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by Joan Hope
In Loving Memory of Joan Hope About this book
I lived in India, for
almost a year. This fictional account is based on my Chapters
The Chapters have all been
linked, so you can jump down to the page.
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to legitimate questions and comments Email The Library of Hope There's This Boy "There's this boy", said Jack. But that was long ago, before he and Emma went shopping for an engagement ring; before he flew to India to make the arrangements; before he began sending money for the boy's upbringing and education. After the loss of his wife in a car crash, Jack had gone off on a world tour and in India had run into the boy's family. They had fallen on hard times after partition and now they had this boy, so much younger than their other four children. It was on that same world trip that he'd also run into fellow-Canadian Emma, a farm girl from the Prairies, whose young husband had been killed when his tractor rolled over and pinned him underneath. She was in Australia, visiting her uncle's sheep station and, like Jack, exploring the country before returning to Canada. Jack and Emma had so much in common that they exchanged addresses and agreed to meet again back home. There, in Alberta, they found they had even more in common: Jack's mother was French. In fact, he had been Christened Jacques. Emma's grandfather, too, was French and she spoke the language. Jack, who had grown up in British Columbia, had been forced to speak only English. At school, if he dared utter a single word in his mother's tongue, they put a chain around his neck and he had to endure the taunts of the other boys for a whole week. In Manitoba, where Emma had grown up, it was different. Now, they could laugh at the situation, for Jack whose dark hair and brown eyes announced "Francophone" to all comers, was constantly being addressed in French, while Emma, blue-eyed and fair-haired had to reply. By that time they were married and planning to start a family. Their neighbours in their seven-elevator town were encouraging: "Never mind you're older - the last family to live in your teacher- age had six children, all adopted." More encouragement from Bombay: "We have room for you here. We can all live as one family. Rakku has a good job at ICE. Coming from Canada, you could probably find work there too, "It sounded hopeful: ICE - Indo- Canada Energy. In Canada it was Imperial Canadian Energy. There was a photo of the boy enclosed: "Look what a big boy I am now. Love, Ram." The letter was signed "Daddy" with a note attached from "Mummy" all in Hindi which they couldn't read. "I thought you said they were Westernised," remarked Emma. "That's very recent, at least for women. I meant the younger generation. Remember they have a woman Prime Minister now, Indira Gandhi. Things are looking up now for women in India. Even the caste system is in decline. No untouchables now! They're Harijans-God's children. Mahatma Gandhi called them that. Meera and Didi both have a B.A." Emma, who'd visited Bombay briefly, sailing by a P&O-liner to and from Australia, was looking forward to a longer stay there this time. Time to book their passage - by an American freighter to save money. Time to start packing. As they did so, Emma was puzzling about something else. Jack's parents were both deceased: now these people were signing themselves "Daddy" and "Mummy". Jack reassured her: "They want to make us feel welcome." Soon they would be in a new home in India. Delays and Dreamtime So much excitement: summer, and school was out. So many things to do if only they weren't leaving. They'd already been on a long walk to raise funds for charity, but now they'd be missing the annual farmers' picnic and the local rodeo, a sort of miniature Calgary Stampede for which local farm boys had been practising ever since Easter. On the morning they took the bus to Edmonton, whence they were to travel east, a chuck-wagon appeared in town, serving pancakes for breakfast. And then there was all the excitement over the new Prime Minister, comparatively young like themselves and an avid traveller, dedicated to providing hostels across the land so that young people could hitchhike from coast to coast and get to know their great country. Trudeaumania was on its way. Meanwhile, a change in plans: their sailing date had been postponed to mid-August and a letter from Bombay had advised them first to travel to Toronto: "Kishu has a parcel for us that you can pick up..." Kishu was a nephew who ten years ago had immigrated to Canada and was practising law. "Parcel" was a code word for money. It was through Kishu that Jack had been contributing to Ram's upbringing and education: he had contacts in Toronto who regularly flew to and from India. "Parcels" Emma had remarked on learning of this, "Cloak-and -dagger stuff..." And Jack had replied, "Yes. Spies. Thieves. Can't trust the mail." Parcels worked. Dollar bills could be exchanged at the enhanced black-market rate. Now they were to visit Toronto for the first time. In the past while travelling to places like Toronto, Ottawa and Montreal, they'd avoided the place. Toronto was the city that bought prairie wheat cheap and then sold it back at a premium in the form of bread. All Alberta bread wrappers had a Toronto address on them. Toronto was The Enemy. People had been writing to MacLean's magazine to complain about it. Albertans, their main industries wheat and beef, had been hurting ever since the Great Depression of the 1930s. Some people thought it had never really gone away and believed that the teachers' salaries were all still "Welfare". Farmers felt they were still obliged to donate produce to tide them over the frost-bound winter months. Although ICE and other companies were busy looking for oil in the 1960s, it was still only Premier Manning's dream. Jack and Emma arrived in Toronto by Greyhound bus on a Sunday and found it dull, dusty and dirty. Gusts of wind blew litter through the deserted streets of Islington, where Kishu lived with his wife and three children, the youngest, a three-year-old boy whose adoring parents did nothing to stop his attacking his two sisters and any guests who came his way. Charging at them on his little tricycle, he crushed their toes and barked their shins. At meal times, diapers and all, they sat him on the dining table for all to admire. Emma was apprehensive. Was this an advance taste of India? But Jack reassured her. Not all families were like that. Yes, the eldest son had a special place in an Indian family, but there they had servants to look after the children. Outside in the dusty streets, the long Sunday Nothing continued on its way. They were happy to leave it on another bus that took them to Montreal, which they knew and loved. From there they would explore New England before heading back west to board the ship in Seattle. Another Greyhound bus, they supposed. But then in Vermont they saw a huge white Ford Galaxie for sale, nearly new and only $100. It had been in an accident and had ripped seats and a gas leak. But it got them across the U.S. thanks to constant attention from Jack. He never quite stopped the gas leak, though, and wherever they parked they had to place a tin can underneath to catch the drips. So they arrived in Washington State on time, safe and sound and leaking all the way. Then they discovered their ship had again been delayed: it would not sail till mid-September. What to do with a whole month to spare and dollars running out? Well, they had camped in their car all across the country and still had their pass for the National Parks. Then there were the small roadside campsites like those in Alberta that were free of charge. It was in one of those near a place called Sultan that they met a retired couple, who had parked their motor home there. He said he'd been working all his life in the mines, and she was wearing a little, old-fashioned granny-cap. They seemed to come from an age long past. In the morning, as they cooked breakfast on the shared camp-stove, they spoke of the unemployed men in the Great Depression who had been put to work building stoves and shelters at most of the campsites. Now they said they were going to a hippie festival. Jack and Emma knew about hippies - "clean beatniks", some people had called them. It was for them that Trudeau was planning to provide hostels across Canada. But here in the U.S. there was no need for that: it had all been taken care of during the Depression. Where was this festival taking place on this bright sunny August morning?" "Just down the road. Follow us." So they set off in convoy, the old miner in his incongruous, outdated suit, shirt and tie driving the motor home and the little granny-cap worn by his wife bobbing up and down at the open back door. Roadside billboards showed them the way: Grand Sky Rock Festival, Lighter than Air. There was only one problem. Dark thunderclouds were collecting above and Heavier than Air would have been a better description. The lane leading to the festival meadow was getting muddier by the minute as torrents of rain poured down on the gathering crowds. The motor home nearly got stuck but pulled itself out. Jack gave a thumbs-up sign to granny-cap - and that was the last he saw of her. His car was stuck in the oozing ruts the motor home had left in its wake. Scores of helpful hippies descended on the big, mud splattered white car to hoist it out of the morass and soon Emma was urgently inquiring, "Anybody seen a motor home with a granny-cap in the back?" Nobody had. If that elderly couple had come down from another age, they'd gone back there. Tramping through the festival meadow in ever-deepening mud, sheltering in food tents, or to listen to guitars or join in the singing, Jack and Emma could find no trace of their new friends. ♫...This land is your land...♫, they sang, trying to teach the young hippies the Canadian version and the words of their own song from Alberta, Four Strong Winds. The muddy celebration at Sultan in 1968 would be eclipsed by Woodstock the following year and, like granny-cap and the disappearing motor home would soon be forgotten as if it had never happened. In years to come, Jack and Emma would begin to wonder if they'd dreamt it all, starting with the ghost of a granny-cap. Memories of a night spent with hippies in a railway repair car parked behind their campsite where trains ran noisily all night; a mock fight in the morning by two boys in bell-bottoms squirting shaving cream at each other; the drunken Frenchman who had plonked his beret on Jack's head as he sat at supper. He still had that beret - just one of the dreamtime souvenirs from that crazy hippie festival in the mud. There were also two red plastic plates presented to them by granny-cap when she'd noticed they were eating out of foil pie-dishes. Those, and all the dreamtime memories.
Chapter Ill After a month waiting, checking as often as possible with the office in Seattle, Jack and Emma had a firm sailing date. Their ship was in port and would be sailing on September 13. And they must be inoculated against typhoid, typhus, cholera and bubonic plague, with certificates to prove it before they would be allowed on board. All had been taken care of in Canada - except plague. But there was still time and they got it done. They were about to sell the $100 heap of junk that had been their home for two months, masquerading as a car, when another letter from Bombay arrived for collection from the Seattle Post Office: "So you've got an American car? They're like gold dust here in India. Bring it here and you can drive it all the way from Madras." So, at eight times what they'd paid for it, they arranged to have it shipped. A few days later when they climbed aboard, there it was on deck in a huge container. They'd get their money back, the letter had said, when they sold it in Bombay. But it was a Friday - Friday the 13th. Surely the ship would wait till next morning before sailing. No ship ever sailed on a Friday, let alone on the 13th. But Emma was wrong: they did indeed start their voyage on that ominous day, and she sat with Jack in their cabin with that old song running through her mind:
♫...One Friday morn when
we set sail Well they certainly stayed not far from land as they sailed up to Alaska and the Aleutians, but no sign of a mermaid, so perhaps they weren't so unlucky after all. Soon they were getting acquainted with the other couple who were also passengers on the ship and the officers whose mess they were all sharing. At breakfast, they examined the typed menu, which announced that the ship's name was the V. S. Maul, under Captain Snuth. First on the menu was Not Fatima Mish. The English couple began to giggle, as the dishes of steaming farina porridge were set before them. Soon, Jack and Emma joined in the hilarity, especially after the Englishman solemnly enquired if there would be skunk for lunch. In fact it was fish and chicken. They could hardly eat for laughing. All this fun seemed to set the tone for the entire voyage, and nobody was fazed when one of the officers took them on a tour of the vessel. "This is our final voyage. Our sister-ship split in two and went down in the Atlantic. Not to worry - this is the Pacific, calm as a mill pond. And look at these steel plates. We had them fixed where the other ship split. Now we're safe as houses" But Emma was still thinking of that song:
♫...For the want of a
lifeboat they all went down, She couldn't get it out of her head. What next? But they were all looking forward now to their first port of call, Yokohama. Then at last they could stretch their legs for a day or two and buy a few presents for their families and friends. Next, it would be Hong Kong, then Singapore, where the English couple were due back to disembark. As the ship approached the Japanese coast, the purser, a dumpy little man with a droopy moustache, came to the passengers' cabins one morning looking more lugubrious than ever: "New instructions. All this flour and sugar we are carrying is not for Hong Kong -it's for Danang and Saigon. Sign this if you want to go there - otherwise we'll fly you to Singapore free of charge." The English couple chose Singapore. After all, it was their destination and now they'd be arriving early. Jack and Emma read the paper carefully, sad to be missing out on Hong Kong. Maybe Saigon would be just as interesting - would have been but for the war going on in Vietnam. The paper, typed in bright purple lettering, stated that the shipping company would bear no responsibility for anything untoward that might happen to them in the war zone. The ship would be protected by helicopter gunboats...they took the risk and signed up for ten days in Vietnam. Then the ship ran into a storm. A spectacular waterspout greeted them as they approached Yokohama. It rained the entire three days they were in Japan, but at least they were able to buy a transistor radio for the family in Bombay. Meanwhile, their English friends wished them luck. The ship sailed into Danang harbour, dropping anchor while still far from the coast. The water was too shallow there and the food would have to be unloaded on to another vessel that was to anchor alongside. Jack and Emma awoke to find it there in the morning, swarming with Vietnamese men in loose black pants who were setting plates in two parallel rows on deck where soon they would sit cross-legged for breakfast. Then the unloading began. But Jack and Emma didn't wait to watch: a small launch had also drawn up alongside with two young boys at the oars yelling "Soap, soap." Yes, said the ship's officers, it had all been arranged, but not to forget the soap: "They do it every time we come here." A precarious descent via rope-ladder, soap in hand, and Jack and Emma were on the way to the small but crowded Danang market, there to buy for a few U.S. cents two of those pointed hats. The boys were waiting to row them back to the ship with cries of "Number one hats, Number one hats!" It didn't seem like a war zone. Even after dark, when tracer fire sailed silently between two hills across the bay, it seemed more like a fireworks display. They knew they were wrong next morning when their ship was out to sea again and a crushing explosion on the land they had just left engulfed a small village in smoke and flames. Back landwards again and the Voice of Doom - that of the purser - was getting busy again. "All your spare cash, all your valuables, please. In Saigon they'll search the entire ship." Jack and Emma wondered how, but meekly obeyed, and obeyed again when the ship entered the Saigon River estuary. Already, helicopters were buzzing and whirring overhead like protective bees while gunboats swarmed below: "Stay in your cabin till I tell you it's safe to come out." Peering out through their cabin portholes, they could now see the farmers' fields of Vietnam: brown and dead vegetation stretching to the horizon. They knew what had done this and why the U.S. was having to bring food to war-torn Vietnam: Once the ship reached the dock, the purser was back to tell them they could go up on deck now, and later even into the city, "As long as you're back before seven, when the bombing starts." The harbour was full of small boats that were emerging from the far shore where upturned, larger vessels had been converted into homes. It was from there that women in long, black pants that looked almost like skirts were rowing their tiny vessels. They all carried several long poles, and now they were snapping them together. As they lifted them aloft, Emma and Jack could see that each had a strong, metal hook at the upper end. This they quickly fastened to the side of the ship so that they could shinny up, offering the ship's cook little Vietnamese dolls in exchange for cartons of the ship's milk. In no time they were running all over the ship - just as the purser had warned. Unloading was meanwhile underway and more Vietnamese women were running with knives and whatever containers they could find, to slash the sacks of food and collect a small ration of flour and sugar for their families. Nobody tried to stop them. It was as if it was their right. The amount they were stealing was hardly missed by the authorities, but it meant a lot to these Vietnamese families. The purser had been right about the bombing: it started every night at seven during the three days the ship was in port and this time it was no fireworks display. Deafening explosions started promptly on the hour every night and one evening when they left the market just before that time, it was blown up behind them. Were the Viet Cong winning then? What were they doing in Saigon, supposedly safely in American hands? The ships officers had one answer: "Everybody in black pants is Viet Cong." In other words, you couldn't tell which side they were on. Yes, they were a nuisance. But America would win. Years later when the war came to an end and the Americans withdrew Jack and Emma would remember those words and how dangerous it had really been for them in Vietnam in 1968. Singapore, familiar to both of them from their earlier voyages, seemed strangely mundane after all the excitement of Saigon. They went to Change Alley to buy more presents for the family: ball point pens; slatted wall hangings painted with pictures of tigers, snakes, and other exotic creatures; a magnifying glass for Daddy, who was having trouble with his eyes. Then it was straight to Madras. It was mid-October by the time they arrived and the port was glistening with myriads of tiny lights. "Must be some festival," said Jack. Then he remembered: "It's Diwali, the festival of lights - the Hindu new year." A big liner was also in port and an Australian couple were going through customs too. "They tried to confiscate our car. They can keep their bloody India - what a way to treat their tourists with precious dollars to spend! We're going straight to London now taking our car with us." So far the customs officers had said nothing about their car to Jack and Emma. They knew there would be an import tax to pay but that would be only a tiny fraction of the $100 they'd paid for the old heap. They had their receipt to prove it. Wishing the Australians luck as they left to go back to their ship, Jack turned to the customs officer. But he was on the phone now and talking excitedly in Hindi to somebody at the other end. Then he put the phone down and returned the receipt to Jack. Leafing through a file, he came to a page headed FORD and pointed to the name GALAXIE: "We NOT accept the receipt. You pay 16,000 rupees plus demurrage. Otherwise, we CONFISCATE." Now Jack knew what the Australians had been through. But he and Emma didn't have their options. They were there to adopt this boy. They found a hotel for the night and began to make enquiries: turned out gas in India was expensive and train fares were low. They'd forget about their car for the time being and take a train to Bombay. One last attempt next day to reason with the customs officer. But it was all to no avail: he'd obviously already sold it over the phone, Jack wondered about the keys that he had refused to surrender - and about the gas leak he had failed to mention. Wherever that car landed up, it could be dangerous. Then it was to the post office to collect any mail that might have arrived. There was just one letter, from the family they were about to visit: "ICE has just transferred Rakku to Jitpur. It's a small company town just outside Kanpur, so make your way there instead of Bombay. We have a lovely bungalow and will have the guest room ready for you..." "Kanpur - that's in U. P., the most backward state in India," Jack remarked and Emma remembered it from history lessons at school as a centre in the Indian mutiny more than a hundred years ago, when British army wives and families were thrown into a well and drowned. She felt apprehensive. With her fair hair and blue eyes, how would she be received there? Jack tried to reassure her: "That was a long time ago. India has changed since Independence. They welcome foreign tourists now. Besides, the family is highly educated and respected and they've accepted us." Yet, as they bought their train tickets and wrote to the family with details of their change in plans and time of arrival in Kanpur, Emma couldn't quite lay her fears to rest. Friday the 13th had already dealt them a blow. What if... What if...? But they were on the train now, a beautiful air-conditioned janata - people's train - with blue reclining seats just like back home in Canada. Only when they looked out of the window or stopped at a station did they remember they were in India now. They awoke in the morning to farmers' fields on either side, dotted with crouching figures clad in white dhotis. What was this? Potato harvest? "No," said Jack, who had experienced more of India than Emma in the past, "No, these are peasants. They have no toilets, so every morning they go out into the fields. It all helps to fertilize the land." Emma, who remembered the family outhouse on the farm during her childhood, understood. But she did wonder why they didn't build themselves some sort of privy. "Too poor," said Jack. "Look at their houses, just one-roomed huts. And then there's the caste problem. Too few willing Harijans. Poverty. Not enough money. Unwilling to do all the work themselves: all these factors." At every station where the train clanked and puffed to a stop, they were greeted by cries of "Chai walla, chai, garam poori mithai," and for a few paise they would buy tea in a clay, handless cup that would be discarded when empty - together with wheaten flour puffs deep fried in oil. In some stations, whole families were sleeping on the platform or taking a quick sponge bath, still half clothed, at a public water-tap. Everywhere the pavement was spattered with red from the betel nuts so many people were chewing and spitting out. Clank-clank-clank-puff-puff-puff. A whistle and a jerk and the train was on its way again. It was not quite the same as Canada after all. Home at Last Back in Madras, Emma had picked up a bunch of tourist brochures and, aided by Jack on the train, she had been boning up on Indian customs. Confusing. A nod didn't necessarily mean "yes." And touching could involve problems. No hand shaking in greeting. Just put the hands together, bow slightly and say "Namasthe". And don't expect to see knives and forks in India. Fingers usually did the job. But never eat with the left hand. Emma wondered why. "That," Jack told her, "is the TOILET hand." Food touched by the left hand would have to be discarded. The whole dining table could be polluted this way. "So keep your left hand in your lap." Emma was ambidextrous. What if she made a mistake? For the last leg of their journey, they had to transfer to a sweltering local train with no air conditioning or reclining seats, just black plastic-cushioned benches. The man sitting next to Emma kept falling asleep and toppling onto her shoulder and although Jack tried to waken him, he always keeled over again. They were glad to be off that overcrowded train at last. And there awaiting them was a little black Indian Standard car, from which emerged a tall, rather plump balding middle aged man followed by a teenage boy. "Rakku! Ram!" And Jack rushed forward to embrace each of them in turn, lifting the boy off his feet and holding him for a second or two above his head. He tried to indicate to Emma "We're family", but Emma held back, not knowing what to do. What about avoiding touching? Where was "Namasthe"? She was still unsure of herself when Jack turned back to introduce her. On the spur of the moment, she forgot "Namasthe" and preferred her right hand. It worked. "You see, we're Westernised," said Jack. We? Once again, Emma was baffled. But then, this was India. She and Jack were there to adopt a son. "Instant parenthood," she thought as she listened to the two men talking excitedly in the front seats of the little car. The boy at her side was silent, leaning a little forward towards Jack. He hadn't taken his eyes off him from the moment he spotted him on the platform. "Hero-worship," Emma concluded, settling back contentedly in her seat. At the bungalow, the compound gate was open. On the other side of the street, an elephant was deftly opening a similar gate with his trunk. Emma wondered if he'd been trained to open compound gates. He must have opened this one too. But no time for such musings, they were all out of the car now and walking towards a smaller gateway and the veranda beyond. A tall, elderly man in a spotless white dhoti stood just inside. Here was Emma's chance to practise "Namasthe". Jack at once turned to her: "No, no! He's just the mali - the gardener!" The two men and the boy charged straight ahead, ignoring the old man and leaving Emma to follow. On the veranda stood a tall, elderly man in white pyjamas, one eye covered with a pink plastic shade; next to him his plump wife and their two daughters, all in saris of assorted colours. Jack greeted the elderly couple with open arms and once again the hugging started. "Jakku! Jakku! Jakku-baba!" Emma as usual felt a little lost, but this time she remembered "Namasthe". Then they all continued indoors. Emma noticed that nobody held any doors open for "the ladies" and all the men and the boy charged in first. She wanted to tell them, "Home at last," but somehow she couldn't find the words. Part of the Family A wide corridor led through the bungalow from the veranda, with bedrooms to the left and Victorian-style drawing room and another bedroom to the right. Beyond were the dining room, pantry, kitchen and backyard. It had been built for an Englishman in the days of British India. The lady of the house, who was slightly lame and whom everybody addressed as Mummyji, ushered the newcomers into the first room on the left - the guest room. They observed the two single beds under the window separated by a small table on which stood what Emma took to be a large ornament: Indian lady dancing. There was a dressing table with mirror, opposite which was a small closet, and along the wall between were a desk and bookshelves. The other main door led directly to the veranda and a third door to the attached bathroom. Emma and Jack began to unpack. Both the main doors had glass panels and for privacy's sake, Emma found tea towels to cover them. Jack wasn't sure about the wisdom of that. Shouldn't the family have covered them? Would they mind? He was even more alarmed when Emma moved the "dancing lady" to the dressing table: "That's not a statue, that's a goddess. It's as if we were rejecting a crucifix. They won't like it. Try not to annoy them." But with the goddess on the table there was no room for essentials, such as a glass of water each. Emma asked what was the nature of this goddess. "It's Lakshmi, the goddess of money. I think they left it for us, to wish us prosperity." "Well, on the dressing table, it's still close by." Later they would come to know that there was another reason why that particular goddess had been left in their room. As they unpacked, Jack and Emma set aside the presents they'd brought for the family: for Ram, a transistor radio and microscope from Jack and a shirt from Emma, for the rest of the family, a camera, binoculars and a cine-camera amongst other items - and a typewriter. "Then there's our money. We're in the Indian joint family system here. All money is handed over to Daddyji and he doles out pocket money every week. You see, only Rakku is working, and so this system takes care of all the women and Ram, who's still at school." Jack took the gifts out to the family, returning to change for lunch. It was hot and they were glad of the fan turning lazily above, where little beige lizards with prehensile toes ran upside down across the ceiling. Emma had just stripped clown to her bra and panties when suddenly the main door burst open and in rushed Ram. No time for Emma to wonder why he hadn't knocked, he made straight for the closet.- "My dressing gown - where's my dressing gown?" Emma had removed it to make room for their coats and now it was hanging together with hers and Jack's, on the hooks behind the bathroom door. Ram was horrified: "Don't you know we don't hang our clothes there? The sweeper's been in to clean the latrine. Now I can't wear it - it's polluted!" And he rushed from the room in a rage, while his mother greeted him, loudly wailing, "She pollute! She pollute!" The sweeper who cleaned the bathroom had entered by the narrow door next to the toilet. She was not allowed in the rest of the house. Her name was Phool Bai -"flower woman", but she was UNTOUCHABLE. Emma wondered if she had become untouchable too. "I thought it was illegal now. I thought they were all Harijans." "Yes, in principle. But you know everything in India is in principle." At last they were ready to join the rest of the family in the dining room for lunch. "Better apologize to Daddyji for what happened about that dressing gown," said Jack as they left their room. As they passed the other bedrooms, they noticed rumpled clothing lying outside one of the bedroom doors, and when they drew closer, saw that it was the shirt that Emma had given to Ram. It had been trampled upon many times, and as he emerged from his room, he kicked it again with his out-of-date pointy "winkle-picker" shoes. It was Ram's revenge. As they entered the dining room, Daddyji fixed his one good eye on them: "Her clothes don't match, we'll have to buy her a sari or churidar-kameez". He meant the pantsuits she'd seen some of the women wearing. They were based on Sikh national dress. Emma thought that would be nice - the pantsuit, not the sari. She was afraid, that if she tried to tie it, it would land up around her ankles. Wouldn't her Canadian skirts and dresses do? No. They were too short. "We don't show our legs in India - well, not in U. P. -its very traditional here." said Meera. Emma didn't forget the promised apology. It was graciously received, and in self-deprecation she replied, "I know I'm a terrible guest..." Mummyji, sitting at the far end of the table opposite her husband, looked up from her lunch and smiled at Emma, who was sitting with the other women to her left: "You not guest, you daughter-in-law," she announced, emphasizing the last few words. She smiled again. Jack and Emma took it as a compliment. They really were part of the family now. Lunch was delicious: chappatis and lentils - dal - all eaten with the fingers. Of Servants, Gods and Horses After lunch, nap time. It was far too hot then for anything else, and even Rakku, an office manager, took time off then, only returning to work for three hours after tea. That meant that the evening meal -dinner- was very late, sometimes between 11 p.m. and midnight. Jack and Emma, tired out after their long journey, were soon asleep. Suddenly a piercing shriek roused Jack from his slumber: "Emma, Quiet! You'll waken the entire household. What is it?" "Something cold. Oh, its one of those lizards!" It had fallen from the ceiling straight on to her forehead. "These things happen. Never scream like that again!". Ponday, the cook, who was at the door announcing "Chai", finally wakened them. "Chai Walla chai, garam poori mithai" replied Emma, and the cook laughed. "That's another thing," said Jack, "Don't be too familiar with the servants. They take advantage." Ponday was an excellent cook. The family was proud of him. They didn't know it, though: they were about to lose him. Ponday was of the "business" caste and had plans of his own, as the family would soon discover. Meanwhile, with everything apparently humming along nicely, Rakku was anxious to show the guests - or rather, his visiting relatives - the sights of his little company town. "We've just had a beautiful silver temple built" and "You must come and see the plant." The problem was it was always dark by the time he was free to take them anywhere. Sundays? They had a seven-day working week, taking a "fast day" off from time to time when it was convenient. Before they could see the plant, they must await a "fast day." Such days were to prove devastating for Emma. How was she to know when it was Mummyji's fast day? Even if she had been warned, how would she know that on that day no meat could be prepared in the pantry? Or that eggs counted as meat... On one such day, helping to set the table for breakfast, she took two eggs from the fridge, intending to ask Ponday to boil them in the kitchen. She didn't get that far. She was met in the pantry by a furious Mummyji, yelling as she had done over the dressing gown incident, "She pollute! She pollute!'' Then she lined up the servants with their buckets: the whole house must now be cleaned again. This was something that happened every day, early in the morning while Jack and Emma were still in bed. A procession of servants would file through their room looking for "garam pani," hot water from the only such tap in the house, which was in their bathroom. To make the hot tap run, seven other taps in the house had to be turned off. Jack and Emma imagined that whoever did the plumbing must have been paid per tap. Early in the morning, it being too hot in the afternoon, Jack and Emma at first thought that would be a good time to take a little exercise. They knew now that it was best to first check with the acknowledged wise man of the house Daddyji. "No, no. The streets at that time are one big latrine. You have to wait until the town sweepers have been through - but then it'll be too hot." He went on to explain that they should never have interfered with the caste system, based on the Code of Mann, under which for centuries, everybody knew what their job was. With an increasing population that threatened to reach a billion in the next few years, untouchables would be more necessary than ever. "Given the present problems, what would be your solution?" "Failing a return to the caste system, build houses with flat roofs. Each roof could be used as a latrine. Then the sun would dry everything up and birds would come to take it away." A healthy future for India would then be assured.
Jack and Emma solved
their exercise problem by taking walks after tea. Darkness fell fast
and early, but there was a time every day for a short walk sometimes
accompanied by Meera and Didi and the family dog - a formidable
animal that looked more like a wolf or a coyote. It was on one of
these walks that they discovered why the local public clock chimed
the hours only from dawn to midnight. Just beside the mailbox at the
entrance to a small park stood a
It was of course dark when Rakku took all the younger members of the family to the new gleaming temple, which was all lit up at night. Inside, large idols sat in a long row and Rakku made straight for Krishna, the god of his choice. The rest of the family, led by Meera, passed down to the end of the line where sat what looked like a very large stone egg, big end up. Emma was puzzled: "Where is the god?"
The womb was the
egg-shaped stone and what was inside - the god they were worshipping
- was a PENIS. Emma made a note to ask Rakku to bring her a book on the Hindu religion from the company library. When it came, she would learn about the Hindu trinity; Brahma, the Creator, Vishnu, the Preserver, and Shiva the fertility god, the Great Destroyer.
That, to Emma, seemed
ominous. There had been talk in the family of dedicating family members to Shiva. She
asked Jack about it
For several days lengthy pujas—Hindu prayer sessions - were arranged by Mummyji and Meera in one of the bedrooms where an altar to Shiva had been set up. Nobody was allowed inside except to be anointed. It all took place after Rakku left for work in the mornings. Jack and Emma had no idea what was going on in that closed room, where, for the first two mornings, only Mummyji and Meera took part. They emerged unchanged but for a dab of grey -coloured paste on their foreheads.
On the morning when Jack took his turn, he too emerged with a grey dab on his forehead. Curious to find out more before making her own decision and wary of being dedicated to a god who was also the Great Destroyer, Emma asked Jack what had happened. "Nothing to worry about. Let's not talk about that," he replied. Still not knowing what to expect, Emma followed Rakku's example and decided not to be anointed: "Later perhaps." Meera was more forthcoming, although in a different way. While Emma was in the dining room one morning, ironing her new pink churidar-kameez and a new blue one with white pants that she'd made for herself. Meera came in for a chat - or rather to tell a long story about an American girl who married an Indian. "She realised that her marriage meant nothing. She tore up her marriage certificate and got married by Hindu rites. Of course we don't expect you to do that. But she became devoted to her husband's family, and when they fell on hard times was just like a servant in the house." "What happens when you marry by Hindu rites?" Emma wondered. "Pujas... Pujas... you wear a beautiful red silk sari and gold bangles and anklets. With hands and feet painted, and face professionally made up, you sit on a dais with twinkling lights and then your bridegroom comes riding in on a beautiful white horse, to dismount and claim you. Finally there's the Havan, you dance with him around a fire, there's incense and a long silken scarf to tie you together. Wait till this evening, I'll ask Rakku." "It's the annual wedding season now. There's sure to be a wedding near here and if so, he can take us all along". Sure enough, there was just such a wedding over in Kanpur: a colleague of Rakku's was getting married. It was an arranged marriage, the bride and groom would meet only on the evening of the wedding when, in an elaborately decorated bridegroom's outfit, and he would dismount from his horse. Horse! That reminded Emma of the mysterious leather harness that had appeared in the backyard, hanging from a branch of one of the jackfruit trees in which langur monkeys almost as big as people swung from tree to tree. The whole family was puzzled by the mysterious harness. Where was the horse? But they were all off to the wedding now. It was just as Meera had explained: the bride in red, the dais, the lights and the handsome young groom on his white steed. Back home, was it that night? Anyway not long afterwards, the harness that had puzzled them all was gone from the backyard - and Ponday was gone from the kitchen. Outside, plying the streets in competition with the rickshaw men on their bicycles was a two-wheeled horse-drawn Tonga, with its shady canopy to entice wealthier customers. And there, in the driver's seat was the family's erstwhile cook, Ponday. Until a new cook could be found everybody would have to pitch in and do their share. Daddyji was worried. "A good cook needs at least five hours to prepare breakfast". "Let's do it in pairs," suggested Jack. They were all sitting after tea in the drawing room that-evening, discussing the problem while the resident mice ran across the carpet and around their bare feet. Jack and Emma were used to the mice now. They'd asked about a cat, but had been told, "That's too risky. If a cat dies in your house you have to make a pilgrimage to Hardwar on foot, and that's hundreds of miles away. We just have to put up with the rats- the servants catch them and get rid of them outside." Then of course they came back in. But rats? "They call mice rats," Jack explained. "Even Mickey Mouse is 'The Rat' here." They'd volunteered to do kitchen duty next morning. A good thing they were up early, for they found Ponday's domain was not quite what they expected. The counters were black with rat droppings and before they could produce even a cup of tea, there was a big cleaning job to do, and a family of young RATS - not mice - to be dislodged. Outside in the backyard, the washerwoman had arrived early with her little daughter and was busily picking lice and nits from her hair, hoping for the cup of tea that Ponday usually gave her. In the drive outside the untouchables' door, Phool Bai's teenaged daughter dressed in a brilliant red, blue and yellow cotton sari, was doing a sort of belly dance, arms raised above her head, hands undulating, hips swaying. Presently the grizzled old mali emerged from his hut among the bushes, picked the girl up and carried her away. All indoors was quiet and as it should be. Breakfast was ready and Rakku had finished working out, as he did every morning, with his dumbbells. Ram had his books ready and would soon head to school. And Jack had a new job - chauffeur, unpaid of course - driving Daddyji to the hospital for his eye appointments, taking the ladies of the house out shopping. When the regular chauffeur had fallen sick, he had volunteered. After all, no middle class Indian family could manage with fewer than five servants. The new cook arrived the next day. He came from Nepal and had only one eye. The men thought that would bring bad luck but the women pleaded for him. It was they who had been saddled with most of Ponday's work. Celebrations Christmas was fast approaching and Rakku had bought some paper-chains and tinsel. He handed them to Jack and Emma: "Will you do Christmas for us? Real Christmas pudding! Chicken - we can't get turkey of course. And the dressing - which herbs do you need? I'll invite some Christian folks from the office - that is if the rest of the family agree." To Jack and Emma's delight, the entire family was enthusiastic and became involved, stirring the pudding dough for luck and each making the traditional wish. Jack and Emma and even Rakku didn't know it, but they had all fallen into a carefully laid trap. He was much too preoccupied with the upcoming "open house" at the plant. Not that anybody was going to be allowed inside the long low buildings where men and machines toiled day and night to produce heaven knows what. They were allowed only in the grounds where a magnificent garden party was being prepared to celebrate the latest government contract. There were whispers about atomic energy, but nobody really knew. Meera and Didi were not particularly interested in the "open house", let alone Christmas. They were thinking of another celebration, Didi's wedding, for which an April date had been set: "We have to get down to all that stitching. We have to do something about a dowry." "I thought Lakshmi would have helped, but she didn't." "No. Nor did it help when we persuaded Mummyji to speak of her pregnancy with Jakku. She made it quite clear that Jakku was twenty years younger than that foreigner he had married. It was when we were out on the veranda one day, just Mummyji, that foreigner and me." Then she added, "That silly bitch just listened and said nothing." "It's been a bit better since Jakku was anointed. Have you noticed how often he tells that foreigner: "Let's not talk about that?" Especially when she asks about adopting Ram. I even heard him telling her that he couldn't adopt his brother. We must keep him fixed on the brother business and remind him - and her - how old she is.''
"She doesn't look
old." The two sisters were on the veranda. They knew Emma could hear their conversation, but that didn't worry them. What they didn't know was that Emma had persuaded Rakku to get her a textbook on Hindi. She was already able to pick up a few words and knew something was being planned, though she was not sure what. The wedding - yes. But how was she to be involved? Why did her name keep coming up in their conversation? Didi's was not to be an arranged marriage. She was more Westernised than her older sister and had held a job for a while as a receptionist in a Bombay hotel. There she had met a tall, handsome, totally Westernised young man whose father was known to be one of the wealthiest men in India. Didi had become fashion conscious, she wore large hoop earrings, a hat and Western clothes. She even had a miniskirt, but she didn't let Daddyji see that. Daddyji didn't approve of the young man and had made it clear he would not be attending the wedding. Nor would it take place in Jitpur. Contrary to tradition, all would be taken care of by the bridegroom's family in Delhi. As Christmas drew near, Emma spent hours every day in the pantry preparing festive food with Mummyji always hovering nearby, encouraging her. By December 20, all was ready and it was time to decorate the house. Rakku had bought a small cedar into the drawing room to act as a Christmas tree and now Emma was decorating it with tinsel and silver and red ornaments. The paper chains were up there too, and in the corridor. Emma had painted a large placard saying MERRY CHRISTMAS, which now adorned the drawing room mantelpiece. "Christmas is for everyone," she said. And Mummyji smiled her enigmatic little smile. The party was to be held on Christmas eve. It was on that morning that Meera pulled down all the paper chains and threw them together with the MERRY CHRISTMAS placard into the guest room. "If you want to celebrate Christmas you can do it in your own room." Ram, who had been helping her, seized the Christmas tree, tore off the tinsel and dumped it outside in the backyard, where the washerwoman's daughter grabbed the metal ornaments and began to play with them, laughing happily. Emma, taken aback, tried to make amends by decorating her own room with the discarded paper chains and tinsel. A Christmas carol came into her mind: "Have yourself a merry little Christmas now". She sang that and other carols to hide her grief and was so busy that she almost forgot to join Jack for their afternoon nap. After tea, darkness fell and all was ready for the party when Mummyji came into the dining room: Your guests are here." "Your," not "Our". As Jack, Emma and Rakku sat down with them at the laden table, the rest of the family filed in. But they didn't take their places. Instead, led by Mummyji, they all picked up their plates and walked out, Mummyji announcing in a loud voice, "You cook, but we NOT eat." Emma noticed that Daddyji had not joined them, even to pick up his plate and leave. The guests, who came originally from Kerala where Syrian Christians had settled many centuries earlier, endured this non-festive welcome and spoke of the goose that they were going to cook for their own Christmas party. Emma and Jack were hoping for an invitation, but that was not to be. The guests politely thanked them and left: "Merry Christmas! Thank You. Good night..." Emma was reminded of something else. These little words so familiar back home - Please, Thank you, Good morning, Good night - were never, until now, to be heard in this Indian household. But no time to mourn the theft of Christmas: the garden party at the plant was now being prepared. Winter was the best time for it, pleasantly cool, much like early summer in Canada. People could go out in the afternoon. And so, in the large tents that had been erected in the grounds, afternoon tea with cucumber sandwiches, English style, was being served, together with slices cut from a vast iced cake. It was all very Western. The men wore suits and some of the women were in European dress, the more daring among them in miniskirts. There were games: a dartboard had been set up and there were sack races and ball games for the children and a tug-of-war for the men. All this against a backdrop of tall, round towers, connected to one another by metal pipes, like some mega-laboratory experiment, with the long low factory workshops squatting below. Out in the roadway, a man, bent low under a heavy load, walked slowly by: a water carrier. His load: a goatskin, legs tied off, open neck, loosely closed, a little water splashing out. For him, the bottle had just been invented. The Burning, a Flying Muffin and a Strange Dream It all started on New Year's Day 1969: the acrid smell of burning hair or feathers, reminding Emma and Jack of work on the farm back home when turkeys were being prepared for Thanksgiving or Christmas and had to be plucked and singed. But here? In Jitpur? In India, where even this family was mostly vegetarian? The sound of Mummyji's puja-chanting had just come to an end when Daddyji appeared at the guestroom door. They had never seen him so angry: "What do you mean by this mess outside? Don't blame the sweeper; it's your DUTY to see that she doesn't scatter your rubbish in the garden. Now you will have to go and clear it up," and he fixed his gaze on Emma. Obediently, she went out and searched for and collected the contents of the guestroom wastebasket: scraps of paper mostly all blown among the plants by the breeze. There was also the discarded stub of a pencil, but no sign of her hair combings that had also been discarded. Later, she would connect them with the burning, but for the moment she had to help Daddyji to track down the origin of the odour. It didn't seem to emanate from any one place and was most noticeable in the four corners of every room. "Puja," said Emma to Daddyji, trying to explain what she intended to do which was to say a prayer in every corner. She didn't know which prayer would best do the job, so she chose the Lord's prayer: "Our Father, who art in heaven.... Deliver us from evil. Amen." It had worked once before in Alberta when one of the teachers was visiting their teacherage. He was a bachelor living all alone in a much smaller, rather run down teacherage, and Jack had taken pity on him and invited him home after work for a bite to eat and chat about the land of his birth, India. Their little tabby cat on this occasion was acting strangely. Fur bristling, she was looking up at the ceiling, her eyes following something that Jack and Emma couldn't see. But Joshi, who incidentally had only one name, could see what was going on: "It's my girlfriend. She was killed in a car accident outside Bombay." He took a muffin from the dish on the coffee table. At once it was snatched from his hand and began to fly around the room, finally falling at his feet. "See, I told you so. She's here with me. Now I have to go to the bathroom." Only a few minutes later did Jack and Emma see the connection. The cat had returned back to normal and was eating her supper when a loud crash in the bathroom brought Jack running there. Luckily the lock on the door was broken for there on the floor was Joshi lying prone, an empty bottle of household cleaner at his side. "Quick! Call the ambulance! I'll try to make him vomit." Meanwhile, the cat was disturbed again. It was then that Emma had used The Lord's Prayer to get rid of what was obviously a poltergeist. When Joshi came round in hospital he was apologetic: "I still love her. I only wanted to join her. You see, I was not allowed to marry her: my parents had found a wife for me from a wealthy family with a large dowry. That was when I escaped and came to Canada." The dowry question - and it was supposed to be illegal. In the old days it made sense when child marriages were the rule. The little bride, often no more than five years old, went to live with her in-laws and the dowry was meant to cover the expenses of her upbringing. Obviously, now that child marriages were illegal, so were the accompanying large dowries. But what had been a necessary adjunct to marriage had now become a scandal. It was not easy for young couples falling in love in India, Jack and Emma had concluded at that time. By the New Year, Emma had forgotten what Mummyji had told her when she first arrived. "You not guest, you daughter-in-law." Forgotten, too, the self-satisfied smile that went with it. It was Rakku who had helped her to disregard the incident: he always referred to her and Jack as guests. But back to the present: Emma's puja had worked once again: the smell of burning hair had gone. She returned to her reverie, thinking now of how they would have spent the festive season back in Alberta. But not for long. The door was thrown open again. Why didn't anybody ever at least knock? This time it was Meera, and she, too, was angry. She was carrying an armful of patchwork cushions - the ones Emma had made for her as a present. "We don't need your stuff!" and she threw the cushions at Emma one by one and walked out in high dudgeon. Emma turned to Jack: "What's up with everybody today? So angry! Don't you think they should avoid all this unpleasantness?" Jack looked, up from his desk where he was busy writing something on a large sheet of paper. "Let's not talk about that," and he returned to his task. After a while, when he had finished, he handed the sheet to Emma. He had been copying a long poem that he found in an English-language Indian magazine lent to him by Rakku. It had been translated from Hindi, and started with the words, "So beautiful you were, so you were". It was all about a little flower whose petals warmed by the sun slowly opened, "so innocent, so lovely..." And so it continued with line after line of praise: "You brought happiness to all around you, so you did". But towards the bottom of the page, the tone of the poem changed: "Now you are ugly, now you have destroyed yourself, so you have. One by one your petals, once so innocent, once so beautiful, shrivel and die, so they do. The flower that was is gone on New Year's Day." Why had Jack given her this poem today? "Let's not talk about that," he repeated. A few nights later, Emma had a strange dream. She was sitting at the bottom of a deep pit whose sides were too steep to climb, all alone but for the glimpses of a little striped chipmunk that occasionally came and peered down at her but always went away. Dead leaves drifted in from above and she picked them up. No people down there with her, no pets, only the brown and yellow leaves. For want of anything better, she collected them carefully: they became her pets. She sang a little song to them. And then she went to sleep and the dream ended. She didn't know what to make of it. Back on the farm, when she was a child, her mother had taught her to "listen" to her dreams: sometimes a dream would come true. Not this one she hoped. But she was also left to wonder exactly why anybody would take her hair and burn it and whether it was in some way connected with poltergeists. The Land of Broken Promises Rakku was worried. He worked hard at his job, often seven days a week, all for the sake of the family, but nobody seemed to appreciate it. They never seemed to stop quarrelling. He'd had high hopes of the visitors from Canada, but now they seemed to be at the centre of all disagreements. The bungalow was rent-free from the company, who also kept it in repair. If anything needed attention, he had only to ask and workers would be sent along immediately. But all the other expenses had to be paid out of his salary and what Jack and Emma had contributed. The extra money was running out, and still no sign of a job at the plant for Jack in sight. Now it was unlikely that he would ever get one. ICE was loosening its ties with Canada and was even considering changing its name, if not its initials. A competition had been announced in all its plants throughout the country to find another word beginning with "C". In the Jitpur office, CHEMICAL seemed to be winning. These changes meant that no more foreign nationals would be allowed to apply for jobs at any of the ICE plants. Those who were already employed however, would not be penalised. They would be allowed to keep their existing jobs until they either resigned or retired. If only Jack had arrived a year or two earlier! Meanwhile, Rakku had been exploring other possibilities. He had consulted wise-man Daddyji, who always had all the answers, like turning flat roofs into latrines. Half blind though he was, he had a fertile, inventive mind. A job at the plant? Only for Indians? No problem! All that was needed was an affidavit. Off to a lawyer then, to get Jack certified that as his son, born to him and his wife, when was it? 1936? That would do, easy to alter any papers that said "1916"! Birth certificate? School leaving certificate? Degree certificate? Again, no problem. He had them all from his other son who had died of hepatitis a few years ago, just after he'd graduated from University in Bombay. Jack could now become that son. Affidavit in hand, Rakku had been relieved and happy. But for once, not all Daddyji's remedies had worked. There was the little question of Jack's spat with the Customs officers in Madras. He'd entered India on a Canadian passport and had illegally imported a car, on which lie still owed sundry taxes and for which he refused to surrender the keys. Rakku would do them a favour if he would reveal Jack's address, as with typical ingenuity they had found other keys to get the car started, only to have it catch fire, seriously injuring the driver. Now they were holding Jack responsible for tampering with the car before he left Madras. Wisely, Rakku did not disclose his "new brother's" address. But now he must speak to him about getting some other job. Teaching wouldn't do - only about 250 rupees a month at the maximum. At the minimum just three times what he was paying his mali—his gardener. Jack appreciated the situation and promised to apply for research appointments elsewhere. But if Rakku was disappointed, it was even worse for Jack. It was his, not Rakku's money that was running out. He thought again of all that had happened since he arrived with such high hopes at Madras. The promised home in Bombay, the promised job at the plant there, and when that was no longer likely, another possible job at Jitpur. Above all, the promise of a son to adopt. India: a beautiful country unlike any other, with unique flora and fauna: delicious tropical fruit, gorgeous flowering plants, and a fascinating history, stunning scenery. All that and more. But yet India was to him, the Land of Broken Promises. Back to his desk with the Hindustan Times to search its classified advertisement columns for likely jobs. Somewhere in another room, there were raised voices again. Jack, who had lived longer in India on his previous visits, could understand Hindi reasonably well. Meera, Didi and their mother could keep Emma in the dark, but when it came to Jack, it was another matter. It was Meera's strident voice: "I will NOT tolerate THAT FOREIGNER in the house! She should be LOCKED UP somewhere... I don't know... anywhere. In a LATRINE! She's no better than a servant - a sweeper at that, an untouchable white bitch who WON'T do any WORK! ... she must either be set to work or GO". This tirade was interrupted at intervals by admonishments from Mummyji, which had no effect. It was still going on when Rakku came home for lunch and his nap. As on so many other such occasions, he tried to reason with Meera. But she was not only his sister, she was also older than he was and when she was in this mood, he always felt like a little boy again. He shrugged and went to the dining room for his lunch. Emma, Jack and the rest of the family joined: him. Except Meera, who picked up her plate and walked out. He shrugged again: ''What to do?" Nobody answered. A Conference and a Laughing Lady With family confrontations and tensions unresolved and escalating, Rakku again went to Daddyji for advice. The answer this time was "We must hold a conference, just the men. No, not Ram, he's too young and immature. And he has his studies - it would be wrong to burden him with all our problems. He's still a child. Let him grow up gradually, as you did, Rakku". A few days later, the three men had come to a decision: "It's the women." Who was it, yelling at the servants, disrupting their work? Mummyji! Who was it that picked on other women in the house time after time, Didi, for being the youngest, Emma for just being Emma? Meera! And who continually disrupted the household by not conforming to the unwritten rules? Emma! At this Jack spoke up: "She was brought up in Canada. The rules are different there. For instance, 'Ladies first' when entering or leaving a building or a room, while here, the women are expected to follow their men-folk. She came here knowing nothing about Indian customs. That, and her inborn waywardness and tendency to strong opinions ..." "I feel sorry for the girl," said Rakku. "Before we deal with her, shouldn't we consider asking the other women to be more considerate? The way they led her on at Christmas time was inexcusable." "Granted," said Daddyji, "But you've said nothing about Didi. If she marries that man, I wash my hands of her. I know that family. They have a poor reputation to say the least, and, more importantly, they are Vaisyas. She'll be marrying out of her caste and that always brings trouble. We should be choosing a respectable Kshatriya boy for her, like ourselves. She's a great disappointment to me." "Daddyji," said Rakku, "Have you forgotten the dowry problem? That family is willing to waive the obligation." "Yes, willing now, but wait until they're married for a few months. You don't listen to me, do you? Didn't I tell you just now that I know of that family? And what did I say, Rakku?" Rakku, as was so often his wont, felt like a little boy again. "Daddyji, I'm sorry. You are right to be worried about Didi's future." "Yes, And let me remind you of another thing: we lost so many useful contacts after Partition, but yet when I found you a suitable bride who would have brought a considerable dowry, you backed out! You're my son and I forgive you, but if you'd married as I planned, I'd have had dowry money in hand to choose a better husband for Didi." Again, Rakku apologized. He was wondering too how he would manage to break the news to his parents that he was planning to marry his secretary whose widowed mother was penniless. Jack was puzzled: "Dowry? Aren't dowries illegal now?" But Daddyji changed the subject: "Let's avoid speculation and deal with the problems in hand. It's not dowries - it's the enmity between Meera and Emma that's upsetting the household. Emma needs to be taught how to conform." Even Jack had to agree to that: "From the Indian point of view, she grew up without a role model." "Ah, so you've studied psychology. That won't help you in India." "Daddyji," said Rakku, "Don't you think it might help if we find such a role model? I know a couple - would you mind if I invite them to meet you? The husband works at the office and his wife stays at home to look after the children and supervise the servants". The upshot of this suggestion was that a date was fixed for the couple to be invited to tea. And Meera's tirades? If they could "Indianize" Emma, there would be no reason for Meera to object to her. Jack wasn't sure about that. He'd bent over backwards to be more Indian and, while he agreed that Emma could have been more helpful, he felt he was caught in the middle and powerless to do much about either side. Meanwhile Meera had caught a few words from the dining room conference as she walked through to the pantry. Out on the veranda at teatime, she started up a conversation with Emma, mentioning how nice she looked in her new pink churidar outfit. This was her chance to help Emma to become "more Indian". So she continued, "You know, you'd look even more attractive if you dyed your hair black and stained your skin brown with walnut juice". This piece of friendly advice was interrupted by the arrival of the widowed mother of Rakku's secretary, tears streaming down her face as she adjusted her faded sari and Mummyji motioned to her to take a seat. Embarrassed, the rest of the family left. Mummyji then did what she always did on these occasions: reached into her sari blouse. In her cleavage, unbeknown to her husband, she'd been saving paper money from her housekeeping allowance. Not that she ever actually bought the food with it: that was taken care of by the men-folk. All she had to do was 'dole it out'. This poor widow always got her share. It was at teatime a few days later that other guests arrived. Again, Mummyji knew what to do. Daddyji was expecting them and was already waiting for them in the dining room. Then he brought them back to the veranda, the man tall and imposing in his dark winter suit, his wife in a multi-coloured sari with a blue British-style cardigan draped over her shoulders, empty sleeves dangling. Polite conversation ensued, but all in Hindi, hard for even Jack to follow, especially as the guests were speaking rapidly and with so much laughter, particularly from the wife. Mummyji explained: "He tell jokes. Oh, it's so amusing! The one about a man who married an Englishwoman. His little brother used to walk behind her. He imitate her - he look like a monkey and she never know what her husband was laughing at. Monkey! Monkey! He marry a monkey!" By that time, the husband was on to the next anecdote - about a monkey-bride, who of course had brought no dowry. And so it continued, the saga of the monkey brides, all accompanied by the wife's infectious laughter. Emma never discovered her real name, everybody referred to her as the laughing lady, and even Jack suggested she should follow her example: "Wives are meant to keep their husbands and families amused." There was another thing, Jack said: "Her husband explained it to me. There are two circles," and he took a pencil and paper and drew a large circle: "The man's circle," he said, and as he drew a smaller circle next to it, "The wife's circle. They touch but they never mingle." Emma still struggling to learn Hindi, feared she had heard far more about the roles of husband and wife than just these comparatively innocuous suggestions. She laid a hand on Jack's arm, as she always did during teatime chatter when the family often reverted to Hindi and she needed an interpretation. But before she could get the words out, Jack winced and drew away from her: "Never do that again. We don't touch in public". "But I'm your wife" she later told him when they were alone, "Yes, but touching is only for the bedroom. Outside we're apart. You have your circle and I have mine". Emma wondered about all the hugging that went on: Mummyji was a great hugger. "Yes, mothers hug their children - and in India they are still children even when they are adults. Have you ever seen Mummyji hugging her husband? Never!" True, they never even sat next to each other on the veranda or in the drawing room. "Chastise Your Wife" Jack was worried. How was he to follow all the advice given to him yesterday? He'd seen how unhappy Emma was about the Two Circles. But there was more to it than that. "Chastise your wife every morning before breakfast: that will set her straight for the day." How to begi |
man with an enormous gong whose job
it was to act as a clock. Poor though he was, he
"It's our family god
Shiva," Meera replied, "He is a variable god, so he's inside, inside
the womb."
and he told her, "They do it by anointing you." The whole
family was to undergo this, to cement family loyalty.
"Ghee mixed with
ashes," someone explained, "You'll see when you take your turn!"