A Fine Family: A Novel Read online

  Like a true Hindu, who prefers dreams to facts and ideals to reality, Gandhi did not seem to realize that he was playing with fire. The more he succeeded with the masses the more he alienated the Muslims. Where was all this leading to? Today’s incident at the railway station was merely a sign of what was to become of the Punjab. His own life had not been in danger today, but no one had been able to save that poor innocent boy in the Company Bagh last month. In their quest for independence the politicians had ended by inflaming latent communal passions. He could not believe that they would sacrifice the Punjab as a price for gaining India’s independence. He was convinced that dreamers were dangerous and should not be allowed into the realm of public affairs.

  The next day was a holiday and the sun shone on a refreshed Bauji. He had just finished a glass of cold, frothy buttermilk, and he sat in the courtyard, feeling pleased with himself, waiting to be shaved. The barber had been especially summoned, not only because Bauji needed a shave but because Bhabo had insisted that his advice be taken on the marriage proposal. After all, her own marriage and that of her mother and grandmother had rested on the counsel of. the family barber who had also acted as a go-between. She was finding this manner of deciding her daughter’s future exceedingly irregular, especially since the groom’s parents were not even in the picture.

  Bauji looked in the barber’s mirror and saw the razor cleanly wipe the lather from his face in the luminous stillness of the morning—a calm which was periodically broken by the cry of a peacock in the distance. As he watched the sun’s rays fall at different angles on the gleaming razor, he could not bring himself to share his proposal with the barber; instead he let his mind wander pleasantly over recollections of his favourite daughter, Tara.

  He remembered the day she was born. He had wanted a son, and at first he would not pick her up. Bhabo had called him a stubborn fool: it was God’s will that they should have a daughter and they should rejoice in His will. Gradually he got used to her. Even as a child, she had a restless will to succeed which was similar to his. She thought for herself and she acted quickly, but always with a clear sense of purpose.

  When she was seven, he recalled that her teacher had asked Tara to bring her buttermilk at midday. Since they lived close by Tara was initially happy to bring a jugful of Bhabo’s creamiest. It pleased her that her teacher really enjoyed it. Soon she realized, however, that something was wrong. The teacher began to take the buttermilk for granted, and even scolded her if it wasn’t sufficiently creamy or cold. Tara also felt guilty, even though the other girls didn’t say anything. Abruptly one day she stopped bringing the buttermilk. When questioned by the teacher, Tara replied that she wasn’t going to bring it anymore. Initially she suffered for this, but eventually the teacher understood that Tara had a mind of her own.

  Bauji smiled at the picture of his seven-year-old Tara standing up to her primary school teacher. His agreeable meandering came to a sudden end as he looked up in the barber’s mirror and noticed a handsome, confident and triangular face. It belonged to his nephew, Karan. He did not turn around but pretended to concentrate on the razor’s movement in the sensitive area between the chin and the lips. He knew that his solitary communion with the lather was over as Karan’s arrival was always an event, especially amongst the women in the house.

  ‘Shh. . . .’, said Karan putting his finger on his lips, ‘an eminent barrister of Lyallpur was seen turning his tonga around at the corner of Kacheri Bazaar two days ago in pursuit of a dubious objective.’

  Bauji noticed the sparkling brown eyes reflected in his mirror and the naughty smile, and he realized why this young man was so attractive to women. But he was clearly taking liberties with his uncle today.

  ‘Really, I wonder who it was,’ said Bauji innocently.

  ‘That shouldn’t be difficult to find out. I should say that he was tall and well built, with greying hair; he sported a smart moustache, and. . . .’

  ‘Enough, you insolent wretch! Don’t you have anything better to do?’ This was too much. Bauji felt that he should be offended, but he could not bring himself to be angry at this elegant and confident youth, who was a favourite of the entire household.

  Karan became serious. ‘Didn’t you hear, Bauji?’ he said in his slightly nasal voice, ‘Gandhi announced the “Quit India” resolution last night in Bombay !’ The seriousness of this historic news was in complete contrast to the ironic tone of its messenger.

  ‘How do you know, boy?’

  ‘It was on the radio this morning,’ replied Karan as he placed his long, self-possessed hands on the back of Bauji’s chair. ‘We are not expected to cooperate with the British government—not until they give a commitment for the independence of India.’

  ‘No one is going to give Gandhi that kind of commitment—not in the middle of a war,’ burst out Bauji.

  There was a pause. Bauji looked into the mirror and saw the mysterious eyes smiling again with subdued irony. Meanwhile, the unmistakable nasal twang was a powerful signal to the rest of the house. Everyone came rushing downstairs.

  ‘But what does it really mean?’ asked Tara, who was the first to arrive. ‘What is going to happen?’ She looked up adoringly at Karan.

  ‘You are not mixed up in all this, are you my boy?’ interrupted Bhabo anxiously.

  Karan gave Bhabo a shy look, and turned his thin frame towards Tara. His light-hearted eyes became serious.

  ‘It means that we are not to cooperate with the police, the civil administration, and in fact the entire machinery of the British Raj.’

  ‘Oh, Gandhi’s usual stuff!’ remarked Tara cynically.

  ‘No Tara, this is different,’ said Karan and he smiled.

  At the mention of her name, Tara reddened visibly.

  The barber had finished shaving Bauji and was now massaging his face. Bauji sensed a subdued sensuality in the sultry air. He seemed to see his daughter with a fresh eye. She appeared to be visibly affected by the voluptuousness of the moment. Although no beauty, she was attractive enough. She had an arresting face, with a square jaw and a pointed chin. Her dark, spirited eyes were crowned by thick black eyelashes, and surrounded by jet black hair. The colour of her skin was what Bhabo’s matchmaking friends called ‘wheatish’.

  Her upper lip curved prettily on her fine oval face. Standing in a white and blue cotton sari under the shade of the mango tree beside her family, Tara presented an attractive picture. A closer look, however, revealed that the same dark brown eyes could be turbulent and resolute. She was tall and generously proportioned, he thought, glancing at her youthful rising bosom. Her smooth skin was framed by a mass of raven hair which fell down to her rounded hips. The immoderate atmosphere reminded him of the stranger in the burkha and it seemed to seduce him too. He felt envious of Karan’s youth and sorry for himself and his missed opportunities. His thoughts began to wander along a decidedly erotic direction, although without a specific object. He continued to watch the two excited people without fully taking in what was being said. The massage stopped and he was suddenly jolted back to reality.

  ‘The man is mad,’ said Bauji lunging forward and almost knocking down the barber. ‘To launch civil disobedience when the Japanese are at our doorstep!’

  ‘Bauji, can you blame him?’ said Karan. ‘Gandhi asks for so little: give us a promise of freedom after this war, and we shall help you in your war against fascism.’

  ‘But Churchill won’t even do that,’ added Tara, in support of Karan. She blushed again as she looked squarely at the handsome face of her cousin. There was no mistaking it, thought Bauji. He had an animal intuition of the current of desire flowing from his daughter to his nephew. He suddenly felt old and worried. He looked at the charming intruder, who went towards his daughter. He was relieved when he saw on Karan’s face only a grateful acknowledgement for her supportive remark.

  ‘Don’t you get mixed up in this stuff, boy!’ admonished Bhabo. The narrow, brown eyes smiled again as the nephew looked at his
aunt with affectionate irony. He impulsively went up and grabbed Bhabo by the waist and gave her a hug. She too was dominated by his charm.

  ‘Stop this nonsense,’ she said laughingly. ‘And promise me.’

  Karan did not say anything; everyone knew that he was heavily involved in the nationalist movement of Gandhi.

  ‘Bhabo, I am tired of always getting ready to live, but never living,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve got a big future before you, boy. Don’t lose it over this silly business,’ warned Bauji.

  ‘What makes you think I would do anything so patriotic? It’s certainly not part of the family tradition,’ said Karan with a mischievous smile.

  ‘Don’t you insult us, boy!’ said Bauji pretending to be angry.

  ‘What does one say to someone who insists on going to the DC’s party?’ said Karan.

  ‘One does not say anything.’

  ‘Will someone still go, even after Gandhiji’s resolution?’

  ‘All the more. Someone has to tell the English, after all.’ Bauji smiled.

  ‘Are you taking Bhabo with you?’ asked Karan.

  Before he could answer, Bhabo interrupted, ‘Karan, he never takes me with him.’

  ‘Oh Bauji, take her with you!’ pleaded Tara.

  ‘The invitation clearly says “Mr & Mrs”,’ added Big Uncle.

  ‘Out of the question. She doesn’t know enough English and she will be quite lost,’ said Bauji.

  ‘See that, Karan. And he believes he is a modern sahib,’ said Bhabo.

  ‘What do you plan to wear to the party, Bauji?’ asked Karan.

  ‘Come and see for yourself.’

  Although Bauji sometimes wore Western clothes, he used to say to Karan that when an Indian abandoned his own dress for the shirt and trouser of the West, he gave away a little bit of himself. He entered an unknown path, where he had few to guide him. The Englishman certainly did not accept an Indian more for that. On the contrary, the English had contempt for the Indian who was educated in Western learning. And Indians too were suspicious of their countrymen who gave up their traditional ways. Thus a Westernized Indian risked losing entry in his own world, without gaining admission into the Englishman’s. He had to be unusually brave and make his own rules, since the rules of the white man did not yet apply and the brown man’s rules had ceased to apply.

  ‘Bauji, must you go to the DC’s party?’ asked Karan.

  ‘Karan, the new DC is an inexperienced man, but he is sincere. He is trying. He is not a pukka sahib as yet. And before he gets that way, isn’t it worth our while to set him on the right way? There is no point in boycotting his party.’

  ‘But he is also a white skin and a ruler. Why should he listen to a brown skin of a subject race? Even the friendliest white cannot forget that. Deep down he scorns and despises us. This party is a gesture, a condescension. And Bauji, you want to go there and alleviate his guilty imperial conscience.’ Bauji reddened and Karan looked at his watch to hide his own embarrassment. ‘Oh, I must go, I’m late,’ he said after a pause.

  ‘Oh Karan, don’t go away so soon!’ said Tara. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Boy, you be careful,’ said Bhabo as Karan was leaving.

  ‘Won’t you at least stay for a cup of tea?’ implored Tara.

  He turned around at the gate, smiled, picked up his bicycle which was leaning against the gate, and was gone.

  ‘See, you have driven him away,’ said Tara accusingly to Bauji. After a pause she asked, ‘Why doesn’t he come here like he used to?’

  4

  As usual the house was left in a daze after Karan’s departure. Bauji’s family had still not got used to his contradictory moods which oscillated between light-hearted bantering and sudden moments of extreme seriousness. Karan was the son of a spendthrift father who had married Bauji’s sister, squandered his whole fortune and then died. The family’s ruin had been total and included the linen Bauji had given his sister as part of the dowry. Since that day Bauji had taken on the responsibility of educating his nephew. And the boy had proved equal to his uncle’s hopes. The nephew had slowly become very dear to Bauji.

  Karan was a success. And Bauji admired success. Karan had stood first in school and had an outstanding academic record in college; he had captained his college cricket team; and women wilted when he played the sitar. In comparison to his own son, Karan stood out like a dancing star. Bauji had resigned himself to Big Uncle’s mediocrity, and concentrated whole-heartedly on his nephew’s future. He had seen to it that Karan went to the best school and college in Lahore and did not suffer financially. After completing college, Karan was now preparing for the competitive examination to join the prestigious Indian Civil Service (ICS) which now admitted more and more Indians. No one doubted that Karan would get in. Recently, however, Bauji had become worried about a change in Karan’s life. He had heard rumours. Instead of playing cricket, or enchanting females with his sitar, Karan had been attending political meetings. At first Bauji dismissed it as healthy nationalist sentiment, but now he was concerned by the seriousness of his pursuit. He was also shocked by some of Karan’s views which he thought to be dangerously close to the Communists’. He had the boy followed for a few days, but he was relieved to learn that Karan had only gone to a meeting of the socialist wing of the Congress. Nevertheless, a nagging fear persisted because Bauji distrusted all political activity.

  After Karan’s departure the family dispersed quickly, including the barber. Bauji was left alone with uneasy feelings. They were a strange mixture of hurt because of Karan’s abrupt departure, but also of envy for Karan’s youth and threatening sensuality, and distress at having been a witness to Tara’s blatant infatuation. He felt a fatherly urge to protect his daughter from inevitable pain, but he also felt remorse at succumbing to the voluptuous sensuality of the moment with unbecoming thoughts, which in the end had left him feeling disagreeable. He attributed the sensuality to the humid torpor in the air, magnified by the laziness of the morning. He was troubled by Karan’s restless nature. Karan was at an age when he was bored by the mundane and needed a cause. If his affectionate irony attracted him, his political activities offended. He was afraid that the ‘Quit India’ call given by Gandhi might pull his nephew into deeper waters, from which he could not be rescued.

  Bauji did not look forward to the DC’s party. He was always embarrassed at the gatherings of the English and the Indians. The Indian guests invariably arrived too early because they did not want to be late, and thus put their hosts in an awkward position. Then they kept together in a group without speaking, and there were long uncomfortable silences. They tried to copy English dress, but no matter how hard they tried they never looked right but because they were uncomfortable. Even the lowliest Englishman at these gatherings put on superior airs while talking to the most distinguished Indian. Deep down, the educated Indian was a threat to the Englishman, not only because the latter was often less educated, but also because the Indian was filled with liberal and seditious ideas of equality and freedom.

  Bauji blamed Englishwomen for having created these rigid barriers between the men of the two races because they were narrow-minded by and large. Also because they could not easily mix with Indian women, who were often in purdah and did not speak English, they prevented their men from socializing with Indian men. They made constant demands on their men to have social teas, to walk the dogs, to play mixed doubles at the club, and so on. He really found this influence on the men by the women very odd.

  Nevertheless, he admired the English. Even though they did not mix with the Indians, they were honest and they were just. They worked hard to keep law and order and they tried their best to be fair. They tried to protect the weak from the strong and the honest from the dishonest. He could speak from personal experience in the courts about the lengths to which the lowest English judge would go to discover a fair solution.

  So what if they did not extend a hand of friendship as well? So what if they wanted
to be burra sahibs! He would rather have their justice than their friendship. They were after all the rulers. He would rather be slighted socially than have to live with injustice. Perhaps it was a virtue for the rulers and the ruled to keep apart.

  Early in his career Bauji had learnt a lesson. An Englishman named Coates, who was the new City Magistrate, had befriended him and invited him to tea. He was a bachelor, new to the country, and not accustomed to the social barriers between the English and the Indians. Bauji was proud of the invitation, but made the mistake of telling his friends about it. Some of his friends, being full of envy, spread the news quickly, and it reached the Collector’s ears in a distorted form: that the Magistrate was taking bribes from the Pleader. As a result both Bauji and Coates got into trouble. But in the end a scandal was averted because the facts were otherwise. It taught them both a lesson, however. Curiously it also had the unintended effect of increasing Bauji’s practice. His new clients brought pockets full of cash in order to bribe the Magistrate. But Mr Coates, like most English officials, was an honest and a fair man.

  Bauji suddenly got up and went inside to change. When he reached the top of the steps above the courtyard, he paused a moment. He could see the minarets of the mosque beyond the Clock Tower, and the dusky horizon which merged with the trees of the Company Bagh. He felt a weightless quality in the air and was overcome by a majestic calm produced by the brilliant dazzle of the noon sun. He thought that the rains came and the rains went but the sun reigned supreme in this land. As soon as he was inside, a servant came to help him with his clothes and shoes. As he put on a starched loose muslin kurta, depressing political thoughts overtook him.

  ‘Would the British really leave India?’ he asked himself, echoing Chachi’s concern. ‘And if they did, what would happen after they left?’ Especially after Karan’s visit, he felt discomfort at the thought that his own sentiments might not be very nationalistic. ‘Are we ready to govern ourselves?’ he wondered. As a legal man his views tended to be moderate and he believed in evolutionary change. All forms of direct action were unpleasant to him. Would Indians be able to maintain the magnificent British institutions of law and order? For the past hundred years, people had got used to the peace brought by the British Raj. And peace was one of those things that people only noticed when it was absent. Could the Indians hold it together? We have competent people, but they are forever fighting with one another: Hindu against Muslim; Jat against Bhangi, the landed against the landless. The spectre of India breaking up haunted Bauji. Would the subcontinent, left to its own devices, he wondered, degenerate into narrow parochialisms? Again he was assailed by the guilt that many Indian conservatives felt. He wanted the English to leave, but he wanted their institutions to stay. He wanted a gradual transfer of power.