by M G Vassanji
I could have made it in the diplomatic service, Mahesh Uncle said, if only I had stayed in Delhi…an assignment in a small country, Bulgaria or Albania…or even Kenya…What do I have here, managing a sawmill in the jungle, the Mau Mau hovering outside the gates…
Why don’t you go back to India? I’d miss you, but you can go and make up with Bauji…and I could even follow you later with my family.
He grunted. I could never make up with Bauji, not at this moment. And do you think this husband of yours would leave his Queen and her Empire to go to Primitive India, as he calls it?
I could only imagine her smiling at that.
There was a scream outside the house, somewhere; there came the sound of a car door shutting and gruff murmuring out in front. It was dark and chilly where I lay, in bed. I tried to cry out, but my voice refused. Outside, the voices continued, louder, urgent, and brisk; there were footsteps inside the house; and still no word I could utter. I struggled with my bedclothes, to draw them closer around and hide me, and I could hear my heart thumping fiercely, almost choking me. I was aware of the window over my head and that something terrifying could enter through it, even though it was barred. And then with great relief I heard Deepa and Mahesh Uncle outside my door, sounding sweet and familiar, and I slowly climbed out of bed. There came the voice of my father outside, shrill, and other, African voices. Through the back door I followed my uncle and sister and my mother out. Dawn had begun to break.
In front of the house, under the street light, an African man was being restrained by two Indians, one of them Saeed Molabux. The captive was moaning and wailing pathetically like a child, and lurching forward as he struggled to free his arms. When he suddenly raised his head, it was to reveal a gruesome sight. He had no eyes in the sockets.
We saw him walking in the middle of the road, Papa was saying excitedly, he was coming straight toward us, and we thought, My God, we are done for. We braked but he kept coming and crashed right into the bonnet. And nothing else happened—luckily no Mau Mau from the bushes. We came out to have a look at this chap and—he had no eyes!
No eyes, but runny wetness and bloody pulp. Papa had rather thoughtlessly shone his flashlight on the man’s face. His mouth gaped open as he emitted his pitiful moans.
But who did this—this ek-dum beastly thing, Mother asked, her eyes wide and tearful.
Some drunken Brits, it seems, out celebrating the coronation, plucked out his eyes with a bayonet or something—
But why hold him like this, Saeed, Mahesh Uncle protested, loudly as usual. Let him be, let him sit at least, where will he run off to?
Saeed and the other Indian reluctantly let go of their man, who shot off like an arrow only to stop abruptly a few yards later in all his blind predicament. And he was gently brought back with the words, Ngoja, utaenda wapi? Where will you go?
He sat down on the ground still moaning, his poor brutalized head in his hands. Mother, he wants water, Deepa said, he’s asking for water. Do you want water, she asked the man, and he seemed to nod, but Mother simply said yes and did nothing. Everyone was waiting for the police—They should be coming, they’ve been called. Probably a lost Mau Mau, what was he doing on the road during curfew? Finally Njoroge went and brought the man a trickle of water in a mug from our miserly garden tap.
A police patrol car followed by a truckload of rough askaris came and took the man away.
All the excitement early in the morning meant that Deepa and I got to miss school. After breakfast, while Papa was rummaging through his things, he noticed that his gun and ammunition box were missing from their place, the drawer beside his bed. Papa was beside himself, he seemed to go berserk, venting rage at the servant Amini, slapping him around, but Amini insistently, plaintively denied stealing the weapon. Bwana, it wasn’t I, I never entered the house until Mama let me in at seven o’clock, I swear to you, you are my mother and father, tafadhali Baba, have mercy…He was terrified. The house servant is the prime suspect always, he knew that. My father’s slaps were friendly pats compared with what the police would do to him, unless the Bwana, my father, supported his testimony. Papa was frightened too. There was a stiff fine for losing a gun, there could be stiffer repercussions. Amini was weeping. Mother looked frantic. Were there Mau Mau among the servants, after all? Amini was a Muslim, from Mombasa; he would not have taken the oath. Still, how was one to tell?
With visible trepidation, his hands shaking, Papa telephoned the police. Predictably he received a sharp telling-off right then for his carelessness. He was instructed to keep Amini in the house and to inform no one else about the theft. The police were on their way.
They came in two trucks and a car—Lieutenant Soames, without the charming smile of before, that terrible predatory giant, Corporal Boniface, another white officer, and all their gruff, angry men. Every servant quarter was turned inside out, the latrines were inspected to their feculent depths by disgusted-looking askaris who put on cloth masks to cover their mouths and noses, as the servants stood outside in a line, their hands on their heads, and were subjected to a loud and rude interrogation. Papa, Mother, and Mahesh Uncle were grilled, our house was partly searched, the backyards and gardens were combed. Finally about ten of the servants were taken away, the main suspect among them, our Amini, with a beseeching look toward Mother.
You should go and vouch for him, Mother said to Papa. Yes you should, Mahesh Uncle added. Why should I?—snarled Papa. To become a collaborator with murderers? Only he could have stolen it. Who else would know where to search, who else could go in and come out with the gun in such a short time?
We never saw Amini again. We often wondered what happened to him. He had been a young man, not over twenty, light-skinned and short, who always wore white collarless shirts of drill cotton of the coastal variety. None of us, not even Papa, was really convinced that he was guilty, even though the police said he was half-Kikuyu and a likely suspect. But if Amini didn’t steal the gun, who did? Both my parents were troubled by the question. Papa was fined seventy-five pounds for losing the weapon plus ammunition, and received a reprimand even from the Nakuru Times, which once again questioned the wisdom of letting the Indians carry guns.
That blinded African was never spoken of again. But he has continued to haunt me from the frightening backdrop of my childhood memories. Although I did not see him this way, I have always imagined him in the middle of a road, against the glare of headlights, a tortured, eyeless Frankenstein in a tweed jacket and trousers too short for him, moving slowly and stiffly in the night, his arms extended to help his steps. What could happen to such a man? Perhaps he became lucky and ended up in the care of an institution for the blind, making mats for the tourist trade to while away his time…
Far away, in the dim glow that hangs suspended across the lake and above the earth, must be a light (I tell myself) that comes from Deepa. Her name too evokes light. She is the only one who knows virtually all about my life, with whom I’ve shared almost every private thought. The reverse is not true; it needn’t be, she is a woman.
Who is this librarian I hear about? she asks me when I telephone.
Seema Chatterjee—a Bengali—she is our happy discovery. I was going to tell you about her. She is rather fond of Joseph…in a big-sister sort of way. She’s good for him, she talks to him. What else has he been telling you?
You are quiet and brood a lot.
Really. And I thought I was quite chatty with him. I talk to him about the past, what I’m writing, and sometimes his presence even jogs my memory a bit. We plan to drive around to look at the towns in this area. It’s called Northumberland County.
You could go to Toronto and meet people there.
No, I couldn’t handle all the bustle. This is my quiet period, my retreat. But Seema went to Toronto and she brought some kulfi for us.
Any good?
Yes, though not as good as—
Those from Bombay Sweets of Nakuru! I know! For you nothing could surpass the kulfi fr
om there, Bhaiya!
Yes, they were the best. Deepa—do you remember Amini?
She is quiet, draws a breath. Then: Yes, I do…It doesn’t pay to dwell too much on the past, Bhaiya.
I know. But we must remember, sometimes. Not too much, but a little. They are a part of us, aren’t they…those we knew?
Yes, brother.
Laudate dominum omnes gentes, Deepa, I want to say to her, can you recall that also, laudate dominum…
Earlier this week I went into town and purchased a CD of children’s choir music, and I have several times now subjected poor Joseph’s ears to that song. Perhaps he’s already told her about this.
Amen…amen…amen…
SEVEN.
Diwali is the day when Lord Rama returned victorious to Ayodhya, an enchanted place in far-off India, having defeated the ten-headed demon Ravana, way south on the island of Lanka. Rama was the pink god on the table in Mother’s puja corner, and on the calendar of Lakshmi Sweets, on which he appeared with his wife Sita and the monkey god Hanuman. Lakshmi was the goddess of wealth and was also worshipped during Diwali. The sweet shop was owned by Gujarati banyas, those special disciples of the goddess, according to Papa, who would crawl on hands and knees even for a chavani, a fifty-cent coin. Mother often wished there was a Punjabi sweet shop around, like those at Bengali Market in Delhi. I did not understand how Bengalis could make Punjabi sweets and Gujaratis could not. And besides, Mother did not think much of the dark Bengalis anyway.
But in the couple of weeks before the great day, our house was transformed into a heavenly place reflective of the glorious Ayodhya of ancient India. Smiling Mother appeared in bright saris or shalwar-kameez, taking any opportunity to make halwa or kheer, regaling Papa and the two of us with stories of how Dussehra, the actual day of Rama’s victory, was celebrated in her native Peshawar—while in our home in East Africa light shades were draped in colourful streamer paper to become mysterious and magical lanterns, auspicious swastika signs made of sparkles appeared on all bedroom doors, and the gods’ corner glimmered and shimmered with lights and glossy crinkled paper in green, gold, and silver. And Papa felt more loved as the Rama of the house, the dutiful son, husband, and father. Thus addressed, he would do the puja with Mother in the mornings, then head for the shop with an orange tilak-mark on his forehead. The Hindustani service of KBC told Rama stories, recited or narrated in a language Deepa and I barely understood, but they gave our mother her cues and she would make the two of us, and sometimes Njoroge, and sometimes a boyish Papa, sit and listen to the adventures of the wondrous and righteous Rama, his dutiful wife Sita and brother Lakshmana, and his resourceful monkey companion and general Hanuman.
Once upon a time in the kingdom of Ayodhya ruled a wise old king called Dasaratha. He had a wonderful son called Rama, brave and honest and respectful, and also a great archer. It was because of his prowess with his bow that he won as his wife the princess Sita, who was the daughter of another wise old king called Janaka—but that is another story. Rama had a half-brother called Bharata, whose mother Kaikeyi was jealous of Rama. Like all mothers she wanted the best for her own son. She desired very much that Bharata, and not the older Rama, should become king after Dasaratha. So she connived that Rama should be sent into exile. Rama left for the forest with his wife Sita. Rama had another half-brother called Lakshmana, who loved him very much and decided to go with him. And Bharata, who was also good, did not sit on the throne after his father, but placed Rama’s slippers upon it instead, thus wrecking his jealous mother’s evil design.
You know, Papa said, it always amazes me that Rama would not stand up for his rights—explain to his father what the situation was. And was old Dasaratha such a fool as to believe—
That was a different time, Mother strained to explain, it was a more righteous age when duty to a parent was the highest of virtues, and the word of a parent was beyond question! Don’t you remember the story of Shravan?
One story to explain another. Why couldn’t Rama use his head and save himself?
Absolutely right, Bhaiya, Mahesh Uncle boisterously butted in. I agree with you one hundred percent—such problems abound in religious stories. In fact when Sita returns after her ordeal in the forest, and doubt is cast on her purity—
Mother put her hands to her ears. I don’t want to hear that! I know all about your objections!
They both laughed, sharing a secret from a wealth of common memories, and it seemed that Papa for a moment was by himself.
Sita had been kidnapped by the wily Ravana, who assumed the shape of a wounded doe to appeal to her soft woman’s heart and entice her to approach, while Rama was out hunting and Lakshmana, who should have looked after his sister-in-law, was distracted. Ravana took Sita to his fortress-isle Lanka, later called Ceylon, from where Rama, Lakshmana, and Hanuman with his troop of monkeys rescued her after an epic battle.
Another thing, Papa said. This business of monkeys building a bridge to Ceylon—
Bhaiya, Mahesh Uncle replied, if you knew about the sheer genius of Indian monkeys—
I’ve seen them, replied Papa.
Mahesh Uncle went on, I was in Simla once as a cadre for the Congress Party. Gandhiji was visiting and…in any case, the monkeys there are the cleverest little fellows you ever saw.
There followed a hilarious tale of the antics of monkeys, to demonstrate to my father that they were smarter than many humans and could very well have built some kind of movable bridge to take Rama to Ceylon to rescue Sita.
The Africans should use monkeys to fight the British, Papa said, perhaps smarting from having been pushed out of the limelight. But, he went on, these African monkeys are not as smart as their Indian cousins.
Mother threw a look at her brother to keep him quiet.
Myth and reality often got mixed up in our lives. In Mother’s eyes, the supposed leader of the Mau Mau, Jomo Kenyatta, who had been imprisoned at Kapenguria, with all his wiles was the demon Ravana himself. Sometimes it was the Mau Mau that collectively became Ravana. And I, somewhat evilly perhaps, always wondered if she sometimes saw Rama and Sita as her brother Mahesh and herself, and Africa as the forest of exile. And Papa as the monster Ravana who stole her away? And as wise but erring Dasaratha, my grandfather Verma, whom Mahesh Uncle had called a traitor? But that whole comparison was monstrous and I would be embarrassed by it.
When Rama’s exile was the subject of the stories, it was never far from our consciousness that Mother and her brother shared a deep sense of exile from their birthplace, Peshawar, a city they would never be able to see again because it had been lost to Pakistan. And since Peshawar was the ancestral home also of my dada Anand Lal, the rest of our family could somehow share in that exile, though not with the same intensity.
Rajat’s Toy Store was selling masks for the festival, depicting the faces of the main heroes and demons of the Ramayana story. And so on a Saturday in the parking lot of our shopping centre, the great battle began for the liberation of Sita and the conquest of Ceylon. I was the only possible Rama. I was Indian, this was my story; I had a name to match, Vikram for victor. Bill, who liked to win battles, backed off. But who would be the monkey king Hanuman, and who the ten-headed demon king Ravana? Bill would have loved to be the mighty, terrifying, and havoc-wreaking demon, with island for fortress and ocean for the moat around it. But Ravana ultimately had to lose, and the fortress had to be set aflame. Furthermore, Deepa and I reminded him, one of Ravana’s heads was that of an ass, because the demon had a truly stupid side to him, for why else would he provoke invincible Rama and court disaster? So Njoroge happily became Ravana, a character for whom I have always harboured some sympathy for all the forces allied against him. And Bill had to be the monkey, a role he accepted as a grudging sportsman. Now who would be Sita the fair bride? If Deepa became Sita, Njoroge would steal her from me, only to be forced to relinquish her in his final humiliation and defeat. Deepa did not care for this conclusion. Besides, she was my sister, as she point
ed out to my eternal gratitude, to clinch the matter. Oh was I happy to have fair Annie beside me, my Sita, as hand in hand and beaming with pleasure we traipsed in the jungle of my father’s store aisles and among the tea tables of Mrs. Arnauti, and even up to Lakshmi Sweets, where we received burfis. Annie had stuck a rosebud in her hair, Deepa showered bougainvillea upon us as we walked, and Bill-Hanuman behind a monkey mask leaped and bounded and chattered and whooped wholeheartedly all around us. And finally Njoroge with his ten-headed mask, as the demon Ravana who had been lurking in ambush among parked cars, stole my bride and took her to his island of boxes and a potted plant, and Hanuman went to fetch her with sword and sticks. After the last pitched battle, scarecrows were made of Ravana and his cohorts, with appropriate demon masks as heads, which Bill-Hanuman then put to flames with a matchbox, to the cheers of delighted shoppers. But in the end Sita could not be Rama’s any more, for when a spiteful public cast doubts on her purity, the earth split open where she stood and took her away. We could not leave out that conclusion and be true to the story, could we? I had to lose my Sita. Deepa knew that ending too well, which was another reason why she would not be Sita. And Mahesh Uncle always reserved his strongest objection for this treatment of Sita, which when he raised it in our home, would prompt Mother to put her hands to her ears in mock protest.
The day of Diwali arrived and that afternoon uncles, aunts, cousins, and grandparents were all crowded noisily in our sitting room for the celebration. Most of us were on the linoleum floor and it was the time for family stories and games. The servant was rolling in a trolley laden with tea stuff, Mother hovering watchfully behind him, when one of my aunts began a filmi song, which she rendered beautifully. It was Sunanda Auntie, the family nightingale. She stopped abruptly in mid-verse and pointed naughtily at Mohan Uncle beside her. He was required to sing, beginning with her last syllable, and the game of anantakadi was thus underway. Everybody’s turn came—even Dadaji sang a few lines by the legendary Saigal, there was “Baa, Baa Black Sheep” from one of my cousins, and Mahesh Uncle recited an Urdu ghazal. Anything passed, provided the rule regarding the last syllable was followed. And so in that spirit, when my turn came, following Papa’s “It’s a Long Way to Tipperaree” what could be better than to show off to the cousins with—
