The House of Blue Mangoes (38 page)

The place selected was a marshy stretch about two yards square where there were patches of small deposits of shining sodium chloride, impure but all the same capable of yielding common salt. The sun had just risen over the eastern horizon and was casting its mild rays all around. A party of five hundred people had gathered to witness the historic ceremony. There was a deep silence and save for the click of cameras no sound was heard. Mahatmaji halted opposite the marshy tract. There were by his side, Mrs Sarojini Naidu, Miss Tyabjee, Shrimathi Mithuben Petit and Dr Sumant Mehta. Thirty minutes after six, Mahatmaji took a handful of salt deposit. His followers did likewise almost simultaneously. Into the enclosure none had been admitted other than Mahatmaji’s volunteers nor did any dare enter. The great act had been done even before the crowd, which had gathered around and stood in a reverential mood, had time to know that the salt law had been disobeyed.

When Daniel looked up from the paper, Narasimhan said with a smile, ‘Impressive, isn’t it? I don’t know if my masters can stop this man.’ And then, realizing how he must sound, the official quickly added, ‘But if this continues, the Government will be forced to take extreme measures. Mr Gandhi should not be so irresponsible.’

‘Why do I get this feeling, Narasimhan, every time we discuss him, that he’s someone you admire, although he’s on the opposite side?’

‘Because he’s a man of principle and honesty, and we have few such these days. But I’ll probably have a chance to observe his methods very soon. I’ve just received my transfer orders, sir. I’m being posted to Melur.’

‘You must come to the house, Narasimhan, before you go. Have a meal with me.’

Daniel’s brief interest in politics was extinguished soon afterwards. Barely a month after he had witnessed the ghostly procession from his window, Charity was discovered unconscious in the outdoor privy. Her clothes, body and face were a moving, seething mass of black as tens of thousands of lightning-quick black ants swarmed all over her, attracted by the unusual sweetness of her urine. Daniel Dorai tried everything he could but she slipped into a diabetic coma from which she never emerged. Lily told him that a month or so ago, Charity had taken to her bed complaining of nausea and exhaustion, but the spell had lasted only a couple of days. Daniel had been touring and Charity hadn’t wanted to bother him with her illness, which had seemed so minor.

The death of a parent leaves no one unmarked. Solomon’s death had scarred Daniel, but Charity’s death broke him. For a start, he blamed himself for her death. As a physician he should have noticed that all was not well. But more than guilt, Daniel felt the fear, pain and deep tearing sorrow of being truly alone for the first time in his life. He was grateful he had his wife and children around him, but it was only now that he realized the extent to which he’d depended on his mother. As head of the family he had coped as best he could with the passing away of Aaron and Rachel, but he wondered if part of the reason he had been so steadfast in the face of tragedy was because his mother had always been there to support him.

For weeks after her death, he would break off from what he was doing and stare blankly into space. It could be very disconcerting. At night he would dream. It was always the same dream: Charity, tiny and indomitable, dressed in a white sari, with a kerosene lantern in her hand, hurrying through a ravine in the deepest night. There was all manner of danger lurking in the shadows, but her step was firm and that part of her face that you could see, serene. Incredibly, the weak lantern kept at bay the malevolent fingers of the dark that probed at her. But the way was long and difficult. He would pray and try to reach out to her, goading her on, telling her to keep walking, looking neither to right nor left, just keep on, keep on. And she would . . . just about . . . to reappear in his dream the next night. Walking down the swart dusk of that valley, steadfastly, calmly, a tiny pinpoint of light.

Daniel was almost fifty years old when Charity died, but it doesn’t matter at what age you’ve lost a parent, there is never anything you can clutch on to, to make it less grievous. He realized dimly through his grief that with both his parents gone he had no safety nets left, no possibility of retreat into sanctuaries, howsoever illusory. He was left with nothing but his own limited wisdom, talent and energy to see him through to the end of his own span. It was a daunting prospect.

He grew listless and disinterested in his work. No new products emerged from the lab, and to make matters worse, the monsoons failed that year, for the first time since Doraipuram had been founded. As the weeks lengthened into months, the family grew restive. They had respected Daniel’s grief for as long as they could, but the truth was that their compassion and empathy were finite. They expected him to pick himself up and go on. Ramdoss and Lily tried to shield Daniel as much as they could, but they knew he would need to start taking an interest in the business and the settlement soon.

In the days of his grief, he spent a lot of his time in the little enclosed veranda behind his bedroom, reading and meditating on death. He read not only the Bible, but also the Upanishads and the Gita, and a couple of commentaries on Hindu and Buddhist scriptures that Narasimhan had left with him. Each text offered him something but there wasn’t enough in any of them to remove the great sorrow that persisted in his heart. Ramdoss often came to sit quietly with him and occasionally he would bring up matters that needed to be attended to. Daniel’s answer was unvarying: ‘Do what you must.’ He had no interest in discussing anything, although he would often tell Ramdoss stories about his childhood, every one of them featuring Charity.

60

All the weddings that had been planned in Doraipuram for the second half of 1930 were postponed until the official year of mourning was over. Among those affected was Shanthi. The groom had been picked, the dowry settled and the remaining arrangements were being finalized when Charity died.

The week after the memorial service that formally marked the end of the mourning period, Lily brought up the subject of Shanthi’s nuptials with her husband. She had tried to sort out all the details, but had run into an unforeseen problem. As there were so many delayed marriages to solemnize, the family had run out of auspicious dates. Shanthi, as the founder’s daughter, would of course have first pick, but it didn’t seem right. There was no hesitation in Daniel’s mind. ‘I want my beloved daughter to be married off as soon as possible, so why don’t we have all the weddings on the same day? The church is big enough and I’m sure we can get the padre some help.’

Doraipuram had never seen such activity. Guests poured in and were billeted wherever space could be found for them. There were clothes to be stitched, pandals to be erected, chickens and goats to be slaughtered, pickles and sweets to be prepared and stored, houses to be decorated, the church readied. Every household was drawn into some aspect or other of the preparations.

Having given his assent to the celebration, Daniel had withdrawn into himself once more, saddened by the thought that Charity would not be present. Lily and Ramdoss left him alone. His bedroom, where he spent much of his time, looked out on to an avenue lined with rain trees, Charity’s favourite. She had personally supervised the planting of the saplings, but she hadn’t lived long enough to see them bloom. This was the first year they were mature enough to do so and for weeks they had been clouded with flowers. Now they had reached the end of their flowering cycle, and the road under them glowed purple with fallen blossoms. One morning Daniel was watching a colony sweeper lazily pushing a broom around on the avenue. He would sweep the area and move on, only for it to darken again with falling petals. But the man was diligent and would return to clear the road, only for flowers to strew it thickly once more. One day, Daniel thought, the downpour would pare to a drizzle, and the broom would gain the upper hand. Wasn’t his grief like that? For months he’d been paralysed, but slowly he was beginning to emerge into the light. He would get there, he knew, his sorrow diluted sufficiently for life to wash it away.

There was a knock on the door and Ramdoss walked in with Chris Cooke. Daniel couldn’t believe his eyes. ‘Thought I’d surprise you, old friend,’ Cooke said. ‘I’m due to retire next year and I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to visit all the places I might never see again . . .’

‘But if you’d told me you were coming we could have ensured that you were met and looked after properly.’

‘Oh, Ramdoss and I have been planning this for some time. As soon as I received the invitation to the wedding, I knew I had to come. This was my last opportunity to see you all. But Ramdoss suggested that it would be even better if it was a surprise.’

‘I cannot tell you how pleased I am that you’re here,’ Daniel said. ‘And how well you look! India must be good for you, I can’t believe you’re to leave after, let’s see, thirty years?’

‘It’ll be thirty-five years, actually, when they finally put me on the ship back home.’

After Cooke had rested and refreshed himself, Daniel and he went for a walk on the beach. The sun lay near the horizon, glowing an impossible red as it sucked the heat from the day.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen more extraordinary displays at dusk and at dawn than I’ve seen here,’ Cooke said.

‘Yes, Father Ashworth used to say that,’ Daniel said. ‘When I was a boy, he and I used to come this way a lot. He’s buried overlooking the sea, you know.’

‘He loved this place. It was a tragic business.’

‘None of us will ever forget those days,’ Daniel said sombrely.

‘Any more caste trouble?’

‘Not around here,’ Daniel said. ‘There are very few Vedhar families left, and they are a peaceful lot. Nationalist trouble flares up every time something big happens in the cities, but most of it takes place across the river. None of that sort of nonsense here.’

They walked in silence for a while, preoccupied with their thoughts, then Cooke said, ‘I was very sorry to hear about your mother.’

‘Thank you for your letter of condolence. I remember it still, especially the comment that her death only meant that she would now always be with me, living within, available whenever I had need of her.’

‘I felt that way when my father passed away. That’s one of the reasons Barbara and I decided to go back. My mother is ailing, and we’d like to be near her. Besides, the children are there now, so . . .’

‘Will you miss India?’

‘Every moment, I think. I try not to think about leaving, and all else being equal, I’m almost sure we’d have retired here.’

‘Aren’t you worried by the political turmoil?’

‘A bit, but nothing’s insurmountable in my view. You chaps want your freedom. Fair enough. But I don’t think you hate us enough to want to eject us completely. Even Mr Gandhi says he has nothing against us personally. I’m sure something can be worked out.’

‘I hope so. Given the choice, I’d prefer the British to stay,’ Daniel said. He had been surprised that his earlier liking for the British hadn’t disappeared entirely. He should have hated them for what they had done to Aaron but after an unrelenting campaign against Rolfe which, because of Cooke, had been swiftly and successfully concluded (the jail Superintendent had been dismissed) he had simply chosen to reject politics altogether. The nationalists, in his view, were no better than the rulers. If Aaron hadn’t been part of the revolutionary movement he might still be with him today . . . And, if it came to a choice between the two, his more or less disinterested view was that the white man was less disruptive.

Cooke was saying, ‘I think both sides could do things better. But with luck things won’t get worse.’

‘I certainly hope so.’

‘Now that my time here is coming to an end, there’s something I’ve been meaning to apologize to you about.’

Daniel laughed and said, ‘But you’ve done me no wrong. On the contrary . . .’

Cooke broke in, ‘I’m sure it hasn’t even crossed your mind, but for some years now I’ve been trying to get you on the King’s annual honours list . . . Given your contributions and support, it would’ve been the least we could do, but every time I’ve put forward your name, Aaron has come up!’

Daniel said, ‘But how good of you, Chris, I’d never have thought . . . In any case there’s no need to apologize. Quite honestly I find such things meaningless.’

They ceased talking for a bit, wordlessly enjoying the sunset, then Daniel said, ‘How are you going to occupy yourself when you leave?’

Cooke smiled. ‘I’m sure I’ll find things to do. We English say we retire to cultivate our garden.’

‘Our version is that we give up everything and head for the forest, although I suppose we’d be lucky to find a decent forest these days,’ Daniel said with a laugh. Cooke laughed with him.

They walked much longer than they had intended to, there was so much catching up to do. When they finally retraced their steps, their conversation exhausted, Daniel realized he would truly miss the Englishman, although for many years now their contact had been limited to letters and the exchange of gifts. Daniel would send his friend an enormous basket of Chevathar Neelams just before the annual mango festival – Cooke had always threatened to attend this, but had never managed to – which he would reciprocate with a bountiful hamper at Christmas. They should have done more together, he thought. He smiled to himself as he remembered how, at Cooke’s urging, he had bought himself a handsome set of the collected works of England’s greatest writers. These had remained, for the most part, decorative and unread in his library. We should have invested more in this friendship, Daniel mused, and now it’s too late.

Two days later the five brides walked slowly down the avenue of rain trees, their saris fluttering like great white moths in the dusk. The sweepers had watered down the dust and their passage scarcely left any impression on the cool earth. Light streamed out of the windows of the church and shimmered on the estuary. Every available inch of space was taken, and the congregation roared out the songs and responses with a vigour never seen before.