A House Called Askival (29 page)

FORTY-EIGHT

The next night, as the Friday prayer call pierced the dark outside, Ruth watched Iqbal set down his cloth at the kitchen bench, wash his hands and open the cupboard next to the sink. He drew out his rolled mat and cap and she knew his next move would be to get James' Bible from the bookshelf. But this time she took it down herself, lowering the ancient book to her father's lap like a sleeping bird. James was propped up on a dike of cushions and even lifting his head was a strain.

As Iqbal donned his white cap, Ruth sensed him waiting for her to go, as she always had done. But she returned to her chair in the corner and sat cross-legged, feet tucked in. He stared from her to her father, but James merely continued turning the pages of the Bible, which he could barely hold. The fragile paper shook. A rustling of words, a stirring of feathers. Iqbal finally took a seat opposite Ruth and clutched his mat.

In a faded, rattling voice James read:

Come let us worship and bow down
,

let us kneel before the Lord our God
,

our Maker
.

There was silence. Waiting.

Ruth closed her eyes. The night was full of still, small voices: the notes of birds, the movement of deepdown things, the breathing of
trees. They whispered of all that had passed the night before, in the mystery of bread and cup and the making of peace.

When she opened her eyes, Iqbal had unrolled his prayer mat in the middle of the room and was standing at one end with his hands at his sides. He lifted his hands above his shoulders, fingers open, tips just touching his ears, and began to sing in Arabic. It was ancient and strange but there were words she knew:
Allah – o – Akbar
. God is great. As his voice rose and wound itself like invisible ropes in the air, she watched the devotion playing across his face, the trembling of his cheeks and lips, the barely shielded light beneath his lids. He sang on, folding his hands across his chest, bowing, kneeling and dropping forward, nose to the floor.

Ruth looked at James. He was motionless, hands resting on the Bible, eyes closed. Something inside her took flight.

FORTY-NINE

On Saturday morning James lay on the camp bed, his limbs hanging like old leaves, ready for the slightest wind to tug them free. There was light in the room and song: an old recording of a
ghazal
singer lifting a cracked voice to heaven.

He watched Ruth through half-closed eyes: the gentle curve of her back as she stooped and stretched, the toss of curls, the fluid arms with their brown-backed hands that were never still. She was pouring hot water into a blue plastic basin, the steam rising around her in clouds. A squirt of bubble bath, a gush from the cold tap, a testing with her fingers. The water sloshing slightly, she carried it over to him and set it on the floor. Then she smiled.

Iqbal came with a towel and soap and squatted beside James.

‘Ready ji
?
'

James gave the barest nod and felt Iqbal's plump hands slide beneath him. As they lay him on the couch, covered with a plastic sheet and towels, he felt the sunshine from the tall windows reach across him like a warm wing. Kneeling, Ruth unbuttoned his flannelette pyjama top and talked about the flowers blooming on the hillside: the cosmos and the wild dahlias and the small, bright things that clung to cliff and branch. He smiled. Iqbal draped a towel over his lap and reached underneath to
tug his pyjama bottoms down. Gently, they stroked warm flannels over his body, Iqbal working below the waist, Ruth above. She told him she'd walked the back
chakkar
early that morning and heard the whistling thrush. He nodded and gave himself to the lifting and washing, body loose as an empty sack, head brimming. The snows were out, she went on, and in the sunrise they were lit up. Like angels.

He closed his eyes and felt her cradle his head in one hand as she poured water over the crown. She began to rub in shampoo, her
kara
bumping softly against him as the lather rose round his skull and gave off a long-forgotten fragrance. It filled him, humming notes of jasmine, of sun-dried washing, of Ellen.

At the other end of his body, Iqbal knelt and bathed his feet.

Then they dressed him in his soft, worn clothes, wrapped him in a thick shawl and carried him to a chair on the front terrace. The sky was an ocean of air, clear from its blue depths to its infinite shores, galleon clouds resting on its wide sweep. A light wind teased the clumps of wildflowers on the
khud
and trembled the deep green oaks. Then the wind turned and rushed up the slope, flipping the leaves and turning the hillside silver. Below him, the mountain fell away into the green swathe of the Dun valley where the twin sacred rivers coursed like ribbons of light.

And in the silence, he felt it.

A creature landing at his side, wings flashing in the sun.

And in its voice he heard it. At last.

The Hundredth and the Holy.

The Beautiful.

The Beloved.

FIFTY

Hannah arrived that night. Iqbal adored her at once and the pair worked in the kitchen together, chattering like old gossips about her children and how India had changed and the difference between chapattis and tortillas. Ruth stayed at James' side.

He drifted in and out of sleep, in and out of consciousness. Sometimes, in his faraway place, he smiled. Once, even, he laughed and they turned to look at him. His eyes were still closed, but he was saying something Ruth didn't understand. A strange tongue, whose name she didn't know. Sometimes his face was troubled, or his breathing fast and desperate. Even when his eyes opened they looked out on a different world.

The three laid out their bedding on the living room floor, though none of them slept much. A small lamp glowed in the corner of the room as they took it in turns to sit beside James.

When it was Hannah's shift, Ruth lay and watched her. Her long brown hair was drawn back into a bun at the nape of her neck, a few strands at the side of her face softening the severity. There were streaks of grey now, and Ruth knew Hannah wouldn't dye it, just as she never wore make-up or jewellery. The single gold band on her finger was her only adornment, as it had been for Ellen. Ruth had compensated for the family spurning of jewellery by piercing all the way up both ears, her
nose and her navel and wearing rings on all her fingers, some on her toes, a tangle of necklaces and a shifting array of bands round her ankles. But she'd slowly shed them in her time in Mussoorie, lightening the load. Even the glass bracelets Iqbal had given at Eid were soon slipped off so as not to scrape James when she nursed him.

All that was left now was Manveer's
kara
.

It was hard against her skin as she lay with her hands folded under her cheek, watching Hannah, who sat so still, watching James. Ruth hadn't seen her for three years and was struck by the signs of age. Her forehead was creased and there were shadows under her eyes, made darker by the low light. Hannah's eldest two were away at college now and who could guess the anxiety for a mother who had hovered over them from birth.

Ruth had always wondered at it. Since marrying Derek in Tennessee at 21, Hannah had stayed in that same small town and never once been back to India. Never been out of America! She, who had graduated Valedictorian of her class and Best All Round Student, had neither finished her liberal arts degree nor ever had a job. She had home-schooled all seven children, made every curtain and cushion cover in the house and grown prize vegetables. As if she'd never had her Indian life. Or needed to counter it.

When it was Iqbal's shift, he could barely sit still. He was up and down to the kitchen getting damp cloths, dry cloths, a hot water bottle, a cup of ice, glasses of water and boxes of tissues. None were needed. He mopped James' brow, smoothed and tucked his blankets, and when he could think of nothing more to do, sat perched on the edge of the chair twisting his fingers and looking from James to the others in desperation.

Ruth felt for him in the void that lay ahead. James had already put Shanti Niwas into his name and made provision for his retirement, but Iqbal was a man made to pour himself out in love. For whom would he do that now? Then she remembered the mosaic of photos on his wall and the many Oaklands students who would learn from him a
ghazal
or a
sheesh kebab
or the wonder of grace. There would be no end.

At Ruth's turn, she just sat and held her father's hand. The dark outside seemed to deepen and spread, like an ink that was leaking into
the house, into her aching limbs and all the spaces in her head. She did not know how long she'd been there, but woke to the rasping of his voice and a tug from his fingers. He was using that language again, barely a whisper. That unearthly river of sound, that seemed to come not so much from him, as through him. All she recognised in the spill of words was her name, leaping like a fish from the stream.

FIFTY-ONE

Paul Verghese conducted the funeral, eyes brimming behind his blocky spectacles, voice raised like a bugle. Ruth had expected a verbose and florid eulogy and a long sermon, but the Reverend was changed. Perhaps because of the threatening tides of emotion within him, or the standing-room-only crush of the church, or by dint of some other mysterious force, she did not know, but he lost all the usual rhetorical elaboration and wagging of fingers and spoke with a rare power.

James' life, he said, was a true story and a parable. He was Pilgrim, he was Everyman, he was Adam. And God's dealings with him were a picture of God's dealings with us all, should we only accept it. Verghese pushed his glasses up his nose and took hold of the pulpit with both hands. James did not want his praises sung, he said. He had forbidden it. He wanted one thing only: the truth.

And so the Reverend did his best to tell it, revealing the long-held secret and its legacy, drawing together James' tortuous journey to peace and Iqbal's testimony of love, the counterpoint memories of Hannah and Ruth, his own long friendship and the accounts of others. He knew the truth of a life was not an isolated narrative, but the confluence of all the stories it had created in the lives of others. So as he set out the tale, moving constantly from English to Hindi and back, the throng grew quiet, hearing
about a man they treasured and a man they had barely known.

‘Friends,' Verghese said at the end, ‘I have no better way to finish the testimony of this man's life than in the words of his own choosing.' He unfolded three sheets of paper, crumpled, dog-eared and frayed. The typed text was much scored and hatched, the margins dense with notes. ‘Months ago I asked Dr James to give the sermon one Sunday. He kept telling me he wasn't ready, was still working on it. The last time I saw him, he gave this to me and said,
It is finished
.'

Verghese smoothed the sheets on the pulpit.

‘In the end, he crossed everything out.' He looked up and over the hundreds of heads before him. ‘Months of work, years perhaps. A lifetime. On the last page, only this remained.'

An intense quiet; even the children stopped their scuffling.

‘Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God. Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love. This is how God showed his love among us—'

His voice began to crack.

‘He sent his one and only Son into the world that we might live through him. This is love: not that we loved God—'

He paused, pressed his hand over his trembling chin. Took a breath.

‘– but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins. Dear friends, since God so loved us, we ought also to love one another.'

Verghese whipped off his glasses, face crumpling, tears splashing down his nose.

James was buried beside Ellen that bright October day, a gentle sunshine falling on bowed heads and damp faces. The deodars were a guard of honour, branches hushing an ancient requiem, sap a pungent balm for the dead. All around, the steep bank was velvety with moss and dotted with flowers, while at their feet, the open grave smelled of deepdown things, of the falling and dying of leaves, the rising of life.

Ruth and Hannah stood close, arms around each other's waist,
leaning together and shaking as they wept. James' death had opened spaces between them and they had shared much, including Ruth's lost baby. Hannah had cried for her and gathered wildflowers which she now dropped into James' grave, whispering to Ruth, ‘For our little David'. Iqbal was at their side, his hands twisted together, face a waterfall. He was meant to sing
Amazing Grace
at the end, but only got to the second verse when he broke down. Hannah and Ruth wrapped their arms around him as Mrs Puri took up the tune, bosom heaving, eyes closed.

Tis grace that brought me safe thus far
,

And grace shall lead me home
.

As the others made their way up the steep path to the road, the sisters stayed by the grave, their hands dirty from the earth they had thrown. When all was quiet Ruth knelt and pulled the
kara
from her wrist, touched it to her lips and let it fall onto the dark soil.

FIFTY-TWO

The next night, Ruth walked with Hannah and Iqbal into a sea of lights. It was Diwali. The walkways leading to the school Quad were lined with
dias
, oil lamps that flickered like fireflies, while above and around them, the balconies were festooned with bright coloured bulbs. Streamers criss-crossed the open space, and from every pillar and railing there was the gentle swinging of paper lanterns, foil stars and flowers.

‘So lovely!' Ruth said, stopped in her tracks. At their feet was a geometric design made of coloured chalk with a
dia
in the middle. Further designs dotted the pavements, drawing them in and reminding her of the mandala Kashi had created the night before
Gospel
went to Delhi. Tonight she was in a sari for the first time since dancing Maya Magdalen. A deep, shimmering turquoise, it had been a gift from Mrs Puri. Hannah's was midnight blue, while Iqbal remained in mourning white.

They stood watching a troupe of elementary girls swirling in wide skirts, clapping and skipping their way through a Garhwali folk dance. After them, a long line of school servants dressed in lungis and turbans filed into the space and formed a circle. Their bare chests glistened in the lights and in their hands were brightly coloured sticks.

‘Oho!' said Iqbal, ‘The banghra! This is the best bit.'

‘Yeah, I remember,' Ruth nodded, smiling, but before she could say
more, the loud music had struck up and the men were off, circling and twisting, leaping and hitting their sticks together. These were wrapped with cap gun paper, making the whole performance a wild, fire-cracking whirl. Suddenly the dancers threw their sticks to the ground, broke rank and ran into the crowd, catching people and pulling them into the dance.

Ruth protested but Hannah grabbed her other hand and drew her in.

‘Come on Ruthie!' she cried over the din. ‘This one's for you!'

The music lifted and wailed and the circle took off, pounding around to the left, hopping and clapping, then stamping back round to the right. Inevitably, people collided, turned the wrong way, dug each other in the ribs and buttocks, tripped on saris and lost shoes. But all were laughing: hooting, squealing, rippling with laughter; even Ruth, who couldn't remember when she had laughed so hard. As the music went wild, she found herself stamping and sweeping like a dervish, and when it finally blasted to its triumphant close she threw herself into the roar of voices and applause, almost splitting her sari blouse as she gasped for breath.

Her head was wheeling, her sides aching, her feet on fire.

*       *       *       *       *

She returned to Askival alone. In the deep quiet of dawn she walked up the path and around the house to the rise behind it where the giant deodars stood. Beneath her to the south, the bazaar and the lower hills were sunk in darkness. The sky rose from it, seamless, blurring from black to inky blue to a humming indigo in the north-east. There, the long line of the Himalayas was a silhouette, its ragged edge growing sharper against the lightening sky.

A touch of wind feathered the trees and she breathed in their cedar scent and the foretaste of winter. Rubbing herself to keep warm, she felt the empty space at her wrist where the kara had been, and the tenderness in her ribs from last night's dancing.

Askival sat hunched in the clearing below her with its face dark, shadows pooling on the veranda. She watched the slow coming of light over its broken roof and walls, its empty windows and lost doors. It
would fall down, she knew. It would crumble, till the stones returned to the ground and the trees grew up through the floor and the birds came back to build their nests. And it would be beautiful again.

 

 

 

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