A Fine Family: A Novel (9 page)

Anees and Bauji talked about many things, but Bauji always seemed to bring their conversations back to the Hindu-Muslim question. One evening as the clock struck eleven in the tower, Anees became uneasy.

‘I must go,’ she said.

‘Stay,’ he pleaded.

‘But what must they think upstairs?’ she asked.

‘Please stay.’

‘I don’t want to go either,’ she said. ‘But I must.’

‘No wait. I want to talk to you. Anees, what is happening? Look at us—I am old enough to be your father. My daughter is getting married in a few days. Here I am completely swept away. I don’t understand. And you. . . you. . . .’

‘Are a Muslim?’ she said.

‘No, I wasn’t going to say that,’ he said.

‘You are older and wiser. Explain it to me, then.’

‘It’s got nothing to do with your being a Muslim,’ he said with a touch of irritation.

‘It is not safe for me to be here,’ she said.

‘In a Hindu area?’

‘Yes.’

‘You have been listening to bazaar talk again.’

‘They are expecting trouble tonight,’ she said.

‘No, impossible! It is too soon after the Quit India riots. The police are still alert.’

‘But it is true,’ she said.

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘To revenge the rape of the Hindu girl last week.’

‘What is this madness, Anees, that is sweeping through our lives? Hindus and Muslims have lived together peacefully for centuries. I have always admired the Muslims for their Persian culture and Arabic learning. I have also found them hardworking, freer and open and more trustworthy in business matters. Muslim lawyers, although there are only a few of them, are more honest. I wouldn’t trust a Hindu lawyer but I would a Muslim.’

‘Oh no!’ she said, interrupting him. ‘We are not going to start on this Hindu-Muslim thing again, are we? That is all you seem to think about.’

‘But nobody seems to give me an answer. You never want to talk about it. Why are the Muslims distrustful today?’

‘Do you really want to know?’ she asked after a long pause.

Bauji nodded.

‘Then listen. It is we Muslims rather than you Hindus who lost in the British Raj. During the Mughal Raj we were the Zamindars and we had lands; we were the Kazis, the judges and the courtiers, and we had power. The English came and took away our positions. They substituted our Islamic law with English law, and Persian with the English language. We resented it. You Hindus were flexible: you quickly learnt English and adopted the new ways and filled the important posts which the British eventually opened up. We failed to imitate you and were left sullen and helpless. Independence worries us because in a democratic government you will outnumber us. For every Muslim there are four Hindus in India. For all the harm they did, the British at least kept a balance between Hindus and Muslims.’

‘What kind of balance? You mean they divided us—in order to strengthen their hold,’ disagreed Bauji.

‘We can’t hope to be counted in a free India,’ she went on. ‘Our intellectual backwardness makes us even weaker. We can’t even hope to form an effective opposition. The representative system of elections will mean tyranny by the majority. That is why we are afraid. That is why we want our homeland.’

Bauji was stunned by this cogent and well articulated defence of Pakistan. He made as if to applaud, when she stopped him.

‘Sh. . . they will hear upstairs.’

‘Even though you argue brilliantly, I don’t agree with you, Anees. Your Pakistan means that I must leave behind everything I have created. Why must I? This is as much my land, you know.’

‘Of course, it is,’ she said, taking his hand in hers. ‘You must live here. Pakistan doesn’t mean that you have to leave.’

‘But it would be an Islamic state. What would I do here as a Hindu?’ asked Bauji.

‘Now do you understand how a Muslim feels about living in a Hindu India?’ asked Anees.

‘Oh, but you are wrong. It will not be a Hindu India. It will be a secular India. Haven’t Nehru, Gandhi and others constantly given assurances to the Muslims?’

‘We don’t believe in them,’ she said.

‘You are wrong again, Anees. Muslims and Hindus have so much in common. It is the British who have exploited the differences.’

‘Exploited them, yes, but they did not create the differences. They were always there—our religion, our culture, history, dress, the food we eat, our laws, marriages, customs, language—they are all different. We don’t even know about each others traditions: because we were educated apart—we in our
madrasas
and
tols
and you in your Sanskrit
pathshalas.’

‘It was true earlier. But not now. After the British Raj, it is the same. Both Tara and you have learned the same things in the same school.’

‘Yes, about the West, but not about our own cultures.’

‘The learning in modern India after the British leave will be modern and scientific. We shall create one secular culture. Why hark back to the past and to religious differences? Why? Why?’

‘Oh, why are we arguing? We have so little time,’ she said.

He put his hand in hers. Amidst the smell of the jasmine, they watched the moon, who was a familiar friend by now. They felt a kinship with the moon, the planets, and the stars.

The night before Tara’s wedding, Anees came dressed in a pink and white garara, which seemed to heighten her Muslim identity, and made her stand out even more than usual. She told Tara and Bauji that she had to return to Lahore the next day and would not be able to attend the wedding. Both father and daughter were bitterly disappointed.

Anees was unusually vivacious and excited throughout the evening. Everyone remarked how beautiful she looked, and she seemed to grow more and more distracted as the evening went by. Both Bauji and she seemed to feel the evanescence of the moment. Much as they tried to hold it, they felt that it was coming to an end. What one day brought, the next took away. They tried to make believe that it could be otherwise, but the feeling of transience seemed to prevail. For time was not concerned with their hopes; it hurried on with its business.

Tara came down at midnight, accompanied by Anees.

‘Suresh is sick Bauji,’ she announced. ‘And there might be trouble in the city tonight. You will have to take Anees home.’

Bauji did not believe in predestination, but he did believe in good fortune. Otherwise, why should Suresh fall sick so opportunely? He felt that luck was not merely chance. It was somehow earned. Very few lived by choice alone. Everyone was placed in circumstances by causes which acted without foresight. It was a piece of skill to know how to guide your luck even while you waited for it. When fortune came, he believed that one must seize her, before she changed her mind.

Under the white light of the moon the land was flat and silent. Below the bright sky everything diminished. As a precaution Bauji and Anees had not gone through the city. They had taken a roundabout route, which took them by the canal, through the sparsely inhabited countryside. As they rode, snuggled up against each other under the moonlight, they were grateful for what they sensed was their last opportunity to be together. They stopped by the canal. The tall branching mango trees shaded an artificial pond and the ground below the grove was spotted with blurred moonlight. A temple stood nearby. Bauji directed the tonga towards the grove, and the horse on its own came to rest in the shade as if it understood their desires. There they stayed.

In the light and shade, Anees’ soft black tresses appeared longer than usual, setting off her pale face and her striking eyes. The unusual light seemed to give her a fragile and iridescent quality. The same light shone on his rich brown skin, which stood out in sharp contrast to her Kashmiri hue. She looked at his brow, and the light revealed his authoritarian Khatri temperament, passionate and irascible, easily excited at the slightest hint of injustice. His eyes disclosed a quiet pride, but as she looked closer, she was disturbed by what she saw. It was an uneasy discontent. She had noticed it before. The disquiet seemed to be persistent, and Anees could not understand why this successful, tall, proud man should suffer so. What did it mean? Did he have a premonition of evil? She had tried to understand it the past week, but she had not been successful. There seemed to be a helpless feeling behind his anxiety. For a man used to controlling his destiny, this helplessness must be peculiarly painful.

As if it was in sympathy with her thoughts, the sky slowly became clouded and dark. There was a gust of wind, which brought welcome relief to the hot summer night. A light roll of thunder in the distance proclaimed a pre-monsoon shower. A few drops of rain fell on the mango grove and the sizzling ground. Anees shivered, and Bauji gripped her arm. It aroused a mutual onrush of desire. She reciprocated with a caress. After a pause she took his hand. The drops of water on the dry, thirsty ground released innumerable rich smells, which competed with the heavy scents from the trees. Softly she bent under his embrace. The smells were almost too strong—cloying and decadent. The wafts from the grove were erotic and they seemed to reinforce the surge of sensuality in the pre-monsoon air. The desire became a torment for the sensual urge had to be restrained. But the restraint upon it was also delightful for it seemed to strengthen the desire. In the moonlight, her eyes looked anxious, bewildered, and voluptuous. Gradually the storm passed and the sensual cyclone subsided.

Time flew by and soon it was the holy hour. A Brahmin boy came out of the temple, his thin body naked except for a dhoti and the sacred thread. He was not suspicious of the strangers in the tonga, thinking them to be pilgrims. As he went about his pre-dawn duties, an older Brahmin, probably his father, clad in a loin cloth and sacred thread also came out and went down to the long steps on the canal to bathe. With a brass jar he poured water over his fine slender body. They were struck by the elegance of his posture. In that solitary pose was stated the aim of being a Hindu: moksha or release from subservience and the contingency of life; detachment, irradiated by the realization of the Absolute; an awareness that life is an essential unity of objects and thoughts and the great communion with the Absolute is within this world, achieved inside this same living body.

An unexpected cry from a peacock jolted them out of their reverie; Bauji pulled the reins of the horse and they started. They were silent, their thoughts absorbed in the nearness of their bodies. Dawn was breaking in the distance and soon they could see Lyallpur’s main mosque in the foreground. It was an immense rectangle with tall octagonal minarets and a domed pavilion at the summit. Its beautiful pointed arch formed the facade and faced the Kaabah in the direction of Mecca. Flanking the central arch were two smaller arches and the impressive pair of white minarets. Its courtyard was surrounded by pillared cloisters. Bauji had always admired the mosque. He did not see it as a symbol of an alien faith; rather it was part of his definition of his city. He could not conceive of Lyallpur without it. It was gracious to look at and it gave him a feeling of cool serenity. Whilst to many Hindus it was a symbol of intolerance, to Bauji it was an impression of man’s transcendence.

As they entered the Muslim quarter, Anees put on her burkha. Seeing her wrapped in the dark blue folds, Bauji was reminded of his initial fleeing vision of her in Kacheri Bazaar. This was how he had first seen her.

There were many weddings in Lyallpur that summer, but the one at Bauji’s house was the most important, because of the family’s social standing, the number of guests and the splendour of the arrangements.

Bauji was a man of the world, who had been successful in the world, and success had become second nature to him. Like most such men he had perfected the art of dealing with people and circumstances, so that without much effort they played to his advantage. He had an instinctive ability to delegate responsibility, and he was thus able to do many things at one time. Typically, on Tara’s marriage day, he had organized matters well, and he had time to think of Anees, instead of worrying about hundreds of details.

Early in the morning, as he was passing by the stables, he found his syce’s youngest child crying his heart out in a corner near the horses. With some effort and a good deal of patience he slowly discovered that the boy believed that ‘someone was coming today to take Tara masi away.’

He put the boy on his lap and he said, ‘That is not true. Tara is going to be beautiful like a princess tonight. A handsome prince will come on a horse with a gleaming sword and silver crown over his turban of golden braid. And they will marry. We will not lose Tara, we will win a prince tonight.’

The boy nodded, then slowly smiled and ran away.

Bauji’s princely vision was not far from the truth. It was customary for the bridegroom to come dressed for the wedding as a Khatri king on a mount. And Bauji had made certain that the bridegroom would observe all these traditions. Being a good judge of men, he correctly guessed that his peculiar son-in-law-to-be, under the influence of the guru and spiritualism, might not observe all the traditions. He was also aware that the humble circumstances of the groom’s family might force them to compromise. He had thus quietly organized the details for which the groom’s side was responsible, without anyone knowing, least of all Bhabo.

The day before the marriage, for example, he had himself chosen a handsome white mare and made sure that she would be washed and groomed till her skin shone, and then saddled and caparisoned brilliantly. Similarly, he had selected the groom’s gold embroidered robe, a pair of gold embroidered Kashmiri slippers with turned-up spurs and a deep yellow velvet scabbard with silver mountings. All these would be innocently sold to the groom at a nominal cost by dealers when he arrived in Lyallpur. The groom’s party had been discreetly informed by post that such and such items were available more economically in Lyallpur. Prices had been sent in advance to save them embarrassment.

The sun had set and it quickly became dark. It was time for the groom to arrive at the bride’s house. Under an arch of leaves and flowers, at the entrance to Kacheri Bazaar, stood the male members of Bauji’s house, headed by Bauji himself, who looked handsome in the traditional pink turban, a cream-coloured double-breasted achkan, which flowed like a robe, emphasizing his height, and tight, cream-coloured churidars. Behind him obediently stood in order of seniority, his brothers, his brothers-in-law, and his sons—all arrayed in pink turbans. It was an impressive sight. They were anxiously waiting for the arrival of the groom’s party. The women of the house adorned in silks and diamonds, stood at the back, eager to see the groom. The entire street had been closed for the occasion, and covered with a shamiana.

Traditionally, the groom’s arrival at the bride’s house was a moment of great triumph for the bride’s father. It was symbolic of his hospitality and generosity; of a life well lived according to dharma; of a debt repaid to the community, of a job well done by the householder. Instead of savouring that triumph, Bauji was distracted. His mind was troubled by thoughts of Tara. He felt uneasy that her heart was not in the marriage. He acutely felt the absence of Anees. He worried about the unconventional nature of this marriage. All these weeks he had stood firm against Bhabo’s and others’ doubts about it, but now was assailed by the very same fears. The status of the boy’s family, his novel occupation, the guru, the ashram—all these went against the wisdom of convention.

Adding to his distress was the unsettled political climate. Anything could happen in these times. Had Anees reached Lahore safely? He wondered if she would write. Strange as it seemed to him, he needed her at this moment. Without realizing it, he had come to depend on her, and he felt her loss sharply. Without her, his moment of triumph felt bland. He tried to imagine her standing amongst the crowd of women, in the familiar pink and white garara, her pale, square face covered with a smile, her dark, long hair flowing behind her. Why couldn’t she have stayed for the wedding?

His mood had changed subtly but perceptibly. What should have been a joyful event was threatening to become a tedious worldly duty. He began to feel hot and uncomfortable in his heavy clothes. A cool shower, he thought, would be welcome. It would bring comfort from the tyrannical summer heat. But the thought of rain reminded him of his responsibilities; and he realized that it would spoil many of the open-air ceremonies. The idea of hundreds of people going hungry was mischievous, but it fit in well with his morbid mood. He was reminded again of Tara and that it was meant to be her day; and that decided the issue, as he decisively came out against the rain. As a precaution he began to enumerate in his mind the series of steps which would be needed in case the ceremonies were to be moved indoors.

These meteorological thoughts were soon forgotten as he spotted the procession in the distance. Headed by a brass band, lit by coolies holding gas lamps on their heads and accompanied by exploding firecrackers, the groom’s party wound its way through the streets of Lyallpur. In the middle of the procession, Bauji easily identified his son-in-law, although he could not see his face: it was covered by the
sehra
of gold threads, jasmine and marigold flowers. But he was relieved at the sight of the white mare and the gold-embroidered coat. He also felt as hamed of himself for having given in to his self-indulgent and morbid mood. He must pull himself together. He had responsibilities. Hundreds of relatives, friends, guests depended on him. His family looked to him as a source of strength.

The procession came to a halt near the arch. The groom’s father, also in a pink turban, came forward with a garland of marigolds. Bauji embraced him mechanically but impressively. They exchanged garlands. Bauji presented him with a saffron-coloured envelope containing money after twirling it twice round his head. The same ritual was repeated by all the pink turbans, and seemed to go on forever. Big Uncle, who had poetic pretensions, then read out a poem, in which he praised the groom and the members of his family and wished the couple a long and happy married life. The women were especially touched by the sentimental poem, and some of them had tears in their eyes. The poem confirmed Big Uncle’s place in the hearts of the women in Bauji’s large clan.

The groom alighted. The bride, led by her sisters and cousins, came forward. Her head was veiled by chiffon. In a heavy red sari adorned with gold thread work, her hand elaborately painted, Tara looked the perfect image of a Punjabi bride. She garlanded the groom. This act of Tara’s recalled to Bauji the ancient
svayamvara,
when a princess chose her own husband from a line of suitors by garlanding the lucky one. He smiled as he thought of the famous
svayamvara
of Damayanti, who was so beautiful that even the gods stood in line for her hand. Knowing that she was in love with Prince Nala, the gods assumed Nala’s form. When she was ready to choose and garland her husband, the confused Damayanti found a dozen Nalas before her. But she was clever. She looked carefully at all the Nalas and noticed that only one cast a shadow. And she remembered that gods do not cast shadows. She stepped forward confidently and garlanded her human love.

The women who accompanied Tara, now surrounded the groom and led him inside the home. He was made to sit down next to the bride and went through an uncomfortable session in which he was quizzed and teased by the women.

‘Why are you so late, sir?’ enquired one of the women. ‘We thought you might have changed your mind.’

‘Ask my horse,’ replied Seva Ram with a smile. ‘I came as fast as my horse would carry me.’

The women laughed enthusiastically when they heard this. Tara, who was feeling nervous, also smiled.

‘Won’t you have a drink, sir?’

‘I’ll have a cup of tea, thank you.’

‘Won’t you have a stronger drink?’

‘I’d prefer tea,’ smiled Seva Ram.

It was plain to everyone that the groom was completely self-possessed. His composure had the same effect on the women that it always had on everyone. They calmed down and looked at him with sympathy. Tara was quick to detect in his manner a certain remoteness, even though he was cordial and charming. He continued to respond to the breezy chatter of the women. But she was conscious of a singular detachment about him, as though he were playing a part.

As the rest of the party sat down to eat under the canvas shamiana in the courtyard, Chachi grabbed Bauji’s arm and led him to a corner.

‘Well, you old fox, you did manage to get the boy,’ she said with a wink.

‘Thanks to you, Chachi, Tara is also being married.’

‘What is the boy like?’ she asked.

‘He is a good boy, but too wrapped up in spirituality.’

‘Yes, yes. At his age, he should play, enjoy himself, and think less of god,’ said Chachi. Where is he posted, by the way?’

‘Amritsar.’

‘Ah, that’s where Jean Fryer is also posted. I must ask him.’

From a distance Bauji greeted friends with his eyes and smiled charmingly at the ladies.

‘Once he gets married, he will change. They all do,’ continued Chachi.

‘I suppose so,’ he said mechanically. But he wasn’t so sure. He felt mildly uneasy. He had heard that his peculiar son-in-law placed his spiritual life above everything. What if he was not flexible? Tara might have many lonely nights ahead.

This unpleasant thought was quickly interrupted by a burst of laughter from the opposite corner. Both Chachi and Bauji turned and their eyes fell on Karan, who was surrounded by a bevy of adoring young females in silk. He was relieved by the thought that Tara was safely tucked away inside the house.

‘He’s the one who needs to marry,’ said Chachi. ‘Eh, how did you get him out of jail?’

‘I petitioned for his temporary release to attend this marriage.’

‘You make it sound so easy. Dewan Chand’s arm truly extends far in this city.’

‘There’s the plainclothesman guarding him,’ Bauji pointed with his eyes. Before turning back to Chachi, he observed the dinner arrangements, and he was pleased that everything was going smoothly.

‘How these people eat,’ said Chachi, guessing his thoughts.

‘They come to eat, Chachi.’

The wedding party was sitting in long rows on the ground and vigorously devouring food. Dozens of vegetarian dishes, cooked by professional cooks, were being personally served by members of Bauji’s family with great attention and generosity. Only after the groom’s side had finished, would the bride’s side sit down to eat.

As Chachi left to talk to Bhabo, Bauji’s gaze returned to Karan, who continued to reap laurels from admirers of all ages. Karan had become a hero in Lyallpur after his arrest two weeks ago. Instead of leaving town, he had led another satyagraha through the streets of Lyallpur, starting from the Company Bagh to the Clock Tower to protest against Britain’s use of Indian soldiers in the War. Always popular amongst the young, tonight he inspired awe among the older people as well. He was clearly the centre of gravity of this gathering. However, Bauji noted with amusement, that his nephew’s stock in Lyallput’s marriage market had plummeted. Those mothers, who a few months ago were desperate to link their daughters hands with Karan’s, now found him ineligible. But the daughters themselves couldn’t take their eyes off him throughout the evening. You admire heroes from a distance thought Bauji; you don’t marry your daughters to them.

Bauji wondered how Karan found the experience of jail. As for himself, he had no taste for jails. He remembered with nostalgia the days of the Swarajists, when one could pursue a professional career and still play a political role through debate and discussion. Gandhi and later Bose had come and changed all that. Politics was now in the streets and in jail. Besides, the idea of gradual self-rule, which he had supported in the twenties, was also out of the question. It was all or nothing. Even he saw the naivety of his own stand in the thirties, when he had been enthused by the Simon Commission formula for limited self-rule leading to Dominion status for India. Australia and Canada were natural dominions for they loved the British sovereign, but who cared for the King in India? Even the Maharajas could no longer count on the loyalty of their subjects.

Chachi had gone up to the groom, Bauji noticed. She was talking to him, and he felt a hint of concern that she might scare him.

‘And how is dear Jean Fryer?’ asked Chachi of Seva Ram.

Surprised by her question, he looked puzzled and said he did not know.

‘Oh haven’t you met her. She is such a nice woman. She was always kind to us in Lahore when my husband was alive. Why didn’t you go and see her?’

‘The fact is I don’t know her,’ he said.

‘Don’t you?’ she said as if she couldn’t believe her ears. ‘Why not? You are in Amritsar, aren’t you?’

‘Well, you know, to tell you the truth, we lowly engineers don’t get to meet Commissioner’s wives.’

‘But she is such a sweet woman. I’m sure you’d like her.’

Among the guests, Bauji spotted several notables from the ashram and he went towards them. On the way, he stopped before the groom and his father; he courteously bowed to them. The ashram-dwellers greeted Bauji warmly and asked him if he was ready to be initiated by the guru. Bauji smiled back and replied that he was still thinking.

Bauji now made his way to the more Westernized group in the gathering. It consisted of local government officials, some professors, his lawyer colleagues and a retired English judge. Bauji had thoughtfully provided this upper crust of Lyallpur society with English liquor in his drawing room. In deference to the austere groom, liquor was not served under the shamiana.