A Lovesong for India: Tales from the East and West Read online

  But there was also serious talk – relations with Pakistan, proposals for a new dam – and here too the wives joined in. Diana mostly remained silent. She didn’t feel she had the right to enter into their discussions, and especially not into their perennial jokes about politics and corruption. Whereas they could say anything they wanted, she as a foreigner would have caused offence.

  The one person Diana liked to visit in New Delhi was her friend Margaret, an Englishwoman in charge of a lay mission devoted to charitable work in India. It was far away from their official residence, and Diana drove herself there in TC’s car (neither of them would ever have taken his official driver or any other member of their staff for their personal use). When he was small, Diana would take Romesh with her on these visits, but he soon revolted. He disliked the sombre old mission house with its high ceilings and stone floors impregnated by the smell of disinfectant and stale curries. It was made worse for him by Margaret herself, a large-boned woman with a loud voice who ruled over a bevy of silent humble helpers, most of them girls whom she had rescued from orphanages or bad homes. When he grew up, his antipathy became even stronger. It puzzled Diana; she asked him, ‘But why, darling? Give me one reason.’ He was never good at explaining his feelings, but at last he came up with, ‘If you must know, I can’t stand all that holiness and prayer, it gives me the creeps. Thank God you don’t go in for all that stuff.’ It was true, Diana had laid aside her Christian prayers, as well as the gold cross inset with rubies, a gift from her godmother on her twelfth birthday.

  Margaret never spoke to Diana about religion. Instead they liked to remind each other of favourite poems or long-ago Latin lessons, gaily correcting each other’s syntax. Although both of them had spent most of their adult lives in India, their original accents had not only remained but had become even more precise and English. Margaret always wore Punjabi dress, including the modesty veil, though she only used it to wipe away the perspiration caused by her long hours of trudging the streets and slums of the inner city. She was mostly cheerful and undaunted, whether it was a day of triumph when she had procured an artificial leg for a client, or a setback with a convert relapsing into alcoholism and wife-beating. Diana never could understand why Romesh said, ‘Let her go and do good somewhere else.’ But quite often he wrote a cheque for her, always for a substantial amount, which Margaret received with the measured gratitude of one used to accepting whatever was given, fully aware that it would never be enough.

  Neither of his parents understood much about Romesh’s business activities. ‘Something to do with export,’ Diana explained to herself and anyone who asked. ‘Import-export.’ She couldn’t really appreciate her son’s lavish lifestyle – the big car he drove around in, his constant trips abroad – but she felt proud of his enterprise. He had never for a moment considered following his father into the civil service. ‘Thanks but no thanks,’ he said. ‘You don’t catch me spending my life trapped in a job with a measly salary and ending up with a piddly provident fund.’

  Although TC’s only answer was a wry ‘Good luck to you’, Diana knew he was hurt. ‘It’s just that he’s a different personality,’ she assured him about their son. ‘He really respects you enormously.’ She knew this to be true for she had heard Romesh boast on the telephone: ‘Do you have any idea who my dad is?’

  TC had a new Minister – his name was RK Googal, known to everyone as Googa. They had met before, many years earlier, when TC was a district commissioner and Googa sold eggs and butter in the bazaar while making a more serious living as a local politician with power to dispense municipal contracts. At that time TC had thwarted one of Googa’s business operations, and in revenge Googa had tried to get him transferred. He failed, but he never forgot this transaction between them. In the meantime TC had had dealings with many more men like Googa and had learned to steer his way around them. But Googa had the character of a potentate and, unable to get rid of his Principal Secretary, he did everything he could to obstruct him, so that TC felt more frustrated than in the many crises he had suffered in the course of his career.

  Romesh admired his father’s new boss. He said he was a firecracker: ‘Googa they call him – or Gunda.’ He laughed. ‘I guess he is a gunda – a rascal – but he sure gets things done. The country needs chaps like that,’ he informed his father.

  TC never brought his office worries home, and the only person with whom he shared them was his friend Bobby. Bobby was well aware of the troubles a Principal Secretary could have with his Minister. His wife Pushpa also knew about such situations and listened with sympathy while her husband gave his friend the only advice he could – which was to be patient and subtle in his dealings with such dangerous animals. TC felt soothed in their company and by the domestic ambience of Pushpa’s household – the glasses of home-made sherbet that appeared on a silver tray, the smell of spices being fried in onions. After a while they passed from the unfortunate office affairs to more personal matters – gossip about their colleagues, plans for summer travel in the hills.

  Once Pushpa said, ‘What about your Romesh-Baba?’ and to TC’s inquiring look: ‘Isn’t it about time he settled down? These young people have no sense. They think they can run around any way they please for the rest of their lives.’

  Bobby humorously shut one eye. ‘And hasn’t your Romesh been running around with our Sheila-Baby?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t they!’ Pushpa cried. ‘We’re not that antediluvian. Even in our day – if you remember,’ she told TC in a favourite allusion to their past college romance. ‘But all the same, someone has to give them a bit of a push now and again.’

  ‘We leave all that to you girls,’ Bobby said.

  TC was used to discussing everything except office affairs with Diana, and when he mentioned Pushpa’s proposal to her, her blue eyes stretched wide and she said, ‘That’s entirely between the boy and the girl. We have no right to interfere.’

  TC was amused by her reaction, which he had expected – Diana questioned everything she considered a denial of the individual’s right to free choice. He teased her: ‘Sheila’s a very pretty girl.’

  ‘That has nothing to do with it. Nothing at all. We shouldn’t even be talking about it.’ She looked righteous and pale, the way she always did in defence of her principles.

  But the next time she was alone with Romesh, she asked him, trying to sound casual, ‘Do you meet Sheila quite often?’

  He looked up at her from his breakfast. It was usually the only meal he ate at home, and she herself cooked the bacon for him since their Muslim cook wouldn’t touch it. ‘Has Pushpa auntie been gabbing to you?’ Romesh asked. She blushed, but he went on to assure her: ‘Don’t worry, I’m not there yet.’

  ‘No no, I’m not worrying, of course not. I’m not suggesting anything at all, darling, it’s entirely up to you.’ She watched him eat for a while, which he did as he did everything, with enormous appetite and appreciation. At last she shyly asked, ‘Do you like her a lot?’

  He had to suppress his laughter at this innocent question. What could his mother know about someone like Sheila – a wild, wild girl, far surpassing any he had been with in America. And not only she but other Indian girls he knew; it was as though in throwing off all restraints, they were compensating for those suffered by past generations of their mothers and grandmothers.

  It was Bobby who first alerted TC to the probe that was being initiated against certain government departments, including their own. So far it was being kept secret, but TC soon found that files began to go missing. His visits to Bobby became more frequent; they exchanged news and views about the situation and kept each other informed about its development. As usual, Pushpa passed in and out, though now only to bring them refreshments.

  At the end of one meeting, she told TC: ‘I hear your Romesh-Baba is going off again on some of his murky business.’

  ‘Who tells you it’s murky?’ TC answered her in the light tone they had established between them.

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p; ‘All business is murky,’ she said in the same tone. Then she said, ‘I wish he and Sheila-Baby would make up their minds. It’d be a big load off my mind, I tell you. I’m sure they like each other; whenever I ask her where she’s been, she says with Romesh of course, as if that makes it all right. And it would be all right, if they’d only . . . ’ She appealed to TC, her plump face full of a mother’s anxiety.

  When Romesh came home that night, TC was as usual awake and working. He looked at his son: the thin muslin kurta Romesh wore for his social evenings was crumpled and somewhat soiled. His eyes were reddened, maybe from fatigue and certainly from an excess of alcohol. Pretending to notice none of this, TC said, ‘I hear you’re pushing off again.’

  Romesh swiftly glanced at him. Next moment he relaxed. ‘I guess I have to. To fill this,’ and he patted his stomach, which looked very full already. ‘This sinful belly.’

  ‘We’ll miss you,’ his father said. ‘Will you be gone long? . . . Sorry to pry into what doesn’t concern me, but there’s something – well, I might as well mention it,’ TC decided, remembering Pushpa’s anxious face.

  And again Romesh looked at him suspiciously, while he answered with caution: ‘I don’t know yet how long I’ll be gone. It depends. These things always take time. It’s something to do with shares, stocks and shares – I won’t bother you with details.’

  ‘No, don’t. There’s no chance I’d understand them. This is about Sheila.’

  ‘Yes. Sheila. A grand girl.’

  ‘Her mother is hoping that perhaps, before you go? But it’s entirely up to you; and to her of course. We’d all like it.’

  ‘I’d like it too, but it’s not the right time. I’m not ready to get married. Not with all this on my head.’ And then he got angry: ‘What do they all think! Everything is left to me, I have to run from here to Timbuktu – I told you there’s no point in going into detail!’ he shouted, though TC hadn’t asked anything.

  His raised voice brought Diana into the room. She had been awake, as she was every night, waiting for her two men to be home and in bed. Now she stood there in her white floor-length nightgown, looking from one to the other.

  ‘Romesh is tired from his night’s activities,’ TC explained drily.

  Romesh tried to speak more quietly: ‘No, I’m not tired from a little partying but from – ’ he paused, then rushed on – ‘the harassment. The harassment from every side – everyone is sick of it, I tell you that! Foreign investors take one look at your famous rules and regulations and run for their lives. Can you blame them? No one wants to be treated like a thief and a criminal for trying to get a decent business going.’ He swallowed, maybe to stop himself from saying anything imprudent. ‘Now do you mind if I go to bed? I’m just about done for.’

  Diana watched him go to his room. He was shuffling a bit, and she appealed to TC: ‘Do you think he’s working too hard?’ But later, alone with TC in their bedroom, she said, ‘I believe people tend to drink more when they’re under strain.’ And when TC was silent: ‘Do you think he is? Upset about anything?’

  TC tried to laugh. ‘When you’re young, every little thing is enough to set you off. You remember how it was.’

  ‘Yes, I remember – but that’s not how it was.’

  This time he laughed genuinely, with pleasure at the memories they shared of a youth that, whatever their present age and appearance, was not lost for them at all.

  It was only a day or two later that Bobby called TC to come to his house in the evening. They sat as usual in Bobby’s study, but this time Pushpa did not walk in and out. To explain her absence, Bobby said, ‘Gone shopping somewhere, spending all my money.’ But soon he was more grave.

  He told TC that the inquiry had now reached further into TC’s department, and higher – as high as the Minister himself. ‘Of course he’s taking steps to make sure he’s home and dry.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ TC promised his friend, and himself too.

  In the following pause Bobby looked like someone who had something difficult to say. TC waited. ‘But there are others,’ Bobby said at last. ‘He wouldn’t be so eager to protect those others.’

  ‘You mean those who’ve been taking bribes with him?’

  ‘Not only those who have taken. Also those who have given.’

  ‘I see.’ TC did his best to speak even more calmly than usual. ‘Are there names?’

  ‘There are two very big names – big Bombay tycoons – and there are smaller names. The size of the – of the “contribution” doesn’t signify. All will be considered equally guilty.’

  ‘Of course.’ TC made his long thin fingers into a steeple; this was his habit when considering official matters. But now he had to clear his throat twice before speaking: ‘I believe the boy’s name appears only in connection with one of the issues?’

  A fat and excitable man, Bobby waved his hands in the air. ‘One issue, two issues, or a hundred – this time no one’s going to get away. We’re not letting one scrap of proof out of our hands. No file is going to disappear, I promise you.’ He looked at TC across from him. Their two pairs of glasses gleamed so that it wasn’t possible to see each other’s eyes behind them. But Bobby could say with confidence, ‘I know you want it as much as I do, whatever the consequences.’

  And TC answered with the same confidence, ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ And after a pause, ‘Absolutely.’

  That evening Diana told him, ‘Pushpa was here today. Imagine! They’re sending Sheila-Baby to Australia to study political science – Sheila’s a wonderful girl but I never thought of her as being very academic, did you? . . . And why Australia?’ Into her husband’s silence, she said, ‘Do you think Pushpa came to tell me something else?’

  TC said, ‘I think she was trying to tell you that the marriage is off.’

  ‘You mean that’s why they’re sending her away? But Romesh would have said something. He’d have told us.’

  ‘Does he ever tell us anything?’ This required no answer, so TC went on to ask: ‘When is he leaving?’

  ‘I think soon. He’s already packed – or what he calls packed. But of course, as usual, I’ll have to pull it all out and start again.’ She smiled, and TC tried to smile too.

  Next morning, while serving his breakfast, she asked Romesh about his plans for departure. He was vague in his answer – something about waiting for some papers to be cleared, which she didn’t understand. She changed the subject: ‘And now Sheila’s going to Australia.’ He said nothing, so she continued, ‘Pushpa seemed pleased, though I thought she had other plans for Sheila . . . And for you,’ she added with a shy smile.

  He shrugged. ‘Sheila’s a lot of fun, but marriage is not on the cards – not to me anyway. Wait,’ he said. The phone in his bedroom was ringing, and he got up to answer it. Through the closed door, she heard his voice raised in excitement; he had only half finished his breakfast, but when he returned, he was in no mood to eat. He asked, ‘Where’s Dad now?’

  ‘He’s in his office, probably in a meeting . . . Is there anything I can do?’ she pleaded. But he said no, it was just something he had to ask TC. Like his father, Romesh avoided letting her into his difficulties, though with him it was not so much to shield her as himself, against her intrusion.

  A message reached TC from his minister, which he had been half expecting. It came in a roundabout way – this too was expected – from a clerk who said he happened to be Googa’s nephew by marriage and that he had a message for TC from his uncle. Although the message was clouded, it was clear enough to TC: that there were certain papers in which Googa’s name figured along with some other persons; and that it would be convenient if these papers were to be privately dealt with. Fortunately it would not be difficult to obtain them since the relevant file was located in the ministry where the Principal Secretary was not only TC’s opposite number but his friend. TC received this message and thanked the messenger in a calm, non-committal manner, which gave no indication of the shame that fi
lled him like a rush of blood to the heart.

  A few days later, Googa sent festive boxes of sweetmeats to all his staff. TC’s was the biggest, and it was again delivered personally by a relative of Googa’s, this time a brother-in-law who explained that these sweets were to celebrate the shaving of the first hair to grow on a grandson’s head. ‘His grandson! Googaji said to remind you that it is now twenty-five years since he sent you sweets for his son’s first hair-shaving. So many years you have been his father and his mother.’

  ‘Yes,’ TC agreed drily. ‘We’ve known each other many years – certainly long enough for him to know that I don’t eat sweets.’ And he pushed the box aside.

  The brother-in-law pushed it back again. He joined his hands in supplication. ‘If not you, then for your children who are also our children. Googaji says you have a son who likes sweets very much. Let him eat and enjoy.’

  That evening there was a banquet in honour of a visiting foreign dignitary, attended by cabinet ministers, ambassadors and top bureaucrats. It was held in the formal hall of a royal palace taken over by the government; under the chandeliers, the long table was laid as it had been in the Maharaja’s time and barefoot bearers in turbans and cummerbunds moved silently around it to serve the guests. Googa, his enormous bulk swathed in yards of white muslin, sat in his rightful place near the head of the table. He was in a fine mood and joshed the other Ministers with bad puns in Hindi – he looked only up the table to where the important guests sat. There was no need for him to look down towards TC at the lower end, or to give any sign of being aware of his existence, let alone of any business between them.