Daughters of India

by Jill McGivering

‘Take her.’ She raised the child as high as she could beyond the window. ‘The gods have mercy.’

  Isabel climbed down, steadied herself against the bank and strained forward to reach. She managed to get enough purchase on the bundle of cloth to lift the baby clear. It weighed almost nothing. She drew the child to her and clasped it against her chest.

  Flames flew forward in a fiery ball from the other end of the carriage. Smoke billowed. Hands jumped from the metal bars as they became hot.

  ‘Help is coming, Asha!’ Isabel screamed down into the chaos. Her voice seemed lost in the thickening smoke. ‘They’re coming.’

  Asha didn’t reply. Her upturned face swam in and out of sight as the smoke swirled about her. Her eyes were points of calm stillness in a sea of clawing hands and screams. A moment later, a streak of flame shot through the carriage in a sudden booming rush and engulfed it all.

  ‘Asha!’

  Smoke ballooned from the windows. The face had gone.

  The narrow streets, some cobbled, some rutted with dried mud, opened suddenly onto an expanse of river. Dusk approached and the sunlight was thickening, dappling the surface of the flowing water with streaks of gold.

  Isabel climbed down from the tonga with slow, careful movements. Rupa, fed and bathed and swaddled in clean cloths, slept in her arms. She hugged the small bundle against her body.

  Around them, people emerged on foot from the slum and made their way in small knots down the broad, steep steps, which led to the water and out along the stone shelves of the ghats.

  She stood to one side for a moment and watched. The ghats swirled with activity. Old men in orange robes, their foreheads painted with streaks of ash, sold garlands of cream-coloured flowers, which clustered thickly round their necks and along outstretched arms. Others carried trays of holy paraphernalia: beads and brightly painted statues of multi-armed Hindu gods. Lakshmi was there and Hanuman the monkey and Ganesh with his elephant’s head.

  The air was hushed. The only sounds were the cries of the birds, which wheeled overhead, swarming along the curve of the darkening river.

  The stone steps extended into the river itself. Here and there in the shallows, men and women stood, ankle-, knee- or waist-deep. Some dipped their hands into the brown water, tipping it reverently over their heads, then raising their palms to the sky, eyes closed, lost in prayer. Others ducked beneath the surface in a moment of complete immersion, then rose a moment later in a rush of spray. The women’s wet saris clung to their bodies. The river, fast-flowing and patterned by swirling eddies and currents, slid slowly past it all, unheeding.

  Isabel’s eyes rose from the waterline and ran along the ghats where a series of funeral pyres had been built. Bereaved families, solemn and still, congregated round neat piles of sticks and branches.

  Over to the left, a ragged procession turned onto the ghats from a distant set of steps and made its way towards one of the pyres. It was led by a tall, imposing man in white robes, flanked by acolytes. Isabel took a few steps closer and strained to see. A moment later, the robed man turned his head and rising light from the water caught his features.

  It was Baba Satya. His hair was drawn back from his scalp and knotted at the nape of his neck and his beard was neatly combed. A garland of flowers hung round his shoulders. His face was daubed with streaks of holy ash.

  Isabel picked her way with care down the steps and out towards the pyre. The mourners, men and women, walked with eyes downcast. In their midst, a bier, carried at shoulder height, supported the long outline of Rahul’s body, wrapped in its shroud. The white cotton shone in the deepening gloom.

  As Isabel approached, the low murmur of prayer reached her. A brass pot sat in the crook of Baba Satya’s left arm. He dipped his right hand into it with a fluid, musical motion and sprinkled water over the corpse. His toes stretched long and crooked in his chappals.

  Isabel paused at a distance from them and sat on the cool stone to watch. The ceremony continued. In her arms, Rupa stirred, snuffled, then sank back into sleep.

  ‘You can’t keep her, Isabel.’ Her mother looked exhausted. ‘It’s simply not on.’

  That morning, she had taken Rupa to meet her parents in their suite at The Grand. So many houses had been damaged in the riots, they were lucky to have rooms there. She and Rupa had taken refuge with Sarah.

  ‘I know you mean well.’ Her father sat back in his chair. His eyes were thoughtful. ‘But you must think what’s best for the child.’

  Isabel didn’t answer. She focused on trying to encourage Rupa to feed from a bottle. Once she latched onto the teat, she sucked in eager gulps. Milk dribbled from the corners of her mouth.

  ‘She’s a determined little thing, isn’t she?’ Her mother watched with suspicion. ‘Couldn’t you find a wet nurse?’

  Isabel kept her voice low. ‘One of Sarah’s servants has children. She’s been a tremendous help.’ She paused to wipe milk from Rupa’s chin. ‘She’s the one who suggested goat’s milk.’

  ‘Goat’s milk?’ Her mother looked aghast.

  ‘That’s what they give in the villages. If a mother can’t feed her baby.’ Rupa continued to suck noisily. ‘She seems to like it.’

  Her mother shook her head. ‘She must have someone. A cousin, perhaps. Or an auntie.’

  Her father nodded. ‘We can always help. I mean, financially.’

  ‘She does have someone.’ Isabel’s eyes stayed on the scrunched face. ‘She has me.’

  Her parents exchanged glances. She sensed their communication without lifting her face to look. Her mother, her nerves frayed, appealing to her husband for support. Her father, priding himself on staying calm, reassuring her: leave it to me.

  When Rupa finished feeding, Isabel wiped off her mouth. Rupa’s eyes fell closed, drunk with milk. Isabel spread a cloth on her shoulder and rested the baby there. She rubbed her back in steady, rhythmical circles, as Sarah’s servant had taught her. The child’s bones were as delicate as a bird’s and as fragile.

  Her father cleared his throat and sat forward in his chair.

  ‘I’m proud of you, Isabel.’ He spoke carefully. ‘You saved her life. That’s a wonderful thing. But she needs to grow up with her own kind.’

  ‘Think of the future.’ Her mother sounded frantic. ‘You can’t take her back to England. She simply won’t fit.’

  Isabel said: ‘I’m not going back to England.’

  ‘You may have to.’ Her father frowned. ‘India may not be safe.’

  Her mother continued: ‘And even here. Think about it. She couldn’t set foot in The Club. She’d be excluded from everything.’

  Rupa had fallen asleep now, limp on her shoulder. Isabel lifted her, wrapped the swaddling cloth closely round her body and laid her along her legs, the tiny head resting on her knees.

  ‘I know it won’t be easy.’ The wrinkled face twitched in sleep. ‘But we’ll manage.’ She paused, thinking. ‘We’ll have each other.’

  ‘You won’t be able to marry again.’ Her mother sniffed. ‘You do see that, at least? No normal Englishman will take on an Indian child.’

  Isabel thought of Edward, rolling on the beach on Car Nicobar with James, their limbs entangled.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘But I never wanted a normal Englishman.’

  Now, out on the ghats, the sun was low in the sky, reaching red fingers to stroke the flowing water. As the light waned, a low breeze blew up from the river.

  The prayers ended. Rahul’s shrouded body lay on its bonfire of sticks and branches, close to the water’s edge. Baba Satya stooped and touched a light to the pyre. Flames crackled and spread as the dry wood took. In a matter of minutes, the fire raged, shifting rapidly from yellow to red. Thick smoke rose into the darkness and swelled in the breeze.

  Isabel fixed her gaze on the long, white shape of Rahul’s body in the flames. The outline shimmered and swam. As the fire began to consume him, the bier jerked and the wood beneath it shifted and fell, tipping the corpse with sud
den force.

  For a moment, Rahul seemed to raise himself for a final look at the world, at the black waters of the river as they flowed through the country he loved and would never, in this life, see again.

  Rupa stirred in sleep and Isabel bent over her. She touched her lips to the child’s forehead, her nose, her cheek.

  ‘I knew your father,’ she whispered. ‘He was a wonderful man.’

  Moments later, the bier, the shroud and the body within were engulfed by fire and committed at last to eternity.

  Chapter Fifty

  Delhi, 1945

  Finally, the announcement came. The war with Japan had ended.

  Isabel and Sarah rushed down to the Red Cross office in the hope of news. The crowd there was already dense. The small rooms echoed with the clamour of shrill, excited voices.

  A stout Englishwoman with hairs on her chin climbed onto a stool and raised her hands. ‘We have no information.’ She shouted into the din, exasperated.

  A young woman near the front waved a letter.

  ‘No letters.’ The stout woman shook her head and made a shooing gesture. ‘Go home.’

  Sarah, near the door, pressed against Isabel. ‘I thought, once it ended,’ she said in a low voice, ‘I just thought he’d be home.’

  Isabel nodded, reached for her hand.

  Days became weeks.

  In late September, Sarah, Isabel and her parents met for afternoon tea on the verandah. Rupa, proud in a party dress splashed with pink roses, twirled in erratic circles on the lawn.

  ‘I shall miss this place.’ Her father’s tone was sad.

  Isabel looked across at him. The tea was to mark his birthday but no one seemed in the mood to celebrate. Her father was almost entirely bald now. His face was puckered and pouched with age. The war, she thought. Both wars.

  ‘I wonder where we’ll be next year.’ Her mother was wrapped round in a shawl, despite the heat. She too seemed shrunken. ‘Might we still be here?’

  Isabel’s father pulled a face. ‘I rather doubt it. Not the way Mr Atlee’s talking.’

  Her mother tutted, looked vaguely back at the bungalow, newly built since the fire.

  ‘Such a shame,’ she said. ‘All that work.’

  Isabel refreshed the teapot with hot water and stirred the leaves. She offered the plate of sandwiches to Sarah, then to her mother.

  Abdul appeared at the French windows.

  ‘Telephone, sahib.’

  Isabel’s mother sighed. ‘Not the office, surely.’

  Her father got to his feet. ‘I should imagine so.’

  On the lawn, a cat crept out of the bushes and started to slink across the grass. Rupa turned and gave chase, trying to crawl after it as it disappeared under the rhododendrons.

  ‘She’ll ruin that dress.’ Isabel’s mother shook her head.

  Isabel smiled. She remembered being three years old herself, running with Rahul in bright sunshine, crawling through those same bushes.

  The three women sat for some moments in silence, drinking their tea, each with their own thoughts of the past.

  ‘Sarah!’ Her father’s voice was animated. He strode quickly, calling as he came. ‘It’s Tom. He’s in the military hospital. Go at once.’

  For a moment, Sarah didn’t move. She blanched. A hand flew to her mouth. The plate on her knee slid sideways to the wooden floor, spilling a half-eaten sandwich.

  The military hospital was a mass of single-storey buildings. Isabel stood inside the entrance to the compound, Sarah stiff with tension at her side, and tried to decide which way they should go.

  The scene was frantic. Nurses, Indian and European, rushed to and fro. Visiting civilians jostled in and out of the hotchpotch of wards and swarmed along the paths that skirted them.

  Off to one side, a hawker sat on the ground beside buckets of full-blown flowers. Their scent was sickly in the heat. A chai-wallah sat on his haunches, ladling boiling chai into glasses. A row of rough wooden benches stood nearby.

  Isabel touched Sarah’s arm. ‘Sit there a moment, would you? I’ll be straight back.’

  She pressed forward into the first building, one of the largest. It was oppressively hot inside and smelt strongly of urine, undercut by powerful disinfectant. The only relief came from the ceiling fans overhead, which slowly churned the air.

  Narrow beds were packed closely together down each side. She strode through, weaving past nurses and trolleys and other visitors. Many of the men were heavily bandaged and lay motionless. Others, sitting, called out to her as she passed. Their expressions were jaunty but their eyes looked bright with fever. Their jutting cheekbones and chins were unnaturally sharp where hunger or illness had melted away the flesh.

  I won’t recognise him, she thought. He could be any of them.

  A nurse came hurrying down the ward and Isabel put out a hand to stop her. The young woman looked annoyed. She held a tin basin in her hand, filled with darkly soiled cotton.

  ‘Can you help me?’ Isabel swallowed. ‘I’m looking for someone. Captain Thomas Winton. He was a POW in Singapore.’

  The nurse shrugged. ‘When did he come in?’

  ‘Today, I think.’ She hesitated. ‘Or yesterday.’

  The nurse pointed to the far end of the building. ‘Turn left, left again at the flagpole, second or third tent on the right.’

  She indicated a sheaf of paper, which hung on a piece of string just inside the ward. ‘Check name against bed number as you go in.’ She gave Isabel a meaningful look as she pushed past her. ‘You may need to.’

  Tom always struck Isabel as a large man. He towered over Sarah when they married, his shoulders broad and solid. She knew his physical power on the tennis court and the polo field.

  Now she stood at the foot of his neighbour’s bed, looking across at him, biting her lip and trying to steady her breathing. The figure lying there was so slight that its contours were barely visible under the blanket.

  Tom was on his back, his shoulders raised by pillows. One arm lay limp on the top of the covers. The fingers, the wrist, the forearm were little more than bone. His head looked too large for the shrunken shoulders. His hair had fallen away into wisps. His cheeks and eyes were dark pits.

  She took a deep breath and forced a smile as she approached him, took his skeletal hand between hers.

  ‘Tom. Thank God.’ She paused. His eyes were open but they struggled to focus on hers. ‘It’s Izzy.’

  He blinked, his thin face suddenly anxious.

  ‘Sarah’s here. I’ll get her.’ She reached down and kissed his forehead. The papery skin was hot and damp. ‘I just needed to find you first.’

  Once she had settled Sarah at his bedside, Isabel left them together. She walked methodically through the rest of the hospital, crossing from one ward to the next, reading through the lists of printed names hanging inside each doorway. Her mouth was dry and her hands shook as she turned page after page but there was no listing for Captain Edward Johnston.

  ‘Does he talk about it?’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘Not a word.’ She stooped and made a show of dead-heading a yellow rose, then moved on to the next bush.

  Isabel looked back towards Tom and Sarah’s bungalow. Tom lay in a planter on the edge of the lawn, a blanket tucked round his legs. His body had the frailty of an old man. He was performing tricks for Rupa who stood, rapt, at his side. As Isabel watched, he made a coin disappear, then pulled it from Rupa’s ear with a flourish.

  ‘He has awful nightmares.’ Sarah straightened up. Her voice was low. ‘He screams. When I wake him, he just stares as if he doesn’t know me. Then he closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.’

  ‘We don’t know what he’s seen.’

  Sarah paused, moved slowly towards the next rose bush. ‘At least he’s putting weight on.’ She shook her head. ‘God knows, he needs to.’

  Isabel waited as Sarah reached through for a dying bloom and snipped it off, dropped it into her basket.

  ‘And
he’s home.’ Isabel took a deep breath. ‘Have you asked him? I mean, about Edward.’

  Sarah turned to face her. Her look was strained.

  ‘He says Edward was taken away. A lot were, apparently.’ She paused, her eyes on Isabel’s face. ‘He doesn’t know what happened after that. I’m sorry, Izzy. Really.’

  Isabel looked down. Her shoes were wet from the undergrowth. Dark half-moons had formed across the toes where water had soaked into the leather.

  ‘We’ve got a passage home.’ Sarah sounded embarrassed. ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you. The doctor told Tom he was fit to travel and then it all happened rather fast.’

  Isabel’s heart quickened. ‘When do you sail?’

  ‘October the fifth. It is rather sudden, isn’t it? After all these years.’

  Isabel tried to smile. ‘Home for Christmas.’

  They turned and started to walk slowly back towards the bungalow. There seemed little left to say.

  ‘What about you?’ Sarah said, at last.

  ‘I’m looking for a house.’ Isabel raised her eyes. Rupa was giggling, fumbling the coin as she tried to master the trick. Her dark hair flew. ‘We don’t need much.’

  Sarah hesitated. ‘And school?’

  Isabel kept her eyes on the grass. Anglo-Indian schools refused to accept Rupa. ‘I can always teach her myself.’

  Sarah turned, touched her friend’s arm. ‘I know you’re waiting for him, Izzy. But what if he doesn’t come home?’

  Isabel shook her off. There were stories in the newspapers all the time about men returning unexpectedly. Men who escaped, who survived in the jungle, who had been given up for lost. She said quietly: ‘He will.’

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Warm air washed across the Civil Lines, coloured by the faint echo of voices. Isabel, sitting on the verandah, strained to listen. There were other sounds. The distant heartbeat of a drum. A whistle.