Train to Delhi (5 page)

Patiently, Gautam's parents let him have his food; then Shamlal said in a gentle voice: ‘It must have been a terrible day for you.'

‘Yes, Dad.'

‘How did it go with the bishop?' Shamlal couldn't bridle his curiosity any longer.

‘It's all arranged. I've been asked to bring along a witness next Thursday … It should take only a few minutes.'

Gautam sounded as though he had to undergo a surgical operation, brief but assuredly successful.

His father felt a little piqued at his son's niggardly response. He wanted to hear the entire story, every detail. He also wanted to know if Gautam had seen ‘that woman'—Sarita's name was no longer mentioned in the house.

‘Would you like me to come along?' asked his father.

‘Relatives, as you know, are never recognized as witnesses.'

Outside, a man stopped beside a rock to urinate, but hearing voices across the window, buttoned up and slunk away. By now his mother, who'd been listening to them from the kitchen, also came in. She took a seat quietly in a corner, near the window.

‘Then I'll stay away,' said Shamlal. ‘But who'll be your witness?'

‘Berry.'

‘I should have guessed.'

Gautam's father now assumed a sombre expression; his brow darkened as he looked blankly out of the window. Gautam wondered if he was under some strain. Had he really reconciled himself to his son's conversion? Had he really forsaken his infallible prophet, Maharishi Dayanand, whom he ranked above the Buddha, Guru Nanak and Gandhi—even above Lord Krishna?

Gautam snatched another glance at his father, who sat there glum and anxious, his forehead wrinkled, his chiselled chin drooping. Was it a gnawing awareness of some nemesis overtaking him? Or, because Jesus was about to claim his only child by offering him the bait, not of social security but of easy divorce.

‘Is there anything bothering you, Dad?'

‘No, nothing whatsoever,' he replied. But his voice came loaded with poignancy: ‘You know, Gautam,' he resumed, ‘I've done some hard thinking during the past few days … Maybe Christ too was a yogi, a real karma yogi.'

He nodded his head as if to underscore his words.

Ah, the recantation! Gautam at once realized that he was listening to an indulgent father who'd surrendered his soul to the devil. Indeed, there came in the life of everyone a moment when one would seek any desperate justification for one's lapses.

Gautam merely smiled.

‘I know you are amused,' Shamlal said. ‘But I do mean it, really. Well, if the Resurrection is an absurd fantasy according to the Hindus, how do you explain the equally inconceivable phenomenon of our yogis burying themselves underground for days together, then emerging with their heartbeats normal, their vision clear as crystal?'

‘But Christ died on the cross, nailed and bleeding till the end. Stone-dead he was when they pulled him down.'

‘No, my dear, Christ didn't die on the cross,' said Shamlal. ‘He was left there unconscious by the Romans as ‘stone-dead' and buried later. But now I earnestly believe that being a yogi, he had controlled his organs, had sort of anaesthetized himself before they nailed him on the cross. And since he went into a deep Samadhi, a yogic trance, he felt no pain—nor did he really die, so, he rose from his grave after a brief spell of what I think was a kind of subterranean meditation. That was the Resurrection!'

‘It appears I've lost you both to Jesus Christ.'

It was Gautam's mother who interjected in a mocking tone. She was intrigued by her husband's ingenious interpretation of Christ's rebirth. She'd always admired his brilliance, his unrivalled supremacy in polemics, but wasn't he now arguing like the devil himself? It was indeed a great relief for her to know that her son would soon get his divorce. But beyond that point, she thought, all such talk was blatant hypocrisy.

Mrs Radha Mehta's Hindu orthodoxy could never let her accept the notion of Jesus Christ as a yogi. She'd already decided to bring her son back to Hinduism after the divorce was settled. She would let her son stay with Jesus for only a year, the safe period, as counselled by his lawyer. In fact, she was excited at the prospect of looking around for a suitable bride for her son—someone who would be truly devoted to him.

So, rather bored by this theological dialectic between father and son, she gently reminded them of the important broadcasts that evening by Lord Louis Mountbatten and Jawaharlal Nehru. Without waiting for the father and son to stop, she moved into the other room to turn on the radio.

First came the well-known announcer, Melville de Mellow: ‘Please stand by for an important broadcast by His Excellency, Lord Louis Mountbatten, the Governor-General of India.'

A moment's pause, in which one could hear the faint rustling of papers. Then came on a voice—suave, deep and commanding—with each word rolling out in a clipped British accent.

Mountbatten started off with his homage to the great Indian heritage, particularly its religious tradition of tolerance and forgiveness. Then he exhorted the new India to live up to these lofty values: let all communities live in peace and enjoy the fruits of freedom. Discreetly avoiding any reference to Pakistan, he urged all Indians to now arm themselves for a much tougher battle—for peace and prosperity. Finally, he thanked India for the respect and affection she had shown him—which symbolized the new bond of friendship between India and England.

This speech, with its poised rhetoric and staid urbanity, impressed Shamlal Mehta. In another frame of mind, he would have sensed some insidious motive—a member of the royalty trying to perpetuate the Empire through the subtlest form of diplomacy. And wouldn't the oblique operation of proselytization derive sustenance from the chief executive of free India—a Christian?

But, sitting there, facing Gautam and his mother, he said: ‘The best of Englishmen! Surely Nehru or Patel couldn't have run the country's administration on their own. Agitational politics is one thing but the capacity to rule quite another.'

Gautam, however, said nothing. He merely tried to anticipate his own paper's reaction to this speech.

The voice that next took the air was Nehru's. He started with a sharp thrust: ‘This is not the freedom we'd fought for—this is not the India of Mahatma Gandhi's dreams! When will the Hindus realize that this country is not theirs alone? Can we forget the great sacrifices made by such national leaders as Maulana Abul Kalam Azad and Khan Abdul Ghaffar Khan? The Father of the Nation is at present in Noakhali, nursing the wounds of our Muslim brethren. But here, in this historic capital of India, this city of ancient splendour, we're indulging in senseless violence.

‘Let there be no ill will against Pakistan; we wish that country peace and prosperity. But if our frontiers are threatened, we shall fight to the last. So let's not waste our energies in mutual destruction. We have hitched our destiny to the stars; we have miles to go and promises to keep. Let's march together, hand in hand—resolute, unflinching and fearless—till we mould the India of our dreams. Jai Hind!'

‘That's our young prince—a sort of Hamlet,' said Shamlal. ‘Cambridge-educated like Mountbatten, but too flamboyant, too poetic, too impractical. I hope he'll learn to run the administration.'

Gautam's mother beamed at her husband's somersault. Turning towards her son, she said: ‘Isn't your father completely sold out to the British? Next time he may argue that Jesus was not Jewish but English!'

‘That's a naïve woman,' said Shamlal. But his eyes glistened as they rested fondly on her face. ‘How can you make her understand anything?' Then to Gautam: ‘You must be terribly tired. Why don't you go to bed? I'll settle up with your mother in my own way.'

But before his father moved off to his bedroom, Gautam looked at his face closely. Such a striking resemblance with Abdul Rahim—the same arched eyebrows, the same chiselled chin and nose.

‘Oh, the dead man's letter!' Gautam suddenly recalled.

He reached out for his jacket, hanging on a peg above the divan, and fumbled for the letter in its inner pocket. Yes, there it was. Smoothing out the blood-stained paper, his eyes caught the last words: ‘Sometimes I wonder why our British rulers chose to leave us to these Hindu bloodsuckers.'

How very ironic, Gautam said to himself, that both communities were still looking to England for help.

He put away the letter, muttering to himself: ‘Tomorrow, I'll write to his wife.'

Lying in bed, he began to compose the letter mentally. How should I break the news? Who was Salma? Haseena's sister, presumably. And where exactly was Haseena in Delhi? He conjured up the image of an abducted Muslim girl, held under duress somewhere in the capital. Supposing
he
had a sister kidnapped and carried away to Pakistan! He also thought of the Sikh driver's two sisters … He jerked his head as though to shake off these gruesome images. Thank God, he didn't have a sister.

In the other room, the light had been turned off. And then the sound of a creaking bed, a fervent kiss, mute whispering.

‘Don't be silly—not tonight …' That was his mother's voice.

‘Why not?'

‘Can't you see he's still awake?'

‘I'll wait.'

‘I said, not tonight.'

‘I thought you'd also like to celebrate. Isn't Gautam getting his divorce?'

His father pressed on, his voice throbbing with passion.

‘You know once I say no—that's it,' his mother replied. ‘And I'm not really in the mood. Not after your impassioned rechristening of Jesus as a Hindu yogi … Maybe next Thursday.'

‘Oh God, what a tyrant!'

But a few minutes later, Gautam again heard the bed creaking. This time there were no words spoken, only muffled breathing, deep and intense.

So his father had had his way after all, Gautam understood.

Old lovers! Of course, even at fifty-nine his father was sinewy and full-blooded. For hadn't Gautam's mother fed him daily on creamed milk, almonds and Chavanprash? And she had herself, at fifty-three, never forsaken her nail polish. And daily she rubbed her cheeks with orange peels to lend them a fresh glow.

Lying in bed, as Gautam peered out of the window, he saw the moon sailing into a forest of clouds, like a lonely traveller. Under its silvery shine, the boulders looked like primordial mammals resting on their broad haunches, grinding their jaws.

5

‘I
s he there?' Gautam asked, as Shyama, Berry's maidservant, answered the door.

‘Yes, sir,' she replied, ‘but still in bed.'

‘Well past ten, and still sleeping?' he said, walking straight over to Berry's bedroom.

‘He kept working late last night,' Shyama said, as she followed him demurely.

‘And Memsahib—is she up?'

‘She didn't return last night. She'd gone to see her ailing aunt and stayed back there,' Shyama chattered on, ‘because of the curfew … We had a big fire in Pahar Ganj …'

‘Yes, I know.'

Berry, Gautam thought, must have had a free night, with Sonali away and Shyama alone in the house—and much too willing.

He again glanced at this woman and noticed that she was wearing one of Sonali's Kanchivaram saris, and through the translucent blouse were visible two ripe breasts, unencumbered with any brassiere. Her long hair tumbled over her shoulders, down to her swaying hips. Her cheeks rouged, a large moon-shaped kumkum on her forehead, she walked about with a tantalizing swish.

‘Would you care for some coffee, sir?' she asked, a proprietary ring in her voice as though, till Sonali's return, she was mistress of the house.

‘Later,' Gautam said, as he knocked at Berry's bedroom. ‘Let me first shake this lazy thing out of his dreams.'

‘Is it you, Shyama?' came Berry's languorous voice.

‘It's Mehta sahib, sir.'

That was very discreetly done, this ‘stirring' up of her master, Gautam thought. He turned the doorknob and walked in.

‘You indolent thing, dreaming away so late.'

‘Hello, Gautam,' Berry said drowsily, as he gathered himself up in bed and threw his massive body against a couple of large, feathery pillows. ‘That's a nice surprise. Couldn't get any sleep last night—a terrible fire in the neighbourhood and the beastly shouting …'

‘Or was it the play in bed?' Gautam jibed, whispering. ‘Working away late in the night? How very ingenious of you to send Sonali away …'

‘Take it easy, Gautam,' he smiled, rolling his tongue over his lips, leeringly.

‘Smooth operator! One of these days, I'm going to tell Sonali everything.'

‘But dare she complain?' Berry asked, his hairy chest, like that of a large ape, emerging from under the covers, his hand reaching out for a cigar on the side-table. ‘She knows,' he added, ‘that if she creates a scene, out she goes. A wife should be broken into complete submission from the very beginning, otherwise she can give you hell.'

‘You sound like a lion tamer.'

‘Or would you rather have me end up a sulking, suffering cuckold—like yourself?'

As Gautam winced, Berry realized that he'd hurt his friend.

‘I didn't mean to …' he said, now caressing Gautam's hand. ‘In a sense, we are both kindred souls. If you've been the victim of adultery, my wife has killed me with her unalloyed devotion. That stumpy, insipid creature! So you see, we are both fellow-sufferers.'

But even this facetiousness didn't take the edge off his previous barb.

Yes, Gautam thought, it was all his own fault, his over trustfulness, his utter spinelessness. How Berry had always fought back in life, tenaciously, valorously. Even now his chief engineer was hell-bent on suspending him on some trumped-up charge, just because Berry wouldn't cringe before him. What if he couldn't move up the professional ladder? Wasn't he willing to retire as a mere assistant mechanical engineer?