A Fine Family: A Novel Page 17

  There was no dust in Simla, which was a shock to Tara. Having been brought up on the Punjab plains, she couldn’t imagine life without it. She was accustomed to dust storms, which periodically swept the Punjab plains from the deserts of Rajasthan. Neither was there dirt, unless you went to look for it in Lower Bazaar. Everything was immaculate and polished, as befitted the summer headquarters of the Raj.

  From the southern side of her house, Tara could look down on a clear day at the brown and yellow plains below. It was an India that she knew only too well. She shuddered every time she looked down because it reminded her of the partition and left her feeling depressed. So she avoided it and preferred instead to escape into Simla’s make-believe world of the English Raj. During the evenings, however, she could not escape from her nagging past. Seva Ram would turn on their new Murphy radio, and they would listen to special bulletins broadcast expressly for the refugees, announcing the whereabouts of missing persons. Her heart would pound as she listened for news of her family. From one such bulletin, she learned that Bauji, Bhabo and the family were safe in a refugee camp in Amritsar. She was happy and relieved. The next day she wrote them a long letter, the longest she had ever written. But this happiness was short-lived, as she learned the very next night that her own sister had been shot in the Sri Ram Mills compound in Lyallpur. She also heard that Chachi and her entire household, including all her servants, had been killed as they were crossing the bridge over the Ravi.

  ‘I swear to you,’ screamed Tara, ‘I swear on my son, that if a Mussalman comes near me, I shall kill him.’

  For days Tara cried and mourned. She could not sleep at night, but Seva Ram was always beside her. He talked about mortality, sorrow and the meaning of life. During those days her husband gradually grew in her eyes and she discovered that she had begun to depend on him.

  ‘You know, I sometimes wonder Tara,’ said Seva Ram, ‘if there had been two Gandhis, it might have turned out differently. Gandhi has such an amazing way of restoring peace wherever he goes. He is like a one-man army. But there is only one of him and he is presently in Bengal and not in the Punjab.’

  After three weeks, Tara finally went to the Mall and bought new clothes for the whole family. The next day, dressed in a new sari, she made Seva Ram take her to Davicos, the most fashionable cafe in Simla, which was famous for its tea dances. Although neither of them danced, Tara watched the dancers with fascination. From that day onwards, they started to go to the Mall every day, and she began to freely spend the little money that they had. They ran into old friends from Lahore and Lyallpur who were refugees like themselves. She discovered that every family had lost someone in the partition, and the mood of the refugees was to live for the moment. Pushed on by Tara, they started going to restaurants and cafes, and lived amidst laughter and gaiety.

  Everything about Tara underwent a change—her look, her gait, her voice. She wanted to forget all that had happened in the past. She gave herself over completely to this new feeling, and made so little pretence to hide it that Seva Ram began to feel worried. Suddenly she started talking about ‘the spirit of freedom’ and ‘how good it felt to be independent with your own government in Delhi.’ She said that she felt a sense of belonging, a oneness with others, a basic identification with all Indians. She began to sound like Nehru on the radio as she talked about ‘democracy, planning, socialism, non-alignment.’ But her feelings were genuine. She felt proud of her new sense of identity. By her constant talk, she even infected Seva Ram with her optimism. He began to share her confidence in India’s destiny, although occasionally he felt that her optimism might be naive and unwarranted.

  Calm by nature, Seva Ram was not used to feeling, let alone displaying, strong emotion. He was aware of Tara’s impetuous nature, which he believed she had inherited from her sensual father. Nevertheless, he was puzzled by her recent enthusiasms, which were new and excessive. He would have expected the more practical side of her nature to have acted as a restraining force. He was aware that she could be extremely cautious and even calculating when it suited her. It amazed him that she could forget the past so quickly. He tried to admonish her once, but she replied, The English used to say that all of Simla’s women are beautiful and all her men handsome.’

  Seva Ram was puzzled. He sought the explanation for the abrupt change in Tara’s behaviour in the irresolute nature of all women. He did not have a high opinion of women. Like many Punjabi men, he believed that women were by nature weak, inconstant and arbitrary. By and large he thought they were not serious, and when they were, their talents were devoted to intrigue and other evil things. They could not be trusted, and their emotions, although deeply felt, were selfishly motivated. Tara’s recent behaviour confirmed his prejudices.

  Seva Ram’s own calm reaction to the horrible events of the partition was not unexpected. He attributed the killing and the hate to the imperfection of the phenomenological world. The catastrophe was an enactment of god’s moral justice, which mere mortals could not hope to fathom. He did not feel anger or outrage but rather compassion for the suffering people, who were misguided by organized religion and its priests. True religion was about man’s private relationship with god, about the Atman’s submersion in the Brahman, which was perfected in privacy through meditation. Religion was not a social activity.

  When he had married Tara, Seva Ram had not quite known what he was getting into. Neither had he been instructed in the duties of marriage by his shy parents. He had married largely to please his guru, who felt anxious over his being alone in the world. Like most Indian boys and girls whose marriages were arranged, he had not loved his betrothed at the time of his marriage. But if he did not love Tara, neither had he loved any other woman. He had always been shy of people and did not form deep relationships with either men or women. Although he did not experience the usual sensations of what is called love in the ancient Hindu texts, he did feel a strong duty to protect and provide for her. He also admired her for her good education.

  Because of his austere upbringing, Seva Ram did not miss anything in his marriage. Unlike Tara, he did not feel an emotional void, because he did not have expectations. He was always satisfied with simple things. He had reached the age of twenty-five without knowing the luxurious side of life. He had acquired the habit of economy from childhood, having devoted all his time to his studies and his meditation. Even during his college days when most men ripen and learn to broaden their paths, Seva Ram exhausted his youthful energy on books. He had never felt the need for leisure or idle pursuits or deep friendships. He was civil and polite to everyone, and he was highly thought of by his classmates, who regarded him as quiet, fair, and bookish.

  One evening, about a month after their arrival in Simla, Seva Ram came home early from the office, and suggested to Tara that they go for a walk towards Mashobra, a village a few miles east of Simla. Tara would have preferred to go in the opposite direction, towards the Mall, with its glittering shops and fashionable society. But she readily agreed because she saw a strange brightness in Seva Ram’s eyes, which simultaneously frightened and attracted her. They went up the thickly wooded path from their house to the Chota Simla bazaar, past a wide avenue, where stood the handsome secretariat of the Punjab government, and eastwards towards Mashobra. The sun was about to set as they walked along the shaded road with huge, stratified rocks on one side and tall, straight pines on the other. Half-an-hour later they came upon a flat field covered with short, wild grass. Tara wanted to rest a while, and they sat down and looked at the setting sun. The hill on their right was carpeted from top to bottom with deodar trees and sprinkled with rhododendrons. On their left were small rocks densely covered with wild flowers of great beauty, predominantly in mauve and yellow. The scene left both of them breathless and silent.

  He looked at her, and he thought for the first time how pretty she was. He reproached himself for not having noticed it before. At the same time he feared this new, peculiar sensation. It was a pleasant feeling but i
t made him feel guilty.

  She realized that he was looking at her and she turned away shyly. He had always presented a polite but impenetrable exterior, which used to leave her frustrated. Today he was clearly looking at her in a different way. Slowly she raised her eyes. She looked fixedly at him and she smiled tenderly. He touched her arm and he suddenly felt an unfamiliar emotion. He felt it so violently that tears came into his eyes. He turned away to hide his face.

  In the cool dusk she was trembling in a light summer sari. He squeezed her to him to warm her. Her scented breath moved the hair on his forehead. Softly she bent in his embrace. It was an ecstatic moment, during which desire had become a torment, but restraint upon it was equally a delight. Although they had been man and wife for years, they were overcome by a powerful, unexpected and mutual onrush of desire. But the clanging of mules on the hill to their right brought them shyly back to the world. Their interlaced mouths disentangled for a smile, as they observed a string of mules laden with colourful clothes, bells tingling merrily around their necks, winding their way up the narrow hill trail.

  She put her head on his chest. For the first time he felt that the person who had attached herself to his life was a distinct individual with her own bundle of thoughts and emotions, whose uniqueness he must respect. He felt astonished by this revelation.

  Soon it grew dark and a heavy mist came on. They decided to get up. In the distance there was a roll of thunder, which added to the sensual agitation. The first drops of rain heightened the atmosphere of desire. Halfway home it started to drizzle, and the rickshaws that passed them had raised their hoods. But Seva Ram and Tara did not hurry. They clung to each other as they walked in the rain.

  Like most Simla showers, it was brief. The sky cleared before they reached home. The trees looked refreshed. In the light of the dim street lamps, the raindrops sparkled on the leaves. Many years later, when they were old and uselessly wise, their thoughts would go back to this day with insistent regret.

  Seva Ram was startled by these new feelings. That night he twice woke up. He looked at Tara as she lay asleep, and again he seemed to be seeing a new person. He felt the same uncomfortable sensation of pleasure and guilt. He got out of bed, walked to the next room and looked out at the dark night. He had touched a forbidden delight and he was astonished to be alive.

  The next day he took her back to the same spot and he talked about himself. In the sharp, exhilarating air he told her about how he had first encountered the guru. ‘It was during my college days in Lahore. I used to go for a walk by the canal. One morning I saw a tall, bearded man, dressed completely in white. He had a young companion with him. When he passed me, he smiled. It was a radiant smile full of warmth, which appeared to say, “Why haven’t we met before? I have been waiting for you.” It was like love at first sight. I was drawn by the goodness and serenity of his smile, and I followed him. It turned out that he was staying in a modest house not far away from my hostel. He went inside, but his young companion came up to me, and invited me to return at six o’ clock that evening. Before I could say anything the boy was gone.

  ‘Weren’t you afraid to go?’ asked Tara. ‘Anything could have happened.’

  ‘I was curious. Besides I was deeply attracted. So I went. I was led inside by the same boy, and I sat down on a cotton durrie. Soon the room filled up. There were about two dozen people, mainly middle aged, none of whom I knew. The guru came at six. After a long silence he spoke in a soft voice, as if he were talking to each one of us individually. He spoke for about half an hour. When he said something profound, he smiled in a self-effacing way. The room was filled with his serene presence. He quoted from a number of mystics of different religions—from Nanak, Kabir, Tabriz, St. Teresa. He said that the truth lay within us, and we did not have to visit temples or mosques or churches to find it. Nor did we have to renounce the world and go off to the Himalayas. We merely had to learn to control our ego. Meditation helped us to do that. When we acted without selfishness, then our actions were pure, and our soul or our separate self was freed to become one with the universal self. I did not listen very carefully because I kept watching him. I was struck by his friendliness and his sincerity. I felt that I had found a friend, and I was happy.’

  There was a long silence. Tara had listened in rapt attention. She looked alternately at the sunset over the distant snowy ranges, and at the face of this short, earnest man at whom she had laughed when she had first seen him in Lyallpur. She was drawn to his warm, shy smile, which lit up his entire face. Inside that small frame she suddenly saw a very large man with powerful convictions, which could shake the world. If Simla was a little insubstantial, as all dream-filled places are, this man beside her she felt was certainly very real.

  A few weeks later, on a biting cold evening at the end of January 1948, Tara and Seva Ram heard over the radio that Mahatma Gandhi had been assassinated. Tara looked at Seva Ram with tears in her eyes. Seva Ram was relieved to learn that the killer was not a Muslim, but a Hindu fanatic, incensed by Gandhi’s continued pleas for tolerance towards Muslims. Had it been a Muslim, the country would have been plunged into another civil war. Soon Nehru’s voice came on the air:

  . . . The light has gone out of our lives and there is darkness everywhere. . . Our beloved leader. . . is no more. . . A madman has put an end to his life, for I can only call him mad who did it, and yet there has been enough of poison spread in this country during the past years and months. . . we must root out this poison. . . The first thing to remember now is that none of us dare misbehave because he is angry. . . In his death he has reminded us of the big things of life, that living truth, and if we remember that, then it will be well with India. . .

  5

  In the evenings everyone in Simla went to the Mall no matter what the season. Between five and seven o’clock the thing to do was to get dressed and take a stroll from the Ridge to the end of the lower Mall in order ‘to eat the air’. It was a delightful winding stretch of about a mile, along a gentle slope, with glamorous shops and smart cafes. One went there to be seen and to see others, and every evening was a veritable fashion parade where men, women and children vied with each other in the elegance of their clothes. The colourful display of women’s silk saris was especially striking, but even the men strutted about in the latest cuts from London. The Punjabi on the Mall felt the same emotions that a fashionable Parisian must have felt when strolling on the Champs-Elysées (or Deauville) at the turn of the century.

  Seva Ram used to often meet Tara on the Mall after work. They would meet at ‘Scandal Poin’, which was everyone’s meeting place, where the Mall divided into three avenues, the broadest one called the Ridge, leading towards the bandstand and Christ Church; a lower one which went past the Madras Coffee House to Cecil Hotel and the Viceregal Lodge; and a higher one which went to the magnificent timbered General Post Office and the Army headquarters. One evening as Tara stood waiting for Seva Ram, she heard her name repeated by a familiar voice. She turned around but could not immediately spot its owner. But the mocking nasal tone was unmistakable, and her heart skipped a beat.

  ‘Karan?’ she whispered to herself.

  ‘Tara!’ said Karan, emerging out of the crowd.

  She was shocked at how much he had changed. He had shaved off his beard, and the gaiety in his eyes had been replaced by a more searching look. His oval face had rounded out at the edges. He had put on a little weight since she last saw him in jail, but he was still slim. His hair was shorter, and he was less youthful-looking. Although he had lost some of his earlier dash, the good looks were still there. The most dramatic change she thought was in his eyes. Instead of the earlier spontaneity, she perceived a subdued irony.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked almost simultaneously. They both laughed.

  ‘We are posted here in Simla,’ she said blushing.

  There was an uncomfortable pause.

  ‘What about
you?’

  ‘Me? Oh, I am eating the air on the Mall,’ Karan replied with a laugh.

  ‘I don’t mean now. You know what I mean.’ She looked flustered, and she reddened as she noticed the unfamiliar, cold irony on his face.

  ‘I teach philosophy. Six months here and for six months in a college in Delhi.’

  Tara was shocked. She had expected him to have become a junior minister in the government or to have attained some equally exalted position, as many of the bright young men had, who had fought in the Congress movement. However, his cold, ironical manner prevented further questions. She felt sorry for him.

  ‘I’ve missed you, Karan. I’ve often thought of you.’

  ‘Have you, really?’

  ‘Of course.’ After a tense pause she said, ‘I have a son.’

  They exchanged family news. They talked about Bauji, Chachi, and the others. They spoke about the partition. Tara noted a surprising absence of the idealism which used to be such a marked feature of his life in Lyallpur. She kept searching in his eyes for a hint of his old mischievous playfulness. Instead she found a stiff, cold cynicism, which was cleverly disguised by excessive politeness. She thought he would say something about Independence, a cause for which he had passionately fought and even gone to jail. But he remained silent. Did something happen in jail? she wondered. What was he really doing in Simla? She couldn’t believe that he had given up everything to end up as a lowly academic.