‘But I have to get back, Raavi.’ The way she said my name sounded like a one-word poem. On the spot it cured all the loneliness I had had to shack up with in this country.
‘It’s good for burning eyes to look at green grass.’
‘If you say so,’ she said and I thought she was getting used to the idiotic Mehra humour.
We drove up to the Heath a few hundred yards away. The morning was lovingly warm, as if the sun was a doting relation. A gentle breeze blew in our faces and everywhere it was apple green and every blossom in full bloom and that sun above us. No bard could have sung of a day more glorious, nor imagined one. It was our day.
Just as I was about to regale her with the story of my trip to her Beautywich, the sky broke open. A thunderbolt crashed and it was no longer my day.
‘Raavi, this won’t work.’
‘What won’t?’
‘This.’
‘Why not?’
‘It just won’t.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I just do.’ The look on her face said she did.
‘Explain to me. I’m listening.’
‘I can’t. Goodbye.’ She turned and ran back to the Mini.
‘Jane! Jane!’
I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want go anywhere. I only wanted to walk. My body still aching from last evening’s tumble, I walked and walked aimlessly, a lost dog. When I could walk no more, I went home and spread myself on my bed, an empty dome echoing with pain, of the body and the heart. Sleep, cherished friend of the wretched of the earth, swiftly took me in its sweet lap. It was dark when I woke up. As there was no light under my door, my Submates had mercifully presumed I was out. I stared at my darkened ceiling and felt the silence of the night - long and deep.
‘This is ridiculous, RKM’, I heard myself say, when I realised that I couldn’t sleep. ‘And pathetic. Eat something and go for another walk. Five hundred yards up and five hundred yards down in a street of your choice.’ I had no appetite even though I hadn’t eaten all day. Nor did I want to go for a walk. Yet I needed to be out of my room - I felt suffocated. So I opened my back door and strode into the inviting quiet of the Brazilian rainforest of our back garden. Above the tall trees which hid the row of semi-detacheds behind ours, the moon was rising. There was even a half-hearted scatter of stars, a rare sight, and I said to my other self: ‘She walks in beauty, like the night, Of cloudless climes and starry skies,’ and my heart simply stopped beating. For there she was - on the other side of the five foot wooden fence which stood between nature methodised and nature wild.
‘Jane.’
‘I couldn’t sleep.’
‘Are you sorry to see me? Shall I go away?’
‘No. Don’t. Raavi, what are we going to do?’
‘Me - I am going to kiss you. May I?’
‘Yes. I have never been kissed before. Kiss me a lot.’ I kissed her. A lot. ‘This fence - it’s very divisive,’ I murmured. ‘Can I break it down?’
‘My mother would kill you. And me.’
‘But I want to hold you in my arms. All of you against all of me. I want to wrap myself around you.’
‘Me too. Are you any good at jumping fences?’
‘I came first at the Newmarket Races at the last meeting. But I think our garden is better. It is jungle proper.’
She climbed over the fence and we were in jungle thick and real with grass as tall as me and skyscrapers of anonymous foliage. I held her in my arms for a lifetime, all of her against all of me, a perfect fit and the sum total of my life.
‘I held you in my arms in a previous life,’ I sighed.
‘You are good at talking. Are you good at anything else?’
‘Yes.’
‘Prove it then. But be gentle. Very gentle. I have not done this before.’ I was gentle. Very gentle. I thought she was going to die. I thought I was going to die. Next morning, I noticed a few tiny red stains on my bed-sheet. We died every weekend in our jungle. One afternoon a week, we met in town to walk and talk.
It sounded like rain, but not the rain I had been brought up with - the Indian monsoon was delightful and devastating, life-giving and life-taking. This was the polite English pitterpatter. It changed to whispered shouts of, ‘Raavi, Raavi! Wake up!’
‘Robert? What’s the matter?’
‘It’s Mummy.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘I don’t know?’
‘Where’s Jane?’
‘At college.’ Of course, Jane was coming home tomorrow, Friday. Robert had climbed over the back fence. I did what he had done and climbed after him. He took my hand and led me inside the house. It made me conscious of two things simultaneously: that I was entering a real English home for the first time, and that it was a bizarre way of doing so - jumping fences and coming in through the back door. I felt shamed by it.
Poor Mrs Muir was not a beautiful sight. Slumped in an armchair, she wore a dazed expression. Her hair was all over the place and her make-up a mess - the mascara and the lipstick had run into each other. Little Ann clung to her, sobbing. The kitten, Tina, was climbing over them both. Things in the room looked out of place. Some books had been thrown around, a chair upturned and a table pushed into a wall. In a corner I spotted bits of broken glass, the remains of a tumbler. Mrs Muir frowned when she saw me. Yet she ran her fingers through her hair girlishly and pressed down her skirt.
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ She was enraged.
‘Robert has brought me. Are you all right?’
‘Yes, I am perfectly all right.’
‘Robert, a glass of water.’ Robert ran and brought a glass of water. ‘Drink it, Mummy.’
‘Why did you bring him here?’
‘I had to, Mum.’
‘Please drink the water, Mrs Muir.’ I took the glass from Robert and held it to his mother’s lips, shocked to see that the left side of her face was badly bruised. Mrs Muir took the glass from my hand and sighed deeply. ‘You see, we were trying to make up. But.’ She stopped and stared at me, frightening me.
‘But what?
‘But he went mad when…’ She stopped again and suddenly I knew that it was even more ominous than a husband-beats-up-wife thing, and that it had something to do with me. I held my breath.
‘When what, Mrs Muir?’
‘When he heard about you and Jane.’
‘What about me and Jane?’
‘About the two of you carrying on.’
‘Who told him?’
‘I did.’
‘Who told you?’
‘Jane did.’
‘Then?’
‘Then he went berserk.’ Mrs Muir broke down.
‘Mummy!’
‘Mummy!’
‘Please don’t talk, Mrs Muir. Have a drink.’
Mrs Muir was in no position to talk much anyway. She had a sip and hiccuped again. She pressed her son to her, his face in her bosom. It was a strangely moving sight, an undignified sight - wife-bashing wasn’t an Indian exclusivity. But in Mrs Muir’s case I was the cause of her indignity, humiliation and pain. I was ashamed of myself. I was speechless with shame. Yet I knew I had to say something comforting, something useful and helpful. But what?
‘I am sorry, Mrs Muir. What can I do? What would you like me to do?’
‘There is nothing you can do. Just go back. I’m fine now.’
‘You are not fine and I am not going back.’
‘You better had. He might come back from Kilburn and shoot you even for being here. You don’t know him.’
‘He can’t, Mummy,’ Robert said. ‘I’ve locked the front door. Put the latch on.’
‘He’d break it down. No, you’d better go.’
‘But why did he do this to you, Mrs Muir? Is he likely to turn on Jane?’
‘I don’t know. He’s capable of anything. So utterly unpredictable.’
‘I want to help. What do you suggest I do?’
‘You’ve done enough
as it is. Just go away.’ The way she said it! It told me what I must do: get lost, go back to where you’ve come from, India or Africa or wherever it is, but just go.
‘Surely you know you’ve been trouble from the word go,’ she went on. ‘The car accident the other day. And now this business with Jane. Why did you have to come and live next door?’
‘But Jane and I love each other.’
‘Love?’ There was scorn in her eyes. How I wished it was affection instead!
‘Are you saying I’m to blame for what has happened?’
‘I don’t blame you.’ How I wished she could like me, even a little!
‘I think you’d better go. He might come back. I can’t say what he’d do if he saw you here. Shoot you like a dog.’
I climbed the fence back to our garden. It was twilight and very, very still. Only the fragrances of our tropicana moved - they assailed me with their blend. Nothing else stirred, except in me. Inside my ribcage there was a flutter – as if a bird was trapped there.
I could foretell what Melaram would say about it. Still I sought him out - it was always comforting to hear his voice, even when you knew he would give nothing but the bitter pill to swallow. Forefinger on chin thoughtfully, he heard me out, nodding. He went on nodding long after I had finished.
‘You love her, then?’ he said finally.
‘This coming from a poet puts poetry to shame, Mela-ji.’
‘You are saying just what I don’t want to hear.’
‘A poet doesn’t want to hear of a man being in love?’
‘Not with the daughter of this man.’
‘Why not, pray?’
‘Because I know him, a second-hand car dealer. And because I know them.’
‘But you’ve never had an English friend, man or woman.’
‘That’s why I know them so well.’
‘So you suggest.’ The bitter pill, a very bitter pill.
‘Yes. Think of what you are doing to the family.’
‘What am I doing to the family?’
‘Think. God was obviously frugal when He came to giving you a brain. Spend a fraction of whatever He gave you on what in educated circles is described as thinking. For once dig a little deeper inside your hollow head.’
Why did Melaram sound angry with me? But I did what he had suggested. I dug deep in my hollow head, a confusing and painful exercise. The deeper I dug, deeper became the pain and the confusion. Then all of a sudden, the dark sky got lit by a flash of lightning, and I saw what I had to do.
The next day was the last day of the school year. My school would shut down at lunch for the pupils. Then the staff, all three score plus, would have their party. Presentations would be made to staff leaving or retiring. I hadn’t attended the half-term bash even though I had paid for it and also made a decent contribution to farewell gifts for all members of staff leaving. Because I was also leaving, I had been asked to attend this party by no one less than the amiable Deputy and fellow cricketer, Ted Compton himself. ‘Mr Mera, the staff are raising money to buy you a present. So you have to be there,’ the cricketer had said. So I had to be there. Like at half-term, I had paid all my dues well in advance. When I had done that, I had looked forward to it all – everyone looks forward to receiving a present. Even one with a broken heart.
The first double period consisted of normal teaching. Then a form period followed. This was free time for me. I was Supply. I did not have a form. I had a good two hours at my disposal, so I went around newsagent’s in Camden Town. Within an hour, I found myself a room to rent nearby. It was twice as expensive as my room at the Sub but twice as big and tastefully furnished. A needle went through my heart when I said to myself how much she would have loved it. But now, alas, she would never even see it. After paying the deposit, I returned I to the school for the party in the assembly hall.
First came the drinks - red and white wine - in plenty. Then the Head, the burly Mr Sewell, went on the stage and began his end-of-term oration. There were three retirements and four ordinary leavers, including a pretty Australian and myself. The two of us had come to this school on Supply the same day eight weeks ago. She was the sixth to be called to the stage to collect her farewell gift. I got ready to follow her – I had rehearsed my thank-you little speech. But my name was not called out. The staff of sixty had not been able to raise even a pound to buy the Indian English teacher a book! His world was already in ruins, now he felt gutted. Totally. This England he so adored!
The Subcontinental was empty save for my poet friend. When I had packed, I ran upstairs to say goodbye. Surprisingly, Melaram didn’t ask me into his room. He had company, and it was evident he didn’t want me to know who his guest was. He said from the other side of the door that he would come down - but I got the swiftest glimpse through half-open door.
‘What? Lock stock and barrel?’ the man of beautiful words was lost for words. I had not only taken his advice and was calling it a day, I was even quitting the neighbourhood.
It broke my heart to leave the Subcontinental. But my heart was broken anyway, broken in a thousand pieces as in that old Hindi film song. I went. It was the end of an era, but, as yet, no beginning of another in sight. What an era and what an end. Maybe when Magic Number Two got going, things would pick up to keep me going. Maybe bus number 2A would get me yet. Maybe the Queen would invite me to her garden party. Maybe I would win the Grand National. But what the hell? Hadn’t I already won it? I had. Just go, RKM. You have to do this because you love her. It would hurt her too. But she would understand why I had done it. There was no other option. I could have lingered on, but it might have ended in disaster, in tragedy even. Her old man obviously thinks you are nothing but shit, I told myself. That’s what most of them think of the likes of you anyway. Look at your school.
So what should I do about it? Confront the issue, I decided suddenly, not run away from it. Take the bull by the horns and see what happens. At least I would have tried and he is not a man who doesn’t try.
‘Excuse me, would you kindly take me back?’ I said to the taxi driver when we arrived at my new address.
‘Eh?’
‘Please take me back to where we came from.’
‘What you on about?’ The fellow was either very dense or had hearing problems.
‘I have changed my mind,’ I said distinctly. ‘I want to go back, if it’s all right by you.’
‘Oh it’s orl right by me, mate. You’re paying, don’t forget.’
Melaram stood in his open window, looking out. With him was somebody - an Indian lady of some girth. She moved away instantly, as if to hide. Melaram’s jaw fell open when he saw me getting out of the taxi and heaving out my luggage. Then I saw him slap his brow and shake his head. The poet had glimpsed a tragedy foretold.
Whenever we met, it was two explorers in the Sahara coming upon an oasis. Immediately, we set about quenching our thirst. We drank from each other’s lips. But our thirst was deep. We drank and drank. Words came later, much later. Tonight, I knew it would be words only, if she came at all.
She did. We stood in silence with the fence between us. This was a different kind of silence than that which prevails after a lovers’ first quarrel. It singed the otherwise perfumed air with its own scent. We knew what the other was thinking. We knew what there was to say, but we could not say it. I knew I was beholding her for the last time.
‘Baby.’ I spoke first.
‘Yes.’
‘You came.’
‘But of course.’
‘You do know what you have to do?’
‘What?’
‘Stop seeing me.’
‘Why?’ The sound of her w and h was very pronounced.
‘You know why.’
‘I hate him. He’s awful.’
‘But he’s your father.’
‘He is my father, but I hate him. And I never want to stop seeing you. How can you say such a thing to me?’
‘Think of your mother. Think of wha
t he did to her.’
‘It’s not the first time. But next time he lays a finger on her, I’ll shoot the bastard with his own gun.’
‘Listen. I was moving out of here to a room in Camden Town. I had actually gone with my things in a taxi, so that there would be no more trouble for you all. But I came back. Because I had to see you and tell you.’
‘Tell me what?’
‘That you must stop seeing me.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘It is not nonsense and you know it.’
‘I don’t and I don’t want to.’
‘Listen to me, I implore you. I supplicate you.’
‘You are ever so good with words. Your English is much better than mine.’
‘For heaven’s sake, listen.’
‘I am.’
‘We have to stop it. Now. Not only us, but your mother, too, is getting hurt. Physically.’
There was a pause. We looked at each other, at the silhouettes of trees and shrubs, pursuing our thoughts. We were not getting anywhere.
‘You reckon it is best for everybody?’
‘Everybody. You, your mum, dad, even Robert and Ann.’
‘What about you?’
‘Me? I don’t count.’
‘It seems so stupid. An utter waste. Here we are, so madly in love, and you say we must put an end to it all.’
‘Yes. Right now. You are always saying goodbye. Now it is my turn.’
‘Kiss me.’
‘You know what would happen if I did? I’d go mad.’
‘Just once. For the last time.’
‘No.’
We were exhausted - of words, of the world. But we could not move. We were bound to the fence by a force stronger than us. We had to part, we were going to part, but we could not part. In that moment I realised what she meant to me, and because she meant what she did to me, I knew I simply had to go. I noticed she was trembling.
‘You go first,’ she said. She always used to say the same on the phone - you hang up first.
It was now or never. Without a word, I turned and walked away, through my private jungle to my little room. There was a desperate urge to walk away from the house altogether and just keep walking till I reached home in Simla or till I reached the end of the world. But I needed to lie down and stop thinking, and totally dissolve my mind’s process into the jet-black interior of my unlit room, become ether and just not be. How long had I been there? Five, at most ten minutes when I saw a dark form framed by my open door.
Indian Magic Page 15
