The In-Between World of Vikram Lall (30 page)

There are books on this famous trial, Seema tells me, but I am not interested. She has stories about the heroic deeds of Colonel Jamal Khan and his men, stories about blowing up bridges and gymkhanas in far-flung places and about thrilling ambushes of British troops. Jamal Khan, like Bose, she tells me proudly, was a Bengali. There is a street in Calcutta named after him; the airport is named after the redoubtable Bose.

This trial is what I assume my uncle referred to when he would remind my mother about their father’s traitorous deed. Mahesh Uncle had promised me a full revelation about himself and his father; but as fate would have it, we never had a chance to regain the intimacy of that night in Dar when he made that promise.

I wish I had known Grandfather Verma better. Every year he would send us Diwali and birthday cards from Delhi, where he ended up, and we would write to him occasionally. There was always the anticipation in me and my sister of meeting
him one day. I wonder now why he didn’t come to see us himself; perhaps, as for many old people, the thought of dying somewhere away from his homeland daunted him; perhaps he was waiting for an invitation from Mahesh Uncle. Traditional propriety certainly demanded that if he came he stay with his son. Lately he had moved to an ashram, a retiree commune run by a swami, and sometimes he sent Mother little snippets of Vedantic philosophy whose abstractions more often than not only puzzled her. She was a practical, emotional person. When she tried them on my father he would become irritated; Deepa and I found them distant and amusing. In Nakuru my nanaji’s photo had been prominent in our home; high on a wall, he looked imposing to my young eyes, in his police uniform and with his smart military moustache and combed-back hair. In Nairobi he hung in the dimly lit corridor outside the bedrooms, faded and barely noticed.

Joseph visited last week. He had changed his hair, now it was gathered in small knots spread out over the head, a startling style that rather ominously reminded me of a famous picture of Mau Mau leader General China at his trial, a police constable standing on either side of him. I did not make a comment and understood that he is still very much involved with the MuKenya Patriots, the self-styled Sons of Mau Mau. Seema took him skating once; he wore a hat and was spared the stares he would inevitably have attracted.

One late sleepless night, as I sat watching the darkness outside at the back of the house, my infirm legs propped in front of me on a stool, he kindly brought me some herbal tea. As he stood up over me, having put down the tray, and I looked up to thank him, I discerned more clearly than ever before the shadow of his father upon that long face, its high forehead. And (credit this to too much whisky late at night) the spectre of Deepa wafted across the waters of the lake and came to stand beside him.

NINETEEN.

The short rains had come and that year’s East African Safari motor rally was more gruelling than ever; of the seventy-nine cars that started out, eleven finished, arriving in Nairobi mud-splattered and beaten up in every way. Taking the same plane as Deepa back to Nairobi that Monday morning was the ace rally driver Mohindra Singh, known to Papa through their common club. His Peugeot had skidded and hit a tree, avoiding an obstruction on the road planted by thrill-seeking villagers; it was later savaged by an angry rhino while parked, but fortunately while Singh and his codriver were not inside it. Yet here he was in the waiting lounge, cheerful and chirpy as a parrot, anxious to get back to civilization, as he put it. The
Daily Nation
had a front-page picture of this year’s winning Safari team, the chubby, blonde Erikson brothers of Sweden, reclined on the bonnet of their Saab, sharing champagne from
their silver trophy cup. They hate each other, Mohindra Singh confided to us about the Swedes, but they make good partners.

Deepa was in excellent company it seemed and I prepared to leave.

The omens looked good for her heart’s wish to come true that bright Dar es Salaam morning, the warm air redolent of salt and sea, the sun already broiling hot. The charismatic Kenya minister Tom Mboya, at a public meeting in Nairobi on Sunday, had called intermarriage a good thing for racial harmony. Njoroge knew Mboya distantly, Mahesh Uncle knew him even better, through Okello Okello. And this morning’s paper reported that Carl Erikson, the younger of the Safari-winning brothers, had announced his engagement to a Swahili beauty queen from the coast. All these, signs of our galloping times that our parents could hardly ignore.

I waved goodbye to Deepa as she boarded the shuttle bus; she wore her blue school blazer over white slacks, and brown leather sandals; an East African Airways bag was slung over a shoulder. Beside her towered the beaming, pot-bellied Mohindra Singh in crimson turban, obviously flattered by her company. I was happy for her, and felt almost certain now that she would get her way. I was filled with admiration for her. I thought that she and Njoroge would be an example and inspiration for what was possible in our new society…We were young still.

Less than three weeks later Njoroge suddenly arrived in Nairobi, to be interviewed by the Ministry of Land Settlement for a permanent job to follow his graduation in a few months. This was the same ministry where he had worked during the holidays. Full of excitement, the morning of his arrival he drove to our home in a borrowed car, looking forward to the delightful surprise he would surely see on Deepa’s lovely face. It was Sunday. Deepa, seeing him through the window, rushed out joyfully to the driveway to greet him; Mother watched them. The lovers came inside, sat side by side on the living room sofa, and quite innocently let slip out the secret that they had met earlier that month in Dar.

Njoroge of course had lunch before he left.

You children have broken my heart, Mother wailed at me that night when I called.

Mother, I lied, Njoroge’s visit to Dar was simply a coincidence! After all, I did invite you to come with Deepa?

Then why did you keep his visit a secret from me? You encouraged them, Vikram—you, her brother, who should have known better. How am I going to explain to Meena-ji? She already suspects—

Suspects what, Mother? And surely you have to respect Deepa’s wish to—

What wish? There’s no wish without parents’ approval! We shall see about this, you will see what I am made of, you two.

What are you saying, Mother?

She hung up the phone.

What would she do now? Fortunately Dilip was not around for her to arrange a rush engagement. There was still a month to go to the end of term, which was when the three of us had decided to begin our moves to win her over. We could only bide our time meanwhile and treat her with utmost consideration.

Fate, however, had in mind another course of events, which it had already set in motion.

The next morning Papa returned less than an hour after he had left for work, with a telegram from New Delhi. Grandfather Verma had died. Mother collapsed on the floor immediately she heard the news. Thereupon, having been helped to the high-backed chair in the living room, for several hours she sat motionless, staring vacantly ahead of her, tears forming intermittent streams down her face. Papa dared not leave the house until Deepa came home from school. Finally at around four in the afternoon Mother went and took a bath, and she put on her new, purple sari and her wedding jewellry. She lit a candle in front of her father’s framed photograph, which she had brought from its place on the wall to the coffee table, and sat staring at it for half the night. She had not spoken a word since the news came of her father’s death.
Meanwhile Papa had had a phone message sent from Okello’s Nairobi office to Mahesh Uncle in Moscow.

The following morning Njoroge came to pay his condolences just as Mother was preparing to leave for temple. With Deepa not around he thought this would be a good opportunity to meet Mother face to face, even if nothing else was said. If he had been a minute late, she would have missed him. But they met, and that meeting changed everything. That’s why Deepa for many years afterwards would blame fate and so cynically condemn God—they conspired to the very last minute to betray her.

Mother listened to Njoroge’s sympathies with a blank face at the door, where she met him, and she formally thanked him for his concern. She was on her way to the temple, she told him, But come in, she said and took him inside the house and bade him sit. Tea was brought for him. It became clear that her father was not on her mind right then, as she stood over him, and Njoroge knew he was trapped. Looking him sternly in the eye, Mother issued a command: William, Njoroge, I forbid you to see my daughter in the way you have been seeing her. You have been like a son to us, she is your sister.

But Mother, he began.

No. No, I say. I have no one in the world except my brother and my children. I want you to understand that. I have lost my home in Pakistan. I have no cousins or uncles or aunts, no parents. At least let me have a normal family, where I can see my grandchildren grow up as Indians, as Hindus. I had dreams too, of children and grandchildren—whom I can understand, can speak to…and bring up in our ways. I have nothing against Africans. But we are different. You are a brother to my son and daughter, you are their best friend. But a husband for Deepa—no, Njoroge.

The world is different, Mother, he said, but she didn’t reply, simply stared at him with her large grief-stricken eyes.

I have a lot of opportunities in this country, Mrs. Lall…Mother…a lot of exciting times ahead that will help to heal
my hurt. But Deepa—she’s a girl—you’ll break her heart, Mother. You’ll never be able to give her happiness your way.

I said I forbid you, but no, I go down on my knees and beg you. Please. Let her go!

Her voice ending in a whisper, there was nothing he could reply to that. He drew a deep breath. They embraced, and he left.

Outside the temple, the same one where Njoroge and Deepa had made their secret vows before the gods, Mother gave five shillings to every beggar who sat there. She thanked the deities, especially Rama and Ganesh, her favourites. The priest who had previously blessed the couple now received a bonus for his gods’ intercession against them.

How to orchestrate the break? That was Njoroge’s problem. Their commitment had been complete. All their doubts and fears they had left behind, now they were only looking forward to the future. Deepa knew him too well, there was no lie he could tell her about his change of heart that would convince her. He picked one, however, against which she was quite helpless.

He met her at the Rendezvous, then they walked to Uhuru Park by the artificial lake, and there in relative quietude he told her that he had happened to consult a Kikuyu elder, a famous mundumugo, about his affairs. It was customary to do this before embarking on a special venture—an important job or a marriage, for example. This mundumugo—Bwana Daktari—had divined the presence of a stranger in Njoroge’s life and had commanded him to forgo marriage to this stranger, or he would bring disaster to his entire clan. Njoroge could not spurn that advice—it was an order, really, for the elder was a consultant of his own minister and also of Mzee Kenyatta himself. Let’s cool it for now, Deepa, he said.

For how long? she asked, wild-eyed and utterly shocked.

For a while, he said, but she knew from his face, his manner, that it was over. No hug, just a gentle, almost neutral
squeeze of the hand. No look in the eye. Could this be real, what was happening?

I betrayed her, he would tell me later, I betrayed Deepa in the worst way…having extracted sacrifices from her…but I couldn’t deny your mother’s plea, I couldn’t watch her suffer. Her suffering loomed so large and inhuman, it frightened me.

You can’t do this, Njo, Deepa whispered. We were ordained for each other, you know it, ever since Nakuru…and the vows we took—you did take one, didn’t you, in the temple, and…and…

She said she would go to see Bwana Daktari, the mundumugo, herself, and let him convince her. Njoroge said no, Bwana Daktari would not sit down with a woman, which was a lie.

Is it my parents, she asked softly, eyeing him intently, did they make you do this?

Don’t you have faith in me? They don’t know. But it’s for the best, my dear, take their blessings. We will always be friends—more—we were
first
with each other, no one can take that away. In a way you will always be mine, and I’ll be yours.

I don’t know about you, but I’ll always be yours, Njo. I have given myself to you and I will always be yours.

What exactly she meant by that last statement I never dared to ask. She never told me.

He drove her home. On the way she asked him if he was certain of what he had told her, couldn’t they consult another mundumugo, who might contradict this one; if she was willing to defy her parents, why couldn’t he defy this witch doctor; and so on, pointlessly, for she knew too well that she had lost. Her dream, her plans, had collapsed suddenly and completely like a child’s fantasy world when confronted with reality.

At home she sat down at the table where Mother and Papa were having afternoon tea. Mahesh Uncle had sent a telegram, Papa told her, he was now on his way to a place called Haridwar to deposit Grandfather Verma’s ashes into the Ganges. It was a place Uncle had always wanted to visit, Papa said. My mother and father appeared calm, and Deepa staring
at them with her big black eyes divined their adult victory. Her hands shook when she picked up her cup of tea; she attempted a few sips, put down the cup. Then she silently went to her room, closed and bolted the door; and from behind it, thus sequestered, she gave out a long, piteous howl.