A House Called Askival (16 page)

TWENTY-FOUR

When James and Verghese walked right into the Housemaster and the Reverend Peterson after Gandhi's prayer meeting, James thought his life was as good as finished. He couldn't even begin to speak. Verghese struck up a babble of excuses, but the Housemaster held up his hand.

‘Reverend Peterson has something to say,' he said, his voice dark. ‘But before he does, is there anything you need to say to him?'

James hung his head and mumbled a sorry. To his horror, Verghese only straightened.

‘Reverend,' Verghese began, in a piping tone, ‘I sincerely apologise for not attending your talk, which was, in point of fact, a subject of great interest to me. I can assure you, however, that our absence was in no way an act of disrespect to you but an answer to a higher call.' He took a breath to continue but was interrupted.

‘I agree,' said Reverend Peterson.

The boys gaped.

‘Pardon, sir?' said Verghese.

‘I agree with you,' the old man repeated, his eyes twinkling now and two dimples appearing in the soft cheeks either side of the beard. ‘I was dismayed when I discovered – too late alas – that Gandhi-ji was holding a meeting in town tonight. I would have loved to be there. In
fact, I would have cancelled my talk and insisted we all go. Much more important than an old wheezer like me. You've got me here all week and you can have me anytime. But the Mahatma! That is very special and his message is what young men like you need to hear,
hey na?
'

He clapped Verghese on the shoulder, who, for once, was speechless.

‘Now,' said the Housemaster, in a tone rather firmer than the Reverend's. ‘You both know you broke serious rules by going against the Principal and sneaking off campus. However, Reverend Peterson has pleaded with us both to be lenient. I have asked him, therefore, to devise your punishment.'

He turned to Reverend Peterson.

‘I could think of nothing worse, boys,' the Reverend said, ‘than making you listen to my talks for the rest of the week.' He beamed. ‘But to soften the blow, I'd like you to join me at Tea each day to argue with me. It's always good to hear from teenagers while they still know everything.'

And he winked. James looked up into the smiling eyes and wanted to hug the man. All he did was mumble, ‘Thank you, Reverend.'

‘And boys,' the man continued, almost as an aside. ‘Your fine Housemaster has agreed with me that, in this instance, a letter home won't be necessary.'

TWENTY-FIVE

It was a Sunday evening in late October, and the night before
The Gospel of Jyoti
cast travelled to Delhi. The rest of the school had already left on their Activity Week expeditions so the campus was strangely quiet and there was no High School Chapel. Instead, the
Gospel
group gathered in the boys' hostel common room for their own service. Mr Haskell had filled the room with candles and flowers and arranged cushions in a circle. There was Indian music playing and in the middle of the floor a chalk mandala of a cross. At its heart was a wheel, that could have been Gandhi's spinning wheel, or the Tibetan wheel of life, or the wheel at the centre of the Indian flag. Ruth found it hard to tear her eyes from it; the more she looked, the more she saw. There were flowers and birds woven into the design and vivid colours that glowed in the candle-light. She wondered who had drawn it and how they could have given so much for just one night. The next day the sweeper would come and slosh over it with his mop.

Just as the service started Kashi slipped in, hovering at the edge of the room looking for a free space. At first no-one moved until, across the room, Dorcas squeezed up and patted the cushion beside her. Kashi shuffled round the back of the circle, dropped into an awkward cross-legged sit with knees and elbows jutting out, and kept his head down.
His hair was matted and his clothes grubby, streaks and smudges all across his sweatshirt and jeans. Ruth wondered why he couldn't even make an effort for church.

They sang songs from the show and favourite choruses and read passages from the gospels. At one point they held hands and said the Lord's Prayer in their own language and she realised it was the first time she had heard Sita speak Telegu. She squeezed her hand and Sita squeezed back. Then they sang
When I Survey the Wondrous Cross
and Ruth remembered being very small on her mother's lap as she sang it, pressed so close she could feel the vibrations in her chest. At the end, Mr Haskell took a towel and a basin of water and kneeling beside Thomas Verghese, washed his feet. Thomas did the same for Pema beside him, and she for Ruth and she for Sita and so on.

Till it got to Kashi. As Dorcas turned to him with the basin of water, he cringed under his cowl of lank hair and pulled his feet away. They were bundled in ripped running shoes, with laces snapped and re-tied and patches sewn on by the
mochi
. The threads around one patch had come loose and a dirty sock bulged through.

Dorcas waited, but he shook his head. He pointed to the next person and wouldn't meet her eye. She looked to Mr Haskell who gestured her to move on. Shuffling on her knees, the water sloshing a bit, she got to Nazira and smiled with relief when the girl slipped off her sandals.

After the service, as they milled around and drank cocoa, Ruth saw Mr Haskell take the basin back to Kashi, who had not moved from his cushion. He put a hand on the boy's shoulder and was saying something. Kashi shook his head again. Mr Haskell waited. At last, the boy tugged at his laces and slowly pulled off his shoes and socks. Even in the candlelight, Ruth could see the filthy nails and the warts. Mr Haskell drew the feet into the basin, poured handfuls of water over them, rubbed and kneaded them and lifted them onto the towel in his lap. He dried them softly and set them back on the floor.

It was only then that Ruth realised the smears on Kashi's clothes were chalk. All the colours of the mandala; all the colours of the birds and the flowers and the cross. She felt something knife through her. A feeling so
intense and sudden and strange she couldn't name it. Something like longing, or heartbreak. Or love.

TWENTY-SIX

The next day, the whole
Gospel
circus travelled to Delhi in a chartered bus, roof groaning with set and sound equipment, body bursting with excitement. They sang most of the songs from the show along with
Ten Green Bottles
and
Jesus Love is Bubbling Over
(in four-part-round plus harmonies). Their palms were sore from clapping, their bums from the bouncing over the pot-holed road and their throats from laughter and raucous song. Mr Haskell eventually put a stop to it.

‘You guys'll ruin your voices,' he sighed, but he was smiling.

Once down the mountain, the bus passed through endless flat fields broken by dusty villages and towns and the occasional strip of forest, ringing with crickets. If they lifted their windows they were buffeted by a warm, gritty wind, so they only opened a crack and sweltered in the vehicle's inner scents: the heady blend of slapped on fragrance and souring sweat, cherry lip gloss and vinyl seats, bubble gum and hot metal. As the day wore on, they slid against each other, bodies pressed together in the intimacy born of shared dorms, shared showers and shared beds. Some fell asleep, flopped and dribbling, while the couples hunkered down behind sweatshirts to make out.

Ruth's latest boyfriend had graduated and gone to Germany in the summer, so she sat next to Sita, who'd never had a boyfriend. She was
choosy, she claimed. Ruth was not choosy and though she still wrote impassioned letters to the recently departed boyfriend, her eyes were roving.

Most of the time they roved towards Manveer. He was next to Abishek, across the aisle and one seat up, with earphones on. His thigh bounced along to the music and the fingers of his left hand drummed on the armrest. Every fold and crease of his red turban was immaculate, pressed flat as if the whole thing had been ironed in place, and she wondered how long it took him to wrap it. Around the edges of the turban his hair spread like undergrowth, down the back of his neck, across his throat and along the line of his chin where it thickened into a beard. There were even tiny veins of hair that ran over his temples and became the dark ridges of his eyebrows. She wondered how he looked with his hair down. Would it make him any less masculine? And would he grow it long enough to step on it? She pictured him with Princess Leia hoops over his ears and smiled to herself.

‘What?' demanded Sita.

‘What what?'

‘What are you laughing at?'

‘I'm not laughing.'

‘Something's funny. What is it?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Nothing my ass.'

‘Yeah, your ass is pretty funny.'

Sita whacked her with a paperback. ‘Witch,' she said.

Ruth hit her with a magazine. ‘Bastard.'

‘Hey! No fair. I never said “bitch,” I said “witch”.'

‘Ok then.' Ruth hit her again. ‘Wastard.'

Their laughter made Abishek turn to them, grinning. Manveer pulled off his earphones and twisted round.

‘Hey!' said Abishek. ‘Can you guys shut up? I can't get to sleep.'

‘You're not sleeping, you half-wit. You're eating,' retorted Sita.

‘Yeah, give us some,' said Ruth. ‘I'm starving.'

‘Here.' Manveer passed across a bar of Amul chocolate. ‘Have mine.'
His fingers touched hers.

‘Thanks, sweetie. You saved my life.'

‘Anytime, babe.' He winked.

For the rest of the bus journey she savoured that chocolate, the feel of his fingers and his wink She curled them together like a jalebi, warm and delicious, and cradled them in the seat of her stomach where they sizzled and melted and spread out from her lap to her thighs.

It was evening when the bus arrived in Delhi and spilled its bellyful of teenagers onto the pavement outside the Unity Guesthouse on Shivaji Marg. Though the end of October, the air felt warm to the hill-dwellers and wrapped about them like greasy towels. It smelled of exhaust and hot rubber, stale cooking fat and a million bodies crushed together in the mortar of the city. Along the broken pavement a man came limping, one leg swollen to bursting and covered in open sores. The teenagers parted to let him through, his slow hobble watched from downcast eyes, their hands jammed in pockets. As they turned into the guesthouse gate they were caught by the fragrance of the
rat ki rani
that grew in a wild tumble over the archway. Its small pale blossoms glowed in the softening dark.

The Guesthouse was run by Kip, a tall, horse-like woman with cropped white hair and a toothy grin. She threw her hands open in welcome.

‘Ruthie Connor!' Her eyes were shining. Ruth had known Kip all her life – just “Kip' to everyone, no “Miss,” “Aunty,” surname or “ji” – and always felt enormously liked by the woman. Somehow, she sensed she never had to do anything to win Kip's affection, nor could she do anything to lose it. Kip had a way with those big, knuckled hands, too, opening them wide as if to say, ‘Well look who's here! Ain't this the best?' without expecting anything of you. Ruth hugged her and was caught up in her lean strength and a smell like split wood.

‘When are your Mom and Dad coming?'

‘Saturday.'

‘Wonderful! Bet they wouldn't miss it for the world. I'm real excited myself. Got tickets for Friday night.'

‘Great.'

Kip held Ruth at arm's length for a moment, her keen eyes missing nothing.

‘Look at this beautiful young woman. Can't believe we're going to see you in a show.'

Ruth flushed and gave a lop-sided smile.

She lay on her lumpy mattress that night and listened to the sounds of Delhi. Traffic buzzed and whined like a hive of mechanical bees, a radio nearby played film music, the neighbours clattered their pots, a dog barked. It sounded like Kanpur. The Connors' house there was at the edge of the hospital compound and behind it, over the high wall, was a busy corner of the city where life did not stop for the night. Whenever Ruth returned from a semester at Oaklands she spent the first few nights taking forever to fall asleep as the noises invaded her head, and when she finally drifted off she would be woken with a start by a blaring truck horn or the roar of a metal shutter. But she welcomed the sounds because they told her she was home. Whatever noise broke her dreams in the morning and whatever time it was, she could just roll over and go back to sleep. No bell, no queue for the showers, no trudge up the hill to school with a heavy bag of books. No boarding.

But most of the time there were no parents either. By the time she got up, James and Ellen were already at the hospital. Apart from their four weeks of annual leave, and Ellen's summer month in Mussoorie, they both worked full time, year round. In fact, James rarely took all his allowance and there were some years when he had no vacation at all. There were always mission colleagues away, staffing crises, more work than workers. When the girls were small, Ellen had dropped back to part time, sharing their care with an ayah, but once they were both at Oaklands, she resumed her full schedule. On the girls' long vacations, there were various arrangements. Sometimes it was an ayah again, or sometimes their days were spent with other missionary families, or latterly, once they were old enough, they were left to themselves. This had suited Hannah just fine, who played her clarinet, read books and put together photo albums, but was a trial for Ruth. She craved places to go, things to do and, above all,
people. It was especially excruciating when Hannah left for college in the States and Ruth, from fourteen, was alone.

She nagged her parents to let her explore the city, but on that point – as on so many – they were resolute. A young western girl out on her own in India was asking for trouble. They suggested she go with some of the young ladies from church, or the off-duty nurses. She tried it a few times, but always found it uncomfortable. She was like a trophy to them. They paraded her through the bazaar on their arms, fussing over her, showing her off, giving her the best seat, the first drink, the last word. They giggled as they questioned her about school, ‘Do you sit next to the boys in class?' ‘Have you ever had a beau?' ‘Do they let you have fashion?'

There was something about these outings with them that was strangely unsettling. They were fascinated with her and yet in their company, she could not be herself. It made her feel guilty. When she was little she had played with her Indian friends – some of these very ones – and it had been easy then. At five they were not so different. They all wore dresses, ate peanuts and played skipping games in the dust. But once she had gone off to her “Amrican” boarding school and started wearing jeans and listening to pop music, she had moved into a different world. And though she returned to Kanpur every vacation, slipping back into shalwar kameez and Hindi, each time she felt more a visitor, a foreigner, an interloper, even.

She watched her parents negotiate their worlds. Her mother came from a cultured New York family but had embraced India with the same unflinching determination as she had her faith and her husband. Ruth knew that from Ellen's first week in India, she had adopted the sari and forsaken western dress. It was almost shocking to see her change into a skirt for their flight back to the States each furlough and Ruth cringed at the sight of the pale legs with their spidery black hairs. She wasn't sure where her mother looked more out of place: in India where she was white or in the churches “back home” where the other women bristled with make-up, shoulder-pads and big hair.

But Ellen's donning of the sari was only the beginning of her grafting onto India. She learned Hindi with vigour, spending hours with language
teachers and amused neighbours, filling notebooks with verb-ending charts and lists of vocabulary, and sticking devanagiri words onto furniture around the house. On Saturdays she went into the bazaar to learn the names of vegetables and the etiquette of bargaining and on Sundays sat cross-legged in the small, crowded Hindustani church, clapping and singing, then furrowing her brow through the long, sweat-dripping hour of the sermon. And on every day, without exception, she opened her door to the many who called: beggars, colleagues, fruit wallas,
razai
beaters, drug addicts, knife-sharpeners, homeless women and holy men. Ellen had embraced India, and in return, it had devoured her.

Whereas Dad, Ruth thought, was as good as Indian anyway. He slipped in and out of Hindi with the ease of blinking. Sometimes he seemed to forget which language he spoke. His palate was thoroughly local, preferring all things to be flavoursome, strong and aromatic: curries stinging hot, coffee milky and laced with sugar, fruit so ripe it oozed. But deeper than all these things, he was bonded to the place in a way that Ruth could not claim. His feet didn't so much walk on the ground as rise out of it.

Why was it different for her? Like James, she'd been born and raised here (apart from those excruciating furloughs in the States when she was finally the right colour but wrong in every other way.) They rolled around every fourth year, but in James' time it had been every six. He'd hardly spent any of his childhood in America, when she added it up. A year when he was three, which he said he didn't remember, another at ten, which he remembered all too vividly as he didn't know how to play American football and became the class punch bag, and then not again till he was sixteen, when his family moved back and he finished school and went to college. He seemed to love India like his life depended on it. Like it was his life. But it wasn't an easy, relaxed love, full of laughter, like Kip's. He named it God's Call, but to Ruth it seemed more a bondage, as if he had long ago sworn some blood tie from which he could never be released.

From her bed in the Delhi guesthouse, she lifted her hand till it was silhouetted against the window. Yes, she loved it too. Her fingers
spread and curled into claws. And she hated it. She had watched her parents consumed by the place and had tried to shout louder than the Indians and be a bigger problem than the patients and a harder task than running a hospital. But none of it seemed to push her up the pecking order. Her mother despaired, her father disciplined, but they did not deviate. On the scale of needs, India always won.

Floating on the edge of sleep, she heard coughing from the end of the room. It was Nazira, who played Mary the Mother of Christ (alias Ma) but also unrolled her prayer mat beside her bed morning and evening and performed
namaaz
. Her mother was a very strict Muslim, but her father seemed more liberal and had given his blessing to the production. They were coming all the way from Islamabad to see it.

Ruth imagined her own parents coming. Mom might just wear one of her special saris that only came out for extremely important occasions like Christmas or Indian Independence Day. (Otherwise, she wore hospital blue.) Dad would probably be in his black
shirvani
, his wavy hair still damp, hand on his breast as he talked to somebody. Maybe Reverend Verghese. She felt a delicious shiver as she pictured them sitting in the auditorium and the lights going down. Complete blackout and then the first notes on the sitar and Ruth lighting a
dia
. Centre stage.
The Gospel of Jyoti
. The Good News of Light. They would love it. They had to, because it was about Jesus and what's more Ruth –
their
Ruthie – was honouring God.

And
she was a damn good dancer.

She went over each scene as she had done countless times: her parents in concentrated attention, then a look of surprise, a gasp here, a laugh there, a glance at each other with smiling eyes. They were being wooed and won. She was sure they would adore the parable of the Good Untouchable and the Song of the Suffering Servant, which was so, so cool. And what about the Resurrection? That would slay them. And the curtain call! The thunderous, thunderous, thunderous applause. Mom and Dad leaping to their feet, hands beating together like bhangra sticks. A rising wave, a standing ovation. And she, Ruth, bowing. Centre-stage. Holding hands with the others and bowing and beaming and bowing.