In the Shadow of a Dream (23 page)

Dusty joined Lieutenant Kashi Kapoor at the Moti Bagh Palace Hotel in Jodhpur, where they spent the night before driving off to Charbagh. Cash’s father had placed one of his cars, a Mercedes Convertible, at their disposal. Sitting next to Pannalal, the chauffeur, was Laxman, the cook.

‘Cash,’ Dusty said, as they set off, ‘do we really need a cook?’

‘Oh yes. During the day we may manage with roadside
dhabas,
but in the evening you’ll want a good dinner, substantial, properly prepared. Also, sandwiches for lunch for a change. And Laxman makes terrific sandwiches. How does that sound?’

‘Wonderful, but you must let me make a contribution. I’m talking money.’

‘Nonsense, Dust. Hell, what’ll I do with it. Relax, man. All this is not coming out of my pocket.’

‘But a six-week holiday romp is long and expensive…’

‘Forget it. Okay, you can buy a meal or two. That reminds me. Four weeks is all I could wangle. But for the last two weeks you can stay in dad’s flat in New Delhi.’

Dusty said nothing. His thoughts parodied Kipling’s “A St Helena Lullaby”. How far is Fatehpur and that little boy today? Here he was, the once poor orphan, in the company of riches. But he wasn’t going to be overwhelmed into being over-grateful.

They lunched in Ajmer at a neat and clean Goan Cafe, run by a matronly woman whose husband worked as a foreman in the Carriage & Locomotive workshop. Then they set off towards Charbagh and some hours later their car entered the long, shady drive of a red-roofed, white house with a long pillared veranda. Half-way up the drive their car was stopped by a little man in a dhoti. He wore a black waistcoat, a black pill-box cap and carried a thick red book. Bending into the car he whispered to Cash. Cash nodded, turned to Dusty and said: ‘We’ll walk up the drive. I gather the last owner of the house is here and about to leave.’ Cash told Pannalal to park at the back of the house, and Laxman to unpack stuff from the boot and get cracking with tea and dinner.

As they neared the house, Dusty stopped suddenly. ‘God! What’s that?’

‘What’s what?’

‘In the veranda… It’s okay. She moved. She was still and white like marble. For a moment I thought it was a statue. A Greek statue. Venus De Milo with arms.’

‘And clothes. She’s a beauty. That figure would look great, naked.’

‘Not so loud, Cash! She’s looking towards us.’

‘And you! Good Lord Dusty, you look struck down.’

‘Yes I am! I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful. Not even in books. I’ll never forget that face. Not ever.’

A man came from the house, joined the woman in the veranda, put an arm round her waist and talked earnestly for a moment. Then they went into the house together.

‘Lucky blighter! But he’s not a bad-looker either.’

‘Yes. A dark Rupert Brook type, and she, something by Raphael or Burne-Jones.’

‘Dark? He’s my colour. Not yours, light like a bloody Parsee. Hell! I should have guessed. That’ll be Sandy. The chap dad bought the house from. He’s Rajput. Sandy Thakur. I could introduce myself and you. Then you can have a good look at her.’

Dusty shook his head. ‘No. I don’t see what good that’ll do me. Anyway, they’re off. Listen.’ A car engine started.

‘They’ll come this way,’ Cash said. ‘You’ll get another look at her. Cross to the passenger side. Who the hell is Raf…whatever that was you said, earlier?’

‘An artist. Medieval…never mind here they come.’

A car with large chromium headlights approached and as it went past the man saw them and waved. The woman, lost in thought, stared large-eyed ahead, very still, her raised chin accentuating her drooping mouth and pouting lower lip.

‘God,’ Dusty exclaimed, ‘what a profile! Pure Raphael. Sorry, you were asking?’

‘Forget it. I suppose you know all about Medieval Art. Spare me. I’ve already had a long lecture from you en route here; and I’m not even sure what that was about?’

‘Colonel Todd’s
Annals of Rajasthan
. That’s why we’re here.’

‘Okay. I’ll use my eyes. You use your head. I remember the bore of being forced to attend those long debates organised by the School Debating Society, with you in the Chair. You always were a bookworm. What a relief, for once, to see you take an interest in a woman. Give yourself a break. Think women. Hey, I remember now, not much, because we weren’t in the same company and you were six months senior, but there was… what was her name? Something Min or Mun…the Commandant’s wife? You danced with her, didn’t you? Oh, yeah. There was talk. It looked as if you two were, you know, what I mean…’ he made a rude gesture, rubbing his forefingers together. ‘Jig-jig…we expected Sen Gupta to expel you.’

They reached the veranda and, as if from nowhere, the little man with the red book appeared. Folding his hands he bowed and with the meek emphasis of a clerk spoke: ‘Please to forgive delay, but a room is now been arranged for the purposes of rest and sleep.
Chai
too is being prepared.’ He drew a hob watch from his waistcoat and looked at it anxiously. ‘It is phive p.m. Dinner will be arriving at eight.’

Cash nodded and gave a slight wave of the hand. The little man rolled his head. They sat down on the two central steps of the veranda. Behind them the setting sun reflected sharply on the window panes. Cash gave Dusty a sly nudge. ‘We were, you know, talking about women in my life. Let’s have your story.’

‘What makes you think there were any? No use looking at me like that.’

‘You know. You and Minnie. There, I even remembered her name.’

‘Goes to show how misleading rumours can be. Actually Sen Gupta was good to me. Gave me a book autographed by him. And we almost played a round of golf.’

‘No smoke without fire, man,’ Cash said with a triumphant gleam. ‘But, anyway, she was old enough to be your mother. But sexy.’ Getting no answer, he waved his right hand before Dusty’s eyes. ‘Hey, you’re not listening. You’ve gone all dreamy. Thinking about the woman you saw just now? She’s only a dream.’

‘No, she’s a goddess. Women like that are worshipped.’

‘The best.’ Again he rubbed his forefingers. ‘Each time, is like a rape.’

‘Stop that. Where did you pick that up? That gesture with the fingers.’

‘Pannalal, our chauffeur. He did that when he asked if we wanted a woman. That reminds me. Have you done it, or are you still a virgin?’

‘As one virgin to another. No. I mean, no I haven’t done it.’

‘Okay, I’ll admit it. I too. So, why not during this holiday?’

‘What here? In Rajasthan? Land of the purdah?’

‘He’ll fix it, Pannalal, a man of infinite resource. And discreet too.’

‘No thanks. I don’t want a dose of you know what. I’d rather…’

‘Don’t tell me. You’d rather read a book.’

‘That’s what I do all the spare time I can get. I wish you’d read too. You wouldn’t pester me, then. And don’t trouble your dad any further. I can do without Delhi. I’m happy to spend a quiet fortnight in my room at Mahijit Niwas.’

‘Or, you may keep Pannalal and Laxman for a few days after I’ve gone. You can go where you like. I mean, it would be a pity to spend ten to twelve days twiddling your thumbs. It’ll also do me a favour. Dad doesn’t know I got only four weeks. If those chaps return early, he’ll think you and I are on a filthy spree. Dad’s a highly suspicious guy. Keeps a tag on me, so I don’t ruin his marriage arrangements.’

‘But you can’t marry before twenty-five, without your CO’s permission.’

‘These things take time, and I’ll be twenty-five next year.’

‘I could do with a few days on my own. Your talk about Minnie reminded me.’

‘Sometimes you can be so bloody mysterious.’

Dusty grinned. ‘Basirabad is not far from Ajmer. We are ending up at Ajmer?’

‘Yes, and no. Basirabad is not far. But explain, you sly…’

For an answer, Dusty gripped his friend by the back of his neck and shook him. ‘Ask me no questions, and I tell you no lies.’

‘Ouch, you’re hurting me. God, Dust, you’re so bloody strong.’

‘Anyway, I’m not asking about your intended.’

‘Intended? You mean Kamala? I’ll show you her photograph, man.’

‘And a moment ago you were talking about prostitutes.’

‘That’s different. Dad would never know. The marriage is a business deal.’

‘What’d’yer mean, business deal?’

‘Kam’s family has even more money.’

‘More money? No one can have more money than your dad.’

‘Dust, sometimes, you can be so innocent.’

The Convent of St Mary and St Anne, Basirabad, had a graveyard of mostly white marble headstones, crosses, and angels. Dusty, carrying a bunch of red and white roses, zigzagged his way among the graves, and stared hard at the names. He stopped and stood over what at first looked like a dark brown bundle of cloth till it moved. Two grubby hands that had been shovelling earth, pulled back a cowl, revealing a Franciscan face, twinklng deep blue eyes and a forest of ginger grey facial hair. ‘Oh, hello! Father?’ Dusty asked, defensively. The squatting figure rose on its knees and offered a large open hand. ‘Help me up, young man. I’m Brother Bonaventure.’

Dusty could not place the foreign accent. He took the hand, pulled and discovered his companion was elderly, short and tubby.

The figure laughed. ‘Yes, they call me Friar Tuck,‘ he said. ‘How can I help?’

‘I am looking for the grave of Molly D’Silva.’

Brother Bonaventure scratched his bald pate and genially noted the flowers. ‘Oh, now…’ave yer been ’ere afore, me lad.’ Dusty shook his head. ‘Will she be a one yer know?’ Again Dusty shook his head. ‘Will yer be knowing when she died?’

‘I’m not sure. It could be 1941 or ’42.’

‘Ah, that will be at the far wall. Come, I’ll take you there.’

‘I’ll find it, father.’

‘No. no. Let me. The walk will do me good. A power of good.’ After a few paces he stopped suddenly and held his head. ‘Oh, I’ll be losing me head next. Did yer say Molly D’Silva? Why, we reserved the plot next to her. For one Ester Lobo. Will yer be knowing that lady too. And a very fine lady she is too.’

The grave was a plain slab of white marble with a simple cross of grey slate on it. Below the cross, written in black, was: “Molly D’Silva, A Mother Beloved by God.” Next to the grave, demarcated by pegs and white rope, a plot of grass had a T shaped piece of box wood. On it, painted in red, the single word “reserved”. Dusty placed his bouquet of flowers carefully on Molly’s grave. He fell on his knees, bent forward and embraced the marble slab with outstretched hands.

Brother Bonaventure went to him and kneeling next to him, placed an arm round his shoulder. He spoke gently. ‘There, there, me lad. Tell me, what this Molly meant to yer. Would she be yer mother, me lad? Would I be tinking right in saying that?’

Dusty shook his head. With a sharp intake of breath and a sudden movement, he stood up. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know, father. I should never have come. It was a mistake.’ He turned and started to walk away.

The monk called out. ‘Don’t go, dear boy. Don’t do this. Wait. Hear me! I’ll take yer to the Military Hospital. Meet Sister Lobo!’

Dusty stopped. He turned and regarded the monk, who was standing by the grave with open hands. ‘Forgive me, father, I’ve made a big mistake.’

‘At least come into the church. I’ll say a prayer for the two of yer.’

Dusty watched Father Bonaventure striding towards the church. On reaching the little porch, the monk turned round and beckoned to him again. Dusty shook his head and raised a hand in a gesture of farewell. ‘Thank you, Father. Goodbye,’ he said hoarsely, then walked to the car, which was parked under the shade of a mango tree. Pannalal and Laxman were sitting patiently in the front, till Laxman saw Dusty and sprang out to hold open a back door. As the car moved away Dusty heard the tolling of a bell. He looked back at the little bell tower on top of the central gable. He traced the bell-rope down to the wide step of the porch. The monk’s head was covered and bowed against the rope. The tolling stirred a memory. He glanced at his watch. Yes, the Angelus at noon. He had heard it twice, when his school Cricket Eleven played St Joseph’s Roman Catholic Academy, on their superb grounds in Parel, in Bombay. He began to mumble: “The Angel of the Lord declared unto Mary and she conceived by the Holy Ghost. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou among women…”