastras.
'It can't be!' cried Baba.
Nat chuckled and continued to read, as in imitation of Baba: Disciple: This cannot be. How can illiterate men, women and chandalas be qualified to the exclusion of a pandit learned in the sastras?
Nat read on, occasionally interrupted by Baba,
discussing and arguing over interpretations of the text. Almost unnoticed, Saroj slipped in, drew up a chair, and sat listening. Nat and Baba merely glanced at her.
Saroj grew bored. 'Why do you people always talk such nonsense?' she interjected at a convenient pause. 'Stop it now and let's talk about practical matters.'
Nat closed the book, turned to look at her, smiled. 'You're late today.'
Deodat stretched out his hand to her. She took it, and he pulled her gently towards him, patting the bedside so she would take her seat there.
'Nat is just explaining to me the theory of Advaita. Non-duality. He is too clever for me by far. I am terrified of these Advaitists! They would destroy the entire universe, reduce us all to one unalloyed Self without distinctions!'
Nat chuckled, and Deodat joined in.
'All this theorising is beyond me,' said Saroj. 'Me, I like to believe in what I can see and touch and prove.'
'Yes, but listen, Saroj: if this whole universe is nothing but a mental concept as the Advaitists say, what is there to prove and who will prove it?' There was excitement in Baba's voice, and he elbowed himself into a half-sitting position.
'Oh, leave her alone, Pitaji. Saroj says she wants to talk about practical matters so let's listen to her.'
'Even if those practical matters are completely unreal? Huh? What do you say to that? According to your theory…’
'Not my theory. Advaitic teaching dates back several thousand years.'
Saroj could only stare in silent wonder at Baba. It was as if a completely new person lay there before her, a relaxed, open-minded, generous, affable old man, joshing with Nat, the perpetrator of this miracle. For there was no doubt in Saroj's mind that it was through Nat, and Nat alone, that Baba had found redemption. Just as she herself had. Her own reconciliation with Baba was only a part of that other, bigger miracle, its logical consequence, its result, and not its cause. It was as if something good and healing flowed from Nat's hands, turning all he touched to gold.
