The Onus of Ancestry (28 page)

She rang the doorbell of the Wadias' flat in Chesham Place, keeping the taxi waiting. Nothing happened and her gaze fell on a slip of paper taped to the wall by the door, giving the address of a London clinic. She returned to the taxi hurriedly and directed him to the clinic. He got her there as quickly as possible, wishing her luck as she paid him. She left her case with the desk porter and was shown to Rusi's room by one of the nurses. He was lying still, asleep or unconscious she did not know, and Janet was sitting by his bedside, alone and lost in thought. She got up quickly on seeing Dwita, took her hand and clung to it, so unlike Janet, she thought, who rarely demonstrated emotion of any kind.

“They operated on him – made a bypass.” She shook her head to show it had not succeeded. Rusi opened his eyes a little, a semblance of a smile crossed his lips, and he lifted his fingers feebly to show he had seen Dwita. She put her hand on his forehead, kissed it for the first time and sat by his side holding his hand. She had loved this man for as long as she had known him, almost as the father she never had. She had never embarrassed him with the knowledge of her love for him, but today there was no time for formality, she had to let him know. She was only grateful that she had not been too late. Rusi had looked at Janet with hazy questioning eyes and she remembered something suddenly. She took out an envelope from her bag and gave it to Dwita. “Read it later – not now, my love.”

Rusi passed away during the night, quietly and peacefully – the doctors were unable to help him. Dwita had taken Janet home and stayed with her that night and during the following days John and Jennifer took charge of everything. She had attended the funeral – though a devout Parsee he was buried according to Christian rites at his own request. Sheikh Sultan had also come as Fawzia had predicted, in time for the funeral – Dwita had telephoned the news to him. Christopher was not there, and she had not tried to find out the reason for his absence. She had spoken to no one, just stood by Janet's side silently. For her another link in the chain of life had snapped.

Janet had asked her twice not to open Rusi's letter until she had left London. She had not disobeyed her. She only took one day off to visit Dia at school as the girl had not been able to join the family. She was so grown-up now, poised and beautiful. She had embraced Dwita warmly and said, “You took a very long time to come and see me.”

“Darling, you know I miss you all the time. Now that you are older, you must come and see me. We can plan a little holiday of our own.” – Dia was overjoyed at the prospect of a holiday with her favourite, almost-aunt, who was somehow closer to her than an aunt – sometimes seeming closer than her own mother, who was growing older and did not always understand the problems of growing up. Looking at Dwita, Dia saw that she looked very tired, and thought perhaps she was working too hard. But she did not say anything – she knew that Uncle Rusi was dead and Dwita was very close to him. Dia bade a reluctant farewell to Dwita, who drove back to London in the car she had hired for the visit. Next day she had flown to Bahrain – Sheikh Sultan had passed on an urgent problem for her to solve in the office there. She had almost forgotten the envelope in her bag but now decided to open it in the peace and quiet of her hotel room in Bahrain. It was a letter from Rusi.

The letter had not surprised her. She had long felt that Rusi had nursed some anxiety in his heart where she was concerned. She had also been conscious of John and Jennifer's unease. All along she had known that Dia was bound to her inexplicably with too many strings; from the first meeting their two hearts had formed a bond which extended beyond normal friendship. She somehow knew that Dia was hers, but never had the courage to establish ownership. Yet she also knew they had been right to give Dia a real chance in life, at the cost of depriving her of her rights. Nishith mattered so little to her now; it was just as well his daughter had grown up away from his identity and influence. The memory of that night no longer disturbed her conscious existence, realities of everyday living had dimmed remembrance of her time with him. He was a ghost from the past who no longer haunted her. She was happy for Dia, she did not grudge her the unstinting love and care she had received from her adopted parents.

Yet there was a splinter in her heart, which was that she would have to share her life with Dia not as a mother, not even as a relative, but only as a loving friend. She had no rights in the matter. Could she continue to live thus for the rest of her life and not share the knowledge with Dia? The answer must be yes – she would never do anything to shake Dia's security. Once again her destiny was to love, but not to expect a daughter's love in return. She only hoped that now she knew, John and Jennifer would not shut her out from Dia's life. She had made herself lose Christopher – now Dia could be taken from her. Was such terrible loss to be her destiny?

She returned to Abu Dhabi from Bahrain and submerged herself once more in her work. It was not difficult to do so in a place where all the others did the same. People seemed to be there just to slave away their lives until their skeletons were wrapped in gold leaf, ready to disintegrate from physical fatigue and mindless exhaustion. She had become one of this procession of gold-seekers with no other life.

A few days later, a letter arrived from the Parkinsons – a letter of apology, explaining the reason and circumstances of their decision. Janet had told them of Rusi's letter to Dwita. They concluded by saying that they fully acknowledged Dwita's rights and would accept her decision, for Dia was really hers. But perhaps looking at Dia, and considering the effect upon her of such a disclosure, Dwita would hold off, at least while Dia was still so young. Also, the girl was now by far their greatest interest and solace, losing her would be quite unthinkable. Could they hope that Dwita would agree to share with them the love and care of her as before, without her knowing any more than she already knew? There would come a time when it was right to tell her, but not now.

Dwita was grateful to John and Jennifer for all they had done for her in her predicament, and once again the tradition of her upbringing came between self-interest and ingratitude to an elderly couple who had been good to her when she had no one to turn to. By their action they had given Dia a clean lineage and saved her from the sorrow of a tainted past, and Dwita's maternal love could hardly replace that – her claim would put back on Dia's shoulders the curse of the Duttas, the fear of insanity inherited from her real father. She could not do this to her daughter just to establish her maternal rights. In the end did any mother win or keep her rights? Look at Parna – she had tried to do the best by her daughter, but in the process she had brought her misery, wrought more harm, and practically snapped the bond between them. Her conscious exertion of rights did not mean she won, she only ended up by losing most of those rights. Dwita did not want that where Dia was concerned. She never wanted to have to exert the ‘right' to love her and be loved. In all this, she only questioned the ethics of their decision, questioned their right – Bijit Mitra's and John and Jennifer Parkinsons' right – to have carried this deceit through without involving Dwita. She concluded that they probably knew they would not stand a chance in a law court for social justice, but that they stood a good chance in the law court of humanity and could therefore be granted a maternal pardon.

A few months later a letter from Rusi's solicitors arrived which came as a total surprise to Dwita. It informed her that he had left her a substantial endowment in his will. She had not expected it. After considerable thought she made up her mind to buy herself a pied à terre in London which could offer a refuge from her past. Would it be difficult to be near Christopher and yet not be entitled to see him or speak to him? No. She could not weaken now and make it hard for both of them. Besides, Christopher had kept away from her all this time, why should he change his mind simply because she was in London oftener than before? Having a place in London could make life easier for her, and when Dia grew up, she could always have it to use. Dwita needed a corner to herself, as her mother's home in Calcutta could not be considered her own. London was the best haven of anonymity, one hardly ever bumped into friends or acquaintances at its airports or on its streets – in its friendly but impersonal bosom you could lead a nameless, faceless existence.

Dwita was basking in one of those white-painted chairs in the garden of the Sacre-Coeur, in Paris. She had just paid the old lady for two seats. The other was vacant just at the moment, because Dia was busy with her camera, shooting everything in sight. She gazed up at the sun-kissed dome of the house of worship – its pure whiteness soothed her mind. It did not have the expansive magnificence of Notre-Dame, its superior architecture or generous proportions, but it had a rare beauty all its own. It had the intimate charm of a small-town French cathedral. She looked at Dia as the girl darted happily about, and felt at peace with the world.

They had shared a few holidays together since that day when they had made their pact at the school – short and long ones in England, on the Continent and in the Gulf – but so far she had not collected enough courage to take her to India. She felt it would be too difficult to deceive her mother or Barun. Dia had just finished her O Level examinations and they had decided to spend a week in Paris, sight-seeing and gourmandising. It was so good to see her enjoying herself. The Parkinsons had never made any attempt to prevent the shared holidays and Dwita had never attempted to impose her maternal rights. Her visits to London were always rushed, as her work hardly ever allowed her more than a few days leisure at a time.

To Dia, she was a friend in whom she could confide. John and Jennifer were now older and preferred to spend more time in the quiet of the country, whereas Dia pined for the excitement of London and what it had to offer. She came to Dwita with all the pangs and problems of growing up. Dwita saw that Dia was emerging as a beautiful girl – her pretty oval face, large liquid eyes veiled by long thick eyelashes and a pair of thin arched brows above them would ensnare many male hearts. She was not as tall as her mother, but had inherited her mane of thick hair, the wayward hair Maheshwari had once combed so lovingly.

When Dia visited her in Abu Dhabi, Fawzia had said, “Dwita, Diana looks so much like you she could pass as your own.” Sheikh Sultan had commented, “You are so fond of that girl, Dwita, you love her as your own. You should have adopted a daughter even if you did not wish to marry again – this is no life for a young woman.”

“I am not young anymore, Sultan.” They had dropped formalities long ago and used each other's Christian names. “Who will marry me?” she had said laughing.

“You take that armour off just for once and see – you will soon find out. At the moment, the men are too scared to come near you – me included! We have a nickname for you here, did you know that? ‘The indomitable iceberg'.”

“What a coincidence – do you know I was called an iceberg once before, though not indomitable. After all these years, it is good to know, Sultan, that someone can hold you at bay. Remember all those years ago when you thought I would be incompetent and incapable because I was a woman? Have I proved myself to you now and managed to clear the name of my sex with you and your Arab friends?”

“Certainly you have to me, and some others – but to win them all is not possible as yet. We still have a long way to go. A lot of us cling to our old beliefs and prejudices. Our religion makes it hard for us to emancipate our women.”

“I do not agree with you there – it is your interpretation of your religion that has affected your community and crippled the chances of your women. In God's eyes men and women are equal, their physical differences impose constraints on both sexes, not just on females. I wish we could create a world where our social, racial and religious differences did not keep us apart as human beings. I have left my country with this particular sadness in my heart.”

“What sadness, Dwita?”

“You see India was once united, we lived and fought together. We had our differences, but they were not important enough to separate us altogether. We could still continue to live as varying members of a joint family. But the Raj saw to it that our image of unity was cut apart by the carving knife of imperialism; it is the ineradicable scar left by a departing jilted lover, who was mean enough to make sure if he could not have his prize, she should not remain whole or untainted.”

“But what about nowadays, are things changing?”

“No, we still continue in the same incomprehensible way – look at all the wars we have waged with each other, and the unscrupulous politicians of our country have used that as a weapon of their success or excuse for their failures.”

“Do you still miss your home, your country, Dwita?”

“Yes, I do, all the time. But I cannot accept what I see there. The same diseases are no doubt present elsewhere in the world, perhaps even in your part of the world, but I can bear to be unaffected by them as they are not of our making. But I cannot do so in the case of India – the country of my birth and upbringing… You only heard of the emergency in 1976, but I was there for a while at the time, and I saw what the collected malice and ambition of those in power did to a whole nation. It was unthinkable for those of us who heard stories of the struggle of the freedom fighters, of their patriotism and of their sacrifices. All this became a thing of the past. Now Indians oppressed Indians, the senseless shame and rabid immorality of the situation was inconceivable. I nearly decided then not to return.”

“Have you not been back since 1976?”

“No – not yet. But I hope to one day.”

“I am sorry Dwita, but I think you feel too strongly – in this day and age, one has to be a little amoral, and learn to overlook.”

“You may be right, Sultan, but I still feel unable to compromise where my country is concerned.”

*

She was far away, lost in her own thoughts when Dia returned to her seat in the gardens, saying, “I have finished the whole roll of film! I must get another this evening.”

“Oh Dia, not again – at this rate you will have a suitcase full of them and we will have to leave behind all those lovely clothes and shoes you bought here!”

“No, don't worry, we can throw away that nasty fat file instead, which I have seen lying in wait in that case of yours. No work for you here, I warn you–”

“My dear, dear girl, I was not going to do any work while I am here with you. I carry it for safekeeping and also as you know Sultan is always in hot pursuit of facts and figures. My head is too small to hold all of them.”

“Dwita, I would like to work like you, and wander round the world.”

“Well, mm – that sounds good – but Dia, though my life may appear very exotic, I would not like to recommend it entirely to you or any one for that matter. Anyway, my love, you have plenty of time to decide, but when you choose, fallible as we are, try not to make a mistake that you cannot repair.”

“One should be able to unmake most mistakes.”

“That is the confidence of youth speaking – once I thought that too – but now I think some cannot be unmade.”

“Dwita, can I ask you something?”

“Yes, fire away.”

“Why did you never marry again?”

“It was not possible.”

“Because of your career?”

“Yes and no.”

“Did you know Uncle Christopher well?”

“Yes, I think I did.”

“And now?”

“I have not seen him for some years.”

“Was it because of Aunt Julia?”

“Dia, my love, what makes you ask all these questions suddenly?”

“Well, I have always wondered – do you know I still remember the day you drove away from Oleander last and you never came back – and we also never saw Uncle Chris very much afterwards.”

“Does he not visit any more?”

“No – never. He comes to us in London, but not that often. He seems distant and less cheery. I believe he travels all the time and when he is at home spends all his time in his study. I believe they hardly speak to each other. It is such a shame. My parents are different, we are so close to each other, and always do things together. It is so much better to be like that.”

“Yes of course–”

Dwita suddenly felt weak inside and it must have shown on her face for Dia said, “What is the matter? Have I said something wrong?”

“No, of course not, you are quite right.” She tried to sound light-hearted. Her feeling for Christopher was still an open wound that caused pain if pressed. She kept putting new bandages over it, but a little blood always seeped through.