Train to Delhi (6 page)

‘You know, Berry, I almost came over to see you last evening, but now I realize that would have been a rude intrusion.'

‘Not at all,' he said. ‘Shyama could have waited in the wings for a while … A friend always comes first. I never mix up my priorities.'

The servant came in with two coffees on a silver tray. ‘Look, how well she takes care of me,' said Berry.

The woman blushed, threw the flap of her sari over her breasts and withdrew briskly from the room.

‘That was Sonali's sari, wasn't it?' Gautam asked.

‘Yes. But why shouldn't she wear it when the mistress is away?'

‘You are a rascal.'

‘Maybe—but a benign one.'

Then after a moment's silence, Berry said: ‘Well, you haven't come to the point. How did it go at St. John's? Weren't you supposed to meet the bishop yesterday?'

‘That was what I came to tell you—something I'll be saying for the third time: first to Sarita, then to my father, and now to you … I guess I have hooked the old priest—that gullible Englishman.'

‘Bravo!'

‘But the real fun is that the man also thinks he has hauled in a big salmon. He deserves to be honoured with a title on the new year—an MBE at least, if not an OBE!'

‘I bet he hasn't been here long enough to plumb the Oriental mind—so devious, so scheming, so ruthless.'

Gautam now narrated in detail his encounter with the bishop, and the incident relating to Abdul Rahim.

‘I wonder where Haseena is in Delhi,' was Berry's first response. ‘I should like to rescue her from her abductors.' There was a lustful glint in his eyes.

‘You're an unmitigated lecher,' Gautam said smiling, sensing his intention. ‘Your entire life revolves around one axis—woman.'

‘But what greater pleasure is there than to hold a woman's breasts in your palms? Then to descend into that deep, dark cavern where eternal peace resides … The rest is all maya, mere illusion.'

‘Oh, your irrepressible eroticism!'

‘Call it whatever you like,' said Berry. ‘It keeps you from sulking—and sane and healthy.' Then, after a moment's pause: ‘You know I made love to Shyama last night while the timber shops were blazing away in the neighbourhood. Oh God, this woman certainly knows how to swing.'

‘Another Nero! That's what you are. But no more of this.' Gautam paused. ‘I need your help. Will you come to St. John's next Thursday as my witness?'

‘As your bottle-holder?'

‘Yes.'

‘Any time, anywhere.'

‘Thank you … Then ten o' clock—at the church.'

‘But look, if that woman chooses to back out at the last moment, there'll still be another way out,' Berry said.

‘What?'

‘Islam. It offers you four wives—that woman plus three.'

‘But that won't do. I'll still have that albatross around my neck.'

‘She'll then be just one of four.'

‘You're in high spirits today,' said Gautam; then, looking at his watch, ‘I must get moving now. It's almost eleven.'

But as he was about to leave, Shyama breezed in.

‘It's Purnima, sir. She wants to see sahib at once.'

‘Purnima!' Gautam exclaimed, almost blanching with anxiety. ‘Oh Jesus, what's up now? What if that woman has already changed her mind?'

Quickly Berry changed into his dressing gown, and sat on a sofa chair.

As Purnima appeared at the door, looking pale and worn out, Gautam erupted.

‘What's the matter? … How did you know I was here?'

‘Sir, I first went to Anand Parbat and was told …'

‘Okay,' said Gautam sharply. ‘Will you spit it out? Chasing me round the world like a detective.'

‘Rahul's dead, sir!'

‘What!' both Gautam and Berry exclaimed, in great surprise.

‘Died last night, about three o'clock. Sudden haemorrhage or something.'

A sombre hush fell over the place. Gautam's face went livid; he kept staring at Purnima, as though finding it difficult to believe what he'd just heard. He'd loved the child dearly, spending hours with him in the nursery—brought him toys, candies. And now he was gone.

‘But I saw him only last evening, you know,' Gautam said, biting his lips. ‘Is the body still there?'

‘Yes, sir,' she answered. ‘Memsahib thought you might like to see him before he was taken away.'

‘Is there nobody else around?' Gautam asked her, suddenly realizing that the other man might also be there.

‘Nobody else will be there, sir, till noon.'

Gautam knew that the woman was only being discreet. ‘Nobody' was obviously Mohinder. He understood that after his earnest offer of remarriage, Sarita must have felt impelled to make this gesture.

Then came the child's last words ringing into his ears: ‘Daddy, when will you come back again?'

‘I'll be there, Purnima.'

6

O
n his way to Darya Ganj, Gautam dropped into a wayside mailbox the letter he'd written to Abdul Rahim's wife. He felt as though he'd been caught between two deaths—the old man's and Rahul's. Wasn't he poised precariously, like a spider, between two ends of a cobweb? A burnt-out young man around thirty! Could he again pick up the threads of his life at this late stage? He knew he was becoming a manic-depressive. He should heed the tonic advice of that daredevil, Berry, he told himself, and grab his share of happiness.

As he approached the house, his mind swung back to Rahul. Why didn't he hate him, this painful remembrance of his wife's infidelity? But that was beyond him, he knew. Even amidst the din of traffic, en route to Darya Ganj, he imagined himself hearing the child's last words.

‘Yes, I'm coming to you, my dear,' he said to himself, as he knocked at the door. He hadn't realized that it was already a little after twelve.

Purnima, who'd somehow reached the house ahead of him, answered the door. Quickly, he walked through the drawing room, looking momentarily at Jamini Roy's ‘Beggar Girl' with her agonized blank stare. He turned into the bedroom where, on a leather sofa near the double bed, lay Rahul, dressed in the sailor's uniform he'd brought him from Bombay. The child looked as though he was just asleep, tranquil and happy, after the day's hectic play.

All around the sofa ran little rills of water dripping from the large slabs of ice, heaped one on top of the other. Petals of roses and jasmine lay strewn on the sofa, and all over the floor. Since Gautam had removed his shoes out of respect for the dead, he felt the viscid wetness under his bare feet.

As his eyes lingered on Rahul's face, he remained oblivious of Sarita's presence in the room. Sitting on a stool, far away in a corner, she watched him deeply engrossed in the child. Indeed, Gautam loved him very much—his wan face bore ample testimony to it.

Then, as Gautam looked into the corner, their eyes met: a cold, silent encounter, neither of them uttering a word. This woman whose raucous, nagging voice had always rocked the house, now sat mute, almost vanquished. A riffle of compassion ran through him.

Gautam now sat on the sofa, near Rahul, caressed his face and head. But just as he bent to kiss him on the forehead, he heard a knock at the door. Purnima rushed to answer it, but the person had already walked in. Mohinder! Two pairs of glazed eyes collided with each other.

Gautam looked at his watch; it showed a half past twelve. Well, wasn't he himself to blame for first coming late and then overstaying? Hadn't Purnima discreetly assured him that there would be ‘nobody' around ‘till noon'? Now that he'd stayed on well beyond the deadline, ‘Mr Nobody' had made his appearance on the scene—as Rahul's father and Sarita's paramour. Gautam felt a stab of revulsion for this man and that woman.

Immediately, he got up from the sofa and turned towards the door. He must clear out at once, he thought, and let the real parents take over. Wasn't he like a neighbour who, after offering his condolences, should promptly withdraw? As the three of them looked at one another, it appeared as though they were acting in a pantomime—two men, a woman and a sleeping child.

Then Gautam swung out of the room. Once out of the house, he felt the hot sun beating down his neck. The afternoon heat was sizzling like a furnace. How cool it had been in there, he recalled, near those slabs of ice. But then the other blaze now overtook him—of intense loathing.

He had hardly gone a few yards down the street when he saw Mohinder running after him, breathlessly.

‘A moment, p-l-e-a-s-e!'

The words blared into the air; the silence of the past half hour was shattered. What was this man up to? Gautam braced himself for the confrontation.

To hell with this man, he thought; if only he could bash his head against some lamp post.

‘I've been wanting to have a word with you, alone.'

‘Will you drop the prologue?' Gautam shot off. ‘What do you want?'

‘I know I've wronged you but, really, I'm not to blame.'

There was strange pathos in his voice. He'd stopped in the middle of the street, his right hand nervously fidgeting with a curl near his forehead.

‘I have no time to listen to all this. What's done is done.' Then, after a pause, he resumed, almost hissing: ‘Why don't you marry her now?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Surely you understand, you deadly viper,' Gautam blared out.

‘Maybe I deserve to be called that … But you loved him.'

‘Who?'

In his anger, Gautam couldn't fathom what Mohinder had meant.

‘Rahul.'

‘I don't know,' Gautam almost stuttered and strode away.

A man from the house opposite peeped out. From the street's bend, Gautam looked back to see Trivedi talking to Mohinder.

7

D
esigned as an inverted charpoy, almost like the King's Chapel at Cambridge, and built three years after the Indian Mutiny, in 1860, St. John's Cathedral stands at the northern end of Mahavir Street, about half a mile from the Red Fort. Its steeples tower high above a marketplace cluttered with hardware merchants, drapers and wholesale dealers in stationery. Except for two painted glass windows on either side of the main entrance, depicting scenes from the Bible, all other windows are bare.

But what strikes even a casual visitor to St. John's is its sturdy massiveness, its impregnable strength. After the end of the British rule, on 15 August 1947, this cathedral acquired a unique significance, as though the Englishman, who first landed on the Indian soil as a mere trader, and later ruled as the absolute monarch of this subcontinent, had now assumed his new role as a missionary. So, all the affluent Anglican missions in England started pouring generous donations into this church which, they believed, was now destined to ‘annex' India's spirit, if not her body. No wonder, Father Jones felt himself unequal to the new burdens and responsibilities; so much had happened within the brief span of a few weeks only.

On a quiet warm Thursday morning, Father Jones walked across the vast courtyard, holding a pocket Bible in his right hand. He was draped in a white silken robe, his velvet hood dangling at the nape of his neck. At the main entrance, he was joined by two of his junior churchmen, while inside the cathedral were Gautam and Berry, already seated, looking like two nervous candidates about to be interviewed for some post.

As Father Jones saw Gautam, he walked towards him.

‘Good morning Mr Mehta,' he greeted him with a gracious smile.

‘Good morning, Father,' Gautam responded; then, turning to Berry, he added, ‘This is my friend, Birendra Dhawan. He'll be my witness.'

‘I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr Dhawan …'

Then the bishop beckoned Gautam to follow him up the rostrum. To its left stood a large bronze statue of Christ on the Cross, while to the right was a mural painting of the Madonna and the Child. As Gautam went down on his knees, Father Jones began to read from the Bible. Gautam was particularly touched by a passage from Joshua in which Moses asks his followers to cross the river Jordan into the land of new promise. Wasn't he too about to cross over to freedom!

This was followed by the sprinkling of holy water on his head and shoulders. As Gautam rose to his feet, the bishop said: ‘Since you are now one of Jesus's flock, the Lord shall take care of you.'

There was a brief silence. Then the bishop asked the small congregation to join him in prayer.

‘O Lord, this man has come to you for your blessing. Let him share your glory, partake of your divine grace. All these years he has wandered about seeking you, and now that he kneels at your feet, accept him, O Lord—help him, guide him, forgive him all his past sins. He seems to have suffered endlessly. What joy can there be without you? So for every moment of pain he has undergone, let him have years of happiness. Lend him courage, for that's what he'll need most hereafter. Fill the remaining years of his life with love, light and song. Amen!'

After this simple ceremony, Father Jones led everyone into his office in the rear wing of the cathedral, where Gautam signed in a large brown register. Berry put his signature as his witness. The other two churchmen signed on behalf of St. John's Association. Immediately thereafter, Gautam received a large golden card, which looked like a wedding invitation.

After shaking hands with the bishop and thanking him profusely, Gautam and Berry hurried across the churchyard to the front gate. Here Gautam showed him the spot where he'd seen Abdul Rahim's body lying in a pool of blood.

Hardly had they stepped out of the cathedral when Berry turned on his banter: ‘How do you feel, Mr Moses Kaufmann?'

‘I'm not Jewish, I'm Christian,' Gautam replied, smiling.

‘Not that I'd know the difference … Still, do you feel any different?'

‘Not quite,' Gautam answered, solemnly this time. ‘But how did the bishop's prayer strike you? … Wishing me years of happiness and all that. If only he knew how much I needed such a blessing. Of course, pain for Father Jones is merely living without Christ, not the trauma of a wife's betrayal.'