A House Called Askival (24 page)

Ruth watched him, uncertain. The breeze in the pines was picking up, like the rushing of waves.

‘Are you going to do your turban?' she asked softly, holding it out to him.

He shook his head. ‘No.'

‘You going back to the dorm like that?'

‘It doesn't matter how I go back, everything's changed now, hasn't it?' He raised his eyes to hers. ‘It's nearly 9.30, Ruth. Check in was half an hour ago.'

‘Oh, my god, I'm so sorry, Manveer. I've got you in trouble. I'm sorry, I—'

‘No.' He put the kirpan on the mantelpiece and pulled her to him. The turban fell to the floor. ‘I'm not sorry.'

‘But your parents! The school will write and tell them and—'

‘And your parents.'

‘Mine have already had lots of letters, believe me, and I don't…' She felt the stinging of tears. ‘I don't give a shit, anymore. They've given up on me.'

Manveer pressed her into the nest of his jacket. ‘No, no,' he whispered, stroking her head. She was starting to cry. ‘How could they not adore you? They must, they must.'

‘They're never here!' she choked, scraping the spilled mascara from under her eyes. ‘Always leaving me, pushing me away, working, working,
working!'

‘Mine are on the other side of the world! And my Mom doesn't even work.'

‘But they want the best for you. That's why they sent you here.'

‘The best for me or for them? All they want to know about is my grades, my exams, my college applications… then they show off to all the relatives.'

‘But it's for
your
life. My life doesn't matter. It's all about God.'

‘Is it my life? I already know I have to do law, I have to get married to their choice, I have to make big bucks. No one asks if I want to or not. Better to lose your life to God than money.'

‘I hate God.'

‘Thought you didn't believe in Him.'

‘It's the believing I hate.'

‘All believing?'

‘The believing that makes people kill in the name of God, that makes people cause harm and claim it's for good, that makes people save the whole world but sacrifice their children!'

Her crying rose like an earth tremor, shaking her, releasing sobs and gasping breath. Manveer held her, soothing and cradling, caressing the back of her hair where it was tangled and snagged with pine needles. When the crying had eased, he drew back gently.

‘Will you wear this?' he asked and pulled the steel bracelet off his wrist.

‘Your
kara
?'

‘Yes.'

She looked at it, then up at him.

‘Manveer, you can't do that.'

‘I want you to have it.'

‘Well… give me something else, then. Not this – it's sacred to you.'

‘No. Love is sacred. That's all. Please wear it?'

She touched it softly. A long quiet.

‘Ok. If you really want me to.' He pushed it onto her wrist and began kissing her. She wrapped her arms around him. ‘I'll never take it off.'

They kissed for the longest time, bound to one another at mouth and breast and hip, till finally he drew back again and took her face in his hands.

‘You are the most beautiful thing in the world.'

It was like lightning; a whip of fire down her spine; a shot of love.

She shook her head, a fresh tear spilling down one cheek. He released her and took the
kirpan
from the mantelpiece.

‘I want you to cut my hair.'

She stared at him. He was perfectly still, the knife on his palm catching the moonlight. She shook her head again.

‘Manveer…'

‘Now. With this.'

‘No Manveer.' Her breath was short. ‘You can't cut your hair. It's the most important thing. And it would kill your parents…'

‘I have to. I
want
to.'

Her face, lifted to him in the half-light, was pale as marble. ‘Why?'

‘Because I don't believe in it anymore.' She waited, searching him, not fathoming. ‘My hair nearly got me killed. But worse – it made me want to kill.' He rolled the knife softly in his hand. ‘What's the use of religion if it does that to you?'

She said nothing, barely breathing.

‘You know, my parents still tell stories of their relatives killed at partition. And they are terrible stories and I always thought they were exaggerating… until now. But they don't talk about the Hindus and Muslims killed by Sikhs. And no-one talks about my Uncle Kushwant – a very proud Sikh – but he was in the troops that stormed the Golden Temple this year.' A soft hissing laugh like a puncture. ‘Sikhs killing Sikhs! Should we just kill ourselves now? Like kamikaze pilots? It's mad. All mad, and I don't want it anymore.'

His hand gripped the knife, knuckles white and bulging.

‘Manveer, Manveer… Don't say these things.'

‘They're true! And you know it. You're saying the same things, you've given up on religion. You're right.'

‘No—'

‘Being here with you tonight I felt really alive for the first time, really happy, really me. I don't want to be a Sikh anymore, or a Singh, or a this or a that. I want to be me.'

‘You
are
you, Manveer, and I love you—!'

He gripped her arm. ‘What?'

‘I love you.'

His voice was thick with feeling, his words slow. ‘And I love you.'

They kissed again, sealing their lips and their fate as he pressed the handle of the
kirpan
into her hand.

The hair lay around them like a harvest of black wheat; above them, the sickle moon. The
kirpan
was sheathed and back on the mantelpiece, the
kara
on her wrist. It chinked against her glass bangles and bumped on his skull as she stroked his head, trying to smooth the choppy stubble that remained. He caught her hand and kissed it. Outside, the wind had died and, in the stillness, they could hear the octave owl's two sweet notes, and in their embrace they whispered the counts, waiting for the next two.

But they never came.

Just footsteps and the crashing door.

THIRTY-SIX

By the Monday in Kanpur, the attacks had subsided, but the city still smouldered with the burning of Sikh homes, and in the hospital, the morgue was overflowing. As James stepped out of the house that morning, the smoke stung his nose and eyes. He had barely slept and not touched breakfast – even his morning coffee made him sick – and though his hands had been scrubbed raw, he hadn't bathed fully in days. His hair was greasy, his mouth sour, body smelling of old sweat and disinfectant. And he could not stop the tremor in his hands.

Entering the ward he heard the furious cries of a baby, and then he saw her. She was sitting on the floor next to a woman who did not move, pulling on her hand, except that it was not a hand, it was a stump.

James bent to the baby and lifted her. She was screaming now, wet and soiled. He looked around for a nurse, but could see none.

‘Nurse!' he shouted blindly into the crowd. ‘Come now!
Jaldi!
' The entrance hall was teeming with people, with cries, with misery. He felt a sudden urge to roar, to scream, to smash things. At that moment a nurse came running and took the child.

Shaking and smeared with the baby's excrement, he turned to the next body on the corridor floor. A great felled tree of a man, beaten and burnt. James lifted a flap of turban that covered his face, the
charred fabric disintegrating in his fingers.

It was his Senior Book-keeper, Gurpreet Singh.

THIRTY-SEVEN

When Ruth brought home her copy of the new Landour Community Cookbook, it caused something of a stir between her and Iqbal. James feigned disinterest, but was unsettled to hear Iqbal cry out and Ruth hush him. There was much page-turning and exclaiming, feverish whispering and scribbling of ingredients on shopping lists. Tonight, they told him, he was in for a treat. There was a gleam in Ruth's eye; in Iqbal's, a tear.

It was, indeed, no ordinary night, for a remarkable confluence of lunar and natal phenomena meant that James' 77
^th
birthday coincided with Eid-ul-Fitr. What's more, the 139
^th
anniversary of the Mahatma's birth was only the day after, making that midnight especially auspicious. Unimpressed by this extraordinary co-incidence and certainly not intending to stay up that late, James had insisted he wanted no personal celebration, but if Iqbal wished to mark the religious festival with one or two special dishes he would not object, so long as there were no fuss, no guests and no gifts.

Naturally, they ignored him. By seven-thirty, his living room bristled with gaudily wrapped presents and the voices of Reverend Paul Verghese, young Dr Lakshman and the rotund Mrs Puri. James hunkered in his chair, fighting the pain in his stomach and the faint nausea that rose from
it like a swarm of flies. The others were in full swing with an argument.

‘I tell you,' said Verghese, tapping the air with a peanut. ‘If they don't get these Hindu fundamentalists under control they'll tear the country apart.'

Lakshman reached for his glass of squash. ‘But don't you think the problem is not the Hindus but the fundamentalism? It's the same with Islam.'

‘Yes, yes,' echoed Mrs Puri, popping peanuts with speed and perfect aim.

‘And with Christianity,' said Ruth, from the kitchen end of the room, where she was working with Iqbal. Her glass bracelets – an Eid gift from him – jingled as she stirred a large pot on the stove. Under one of Ellen's aprons, she wore a green kurta churidar and a soft, filmy dupatta that fell from her neck to a casual loop in the middle of her back. It was a striking change from the grey and black she normally wore and was the first time James had seen her in Indian clothes since she'd left Oaklands. He could have done without the nose-ring and the sparkly bindi in the middle of her forehead, but otherwise, she was beautiful. Like Ellen. Yet so unlike Ellen. It hurt to look at her.

At her side, Iqbal hummed and swished around the kitchen in a voluminous shalwar kameez, salmon pink and embroidered at the neck and cuffs. Their work together was a kind of fluid dance: the bending and twisting, pouring, reaching, heads together for a moment then turning away. The plump old Asian man and the thin white woman, alike only in their curly hair and floral aprons. And – thought James wryly – their conspiratorial manner. They'd been like a pair of cackling witches all day, plotting and preparing, sprinkling powders, stirring dishes, as if their recipe book were a volume of spells and this meal a potion. He did not know what magic they hoped to pull off, but it filled him with unease.

He turned back to the conversation around him. Lakshman was thrusting his hands. ‘India is a country where different religions have lived together peacefully for thousands of years. It works if everyone just follows their own beliefs and doesn't try to convert anyone else.'

‘What about conquering them, hmm?' demanded Verghese. ‘What about Aryans sweeping in and pushing the locals to the bottom of the country and the caste heap? Hey? Not tying to convert them, of course, just rendering them untouchable.'

Mrs Puri piped up, mouth full of peanuts. ‘Or the Mughal invasions! Hindus were persecuted under them.'

‘Or partition.' Verghese again. ‘Nobody was trying to convert anybody. Just kill them.'

James pressed one hand into the other, knuckles straining.

‘And after Mrs Gandhi's assassination, na?' said Mrs Puri, throwing up her hands. ‘I was in Delhi that time and—'

‘Supper ready!' Iqbal called, carrying a large pot and placing it in the centre of the table. The living room party stood and moved across. Reverend Verghese rubbed his fingertips together to dust off the salt, then smoothed his shiny hair with both hands. Mrs Puri, overflowing her dining chair in her red sari, put James in mind of a giant, glossy tomato.

‘But that's exactly it,' Lakshman continued, taking his seat. Ruth leaned over him to put a platter of rice on the table and he was momentarily diverted by her fragrance and the fleeting pressure of her body, but pulled his thoughts back. ‘When religion is used as a political tool it abuses people and distorts the very message at the heart of the faith.'

‘But you can't divorce religion from politics!' Reverend Verghese replied, shaking open his fan-folded napkin. ‘If the message of your faith is that some are born to be priests while others are destined to sweep latrines then that is how your society will be structured.'

‘That is not the message of Hinduism!'

‘Then what is its message, pray tell?'

Lakshman opened his mouth, then closed it again; wafted a hand. ‘That is not a Hindu question.'

Reverend Verghese laughed. ‘Sounds like a good way of
avoiding
the question. Are there any Hindu answers?'

‘Sorry, what was the question?' asked Mrs Puri.

‘Shall we pray?' asked James, as Ruth and Iqbal took their seats. Ruth shot him a warning look but James ignored her and nodded at Reverend
Verghese. The man smiled beatifically and set his elegant hands together. Ruth's nostrils flared; all heads bowed.

It was a lengthy prayer. It extolled the virtues of the Lord and acknowledged with remorse the sins of the wicked, present company not excluded. It went on to give thanks for the Almighty's munificent blessings – elaborated at length – and in particular for the devoted life of God's faithful servant in whose honour the assembled company had gathered to render felicitations on the auspicious occasion of his anniversary. The prayer closed, at last, with a request that the repast so lovingly prepared by these precious souls be blessed unto them all, that they in turn might live as blessings unto the Lord and one another.

As they joined in the “Amen,” James saw Iqbal's wide-eyed appreciation. He always spoke of the Reverend Verghese with the greatest of awe. Ruth, meanwhile, pressed her hand to the side of a dish.

‘Shall I reheat the rice?' she asked.

‘No, no,' whispered Iqbal. ‘Everything is perfect. Go, go.' And he nudged her in the ribs. She lifted the lid of a pot, releasing a puff of steam like a genie.

‘Tennessee Tandoori Chicken!' she cried. ‘Recipe of Ellen Connor!'

James' stomach clenched. A chorus of
oohs
and
ahhs
around him, a little applause from Mrs Puri.

‘How Tennessee?' asked Lakshman.

‘Because she uses paprika instead of chilli powder and serves it with cornmeal naan.' Ruth extended the basket of golden breads.

‘
Accha
,' he swayed his head, a gleam of understanding playing on lips and eyes.

‘Found it in the book.' She jerked her thumb to the kitchen bench. ‘It's got quite a few of Mom's recipes.'

James nodded, trying to pull his cheeks into a smile.

‘What book?' asked Verghese, accepting a rice platter from Ruth.

‘The Landour Community Cookbook, Pauly,' said Mrs Puri. ‘We sell it down at the hospital to raise funds. Haven't you got one?'

‘Never heard of it.'

‘Second edition!' cried Iqbal. ‘With all the latest recipes.'

‘And some golden oldies,' added Ruth, smiling at him.

He winked back. ‘Three generations of Connors!'

‘And one–'

‘Shhh!' he hissed, pressing his plump finger to his lips.

‘Shhh!' she hissed back, and they both giggled.

James looked from one to the other, brow knotting.

‘And this,' cried Iqbal, gesturing to the rice, ‘is Biryani Birmingham by Marlene Lacey.'

‘I think 'cause of the prunes,' added Ruth.

‘Wow,' said Lakshman, heaping some onto his plate. ‘This is fantastic. Thanks for inviting me to your birthday party, Dr James.'

James did not look up.

‘So,' said Ruth quickly, taking the rice. ‘If fundamentalism is the problem, Lakshman, what's the solution?'

‘Oh god,' he groaned. ‘That's the million-dollar question.'

‘Might that be a Hindu question?' asked Verghese.

‘A question for us all, surely,' said Lakshman.

‘Beg pardon, but what—?' began Mrs Puri, but was distracted by the proffer of a serving dish. ‘Oh my goodness! What have we here?'

‘Shikampuri Kebab,' said Iqbal, grinning as he presented a set of chopsticks. ‘Shanghai style!'

Mrs Puri erupted into bell-ring laughter. ‘What is all this? Some kind of United Nations pot luck?!'

‘No luck! Is very carefully planned.'

‘Fusion Cuisine,' said Ruth. ‘Mom's edition is full of it.'

‘And she taught you!' Mrs Puri beamed.

Ruth tilted her head, glanced at James. His face was a yellowish pall, hooded eyes meeting hers briefly. ‘I guess,' she said. ‘Through the book and Iqbal. And we made some stuff up ourselves. This was my idea.' Ruth took the lid off the last dish on the table. ‘Highland Haleem. Made with oats instead of wheat. A tribute to the Connor ancestral home.'

‘And your now chosen home!' added Iqbal.

‘My grotty flat in Glasgow? Hmmm… maybe not.'

‘Well,' said Mrs Puri, helping herself to some of the rich curry, slick
with oil and smelling of heaven. ‘This is
divine!
Eid Mubarak everyone, and happy birthday James and Gandhi-ji!'

They all clasped their glasses of sharbat and lifted them, clinking and reaching across the table.
Happy Birthday! Eid Mubarak! Happy Birthday!

‘Do you remember James, we attended one of Gandhi-ji's prayer meetings,' Verghese said, delicately setting his glass down and wiping his moustache. ‘Here in Mussoorie, no?'

James nodded, chewing slowly, painfully on Ellen's Tennessee Tandoori Chicken. Everyone waited but he said nothing; kept chewing.

Verghese cleared his throat. ‘Bit of a nutter, I thought.'

Gasps, dropped cutlery, wide eyes. Except for James, who gave Verghese a penetrating look.

‘Reverend!' cried Lakshman.

‘He's not a god.' Verghese waved a warning finger.

‘He is to some,' said Lakshman.

‘Precisely the problem. Merely worshipping something does not make it a god – it makes it an idol. And idol worship is a kind of blindness. I tell you, Gandhi is one of the biggest holy cows in this country and until we can see past him to the truth of the conflicts in our midst we will not overcome them.'

‘But that is exactly what Gandhi-ji was doing! Getting people to see beyond religious difference to our universal humanity. That is why he is revered.'

‘Gandhi remained a Hindu–'

‘And he was killed by a Hindu!'

‘Was he?' asked Ruth.

‘Oh yes,' said Lakshman. ‘By extremists who did not like his tolerance of Muslims.'

‘He was
just
like Jesus,' breathed Mrs Puri. ‘Killed by his own people because of his teachings.'

Iqbal sighed, head shaking.

‘He was
not
just like Jesus!' spluttered Verghese.

‘But so much similar,' she appealed, spreading oily hands.

‘Listen,' said Verghese, laying down his cutlery. ‘When I was a young
idealist, Gandhi was my hero, too. James can tell you.' They all looked at James but he remained silent, gaunt. ‘My parents were in the freedom movement and supported him from the word go. They were thrown into jail for it! Yes, Gandhi
was
an extra-ordinary man, no doubt about it, and I do still love him. But now that I've lived in so called “free” India for sixty years my ideals and my heroes have taken a few knocks.' He took a small sip of sharbat.

‘How?' asked Ruth.

‘The problem, Ruthie, is that on the one hand,' he poked out his right like a policeman directing traffic, ‘Gandhi taught that India could offer the world some kind of spiritual supremacy, but on the other,' his left shot forth, ‘he kept faith with a religious system that was – and is – fundamentally oppressive and unjust.'

‘Not fundamentally,' insisted Lakshman. ‘Caste is not the essence of Hinduism.'

‘What is?' demanded Verghese. ‘Essence, message, answer – you are refusing to tell me.'

Lakshman nodded, lips working into a tight pucker, as he spooned raita onto his plate. ‘Reverend Paul, you know Hinduism is not about these things; it is culture and family and daily ritual.'

‘Can you pass the lime chutney, please, James darling?' said Mrs Puri.

‘It is not so much a belief system as a way of life.'

‘Anybody is wanting more juice?' asked Iqbal. Lakshman's gaze flickered to him in irritation.

‘Go on, Lakshman,' said Ruth. ‘I'm very interested.'

‘For example, you ask my grandmother what she believes and her mouth will fall open. Ask her what she cooks for Dusshera and she'll talk for hours.'

‘Then I must meet her,' said Iqbal. ‘Between cooks there is no divide.'

‘What nonsense, Iqbal!' rebuked Verghese. ‘You know perfectly well his grandmother would not open her kitchen to you nor eat anything from your hand.'

Iqbal's face fell.

‘Do you know her?' Ruth asked the Reverend sweetly.

‘Of course not, but I know the rules.'

‘Actually, my grandmother is quite liberal. My uncle married a Sikh girl and there was no problem.'

‘Was she rich?' Verghese asked, helping himself to the Haleem. In the slight pause that followed he turned his beetle gaze on Lakshman, eyes extra large, extra round, extra penetrating through his bottle-top specs.