The Onus of Ancestry (18 page)

*

Dwita sat in her new office in the premises to which Sunbeam had moved a month ago. She had now been with the company nearly three years and had completed her training before the stipulated period of two years. Rusi Wadia had promoted her to the position of a manager – a manager without portfolio. She was still his right-hand person and he had relied on her increasingly heavily as time went by. She was kept very busy, he sent her out on all kinds of errands to all sorts of places, alone or with teams of colleagues. She also had to accompany him on occasion to negotiation and board meetings. It sometimes felt to her as though Rusi Wadia was deliberately keeping her on her toes so that she had no time to dwell on her personal problems and private grief. She was hardly at home, always on the move, living out of suitcases, from one hotel room to another.

He encouraged her to join clubs, take on speaking assignments, allowed her to deal with the press and other media in a PR capacity, and threw her into the deep end of all sorts of situations and events. She was often nervous, but nevertheless enjoyed every minute of her professional existence. When she went out to represent or negotiate for the company, Rusi Wadia forced her to rehearse in his office and then on completion of the exercise, made her repeat the performance so that he could correct her mistakes, detect any faux pas and applaud her when she had done well. She was most grateful to him for his attention and encouragement. She smiled to herself as she picked up her air-ticket. She was now off to Delhi and Bombay, to convey some of the policy decisions to their regional offices. She was also going to investigate the possibility of a move to Delhi. Rusi Wadia had indicated that Calcutta was becoming a difficult operational area: industrial disputes and political violence were making it increasingly impossible to run a viable business operation. He would like to move to Delhi, which would also mean proximity to the seat of power.

The country was restive – the uncertain neighbourly relations with China and Pakistan had erupted. The volcano which had lain dormant for some years had begun to regurgitate lava, thick and threatening. There was more to come. The leaders were worried. Rusi Wadia felt that this was the time to be near Olympus, with his ear to the ground.

Dwita knew that this could mean a move for her as well in the not too distant a future. The idea was not entirely unwelcome to her as her physical presence in Calcutta was not so much of a necessity in terms of Nishith these days. He was in and out of Dr Mitra's clinic, he now hardly occupied his chair at Hutchinsons. His physical violence had increased – it came in spurts, but Prithwish always managed to remove him from home at the first sign of it.

Prithwish now had fewer headaches. Ashish was no longer around. About a year before, during the festival of Kalipuja, when the whole household of Benebagan were busy celebrating with their fireworks, their
tubris
,
chhunchobaajis
and
phooljhuris
,
Ashish had been forgotten and was left to indulge in his own pyrotechnics. Madhu, who was supposed to have been on duty at the cottage had gone off to a party and left him unguarded. Ashish had broken through the back door, got hold of some incendiaries and had set fire to the house. He had also set fire to himself. When the tongues of ascending flames sought to devour him, he had fled to the pond unobserved, and thrown himself into its cool waters. People were too busy putting down the fire, no one in particular thought of looking for Ashish beyond the cottage and its immediate surroundings. Most of them had been high on
bhang
and
shiddhi
, too inebriated to carry on the search.

When Madhu, Ashishi's carer, woke up next morning from his intoxicated stupor, he found himself prostrate among the ashes of the burnt cottage. He had then run around the estate in a frenzy and when he found Ashish nowhere, he decided to run for his own life. Nishith's warnings still rang in his ears. Prithwish had found the body, two days later, entangled in weeds and hyacinths in the pond. Ashish's death was mourned as a social obligation, only his mother had shed a tear or two of genuine loss, others behaved as propriety demanded.

Maya and Mohua had left home as well, having chosen their own husbands. Prithwish had refused to marry them off personally, nor would he allow his mother to stage another wedding on the Dutta premises. His sisters were hurt, their fiancés complained but Prithwish was adamant. He had given each of them an endowment and their share of the family wealth and jewels. Mohua and Maya had left angry and unhappy, vowing not to return home. Prithwish later confided to Dwita, “I am relieved that the girls have gone – maybe their rejection of the Duttas will release them from the family curse. I pray so – they do not know that I acted as I did to free them from this terrible bondage.” Dwita too hoped their brother had succeeded in setting them free.

Dwita's mother-in-law herself hardly spent any time in Calcutta. The Brahmo Samaj had ceased to be a solace to her and she wandered from Puri to Banaras, Nabadweep to Brindavan, looking for peace and tranquillity. When the temples of the Hindu gods failed to comfort her, her restlessness took her to ashrams in Riskikesh, Bangalore and Pondicherry. She only returned when Dwita was back in Calcutta from one tour or another. Prithwish was now leading a lonely existence, surrounded by the ghosts of his family and the paperwork of their no longer profitable enterprises. His mind was not in business, though he occupied Nishith's mostly vacant chair at Hutchinsons from time to time. Dwita felt he did not care one way or another and knew that he was fighting a losing battle.

She shook herself out of her reverie, and phoned Prithwish to remind him of her imminent departure. The packed valise was parked next to her desk. She was ready to leave for the airport straight from work.

*

It was a Sunday when it happened. Dwita had returned on the Friday after two weeks' exhausting travelling. The house was deserted except for the two durwans and the usual kitchen staff. Protima was away on one of her many pilgrimages and Prithwish had gone to Benebagan to check on the estate. She was glad of the peace – she often wondered these days whether it would not be more appropriate to have a place of her own. After all Mr Katrak had mentioned recently that she was now entitled to subsidised company accommodation. She had declined it then, anxious not to hurt the feelings of the Duttas. She did not mind Nishith any more as he was more ‘in' than ‘out' these days.

She spent that Saturday and Sunday compiling her report, read and re-read her recommendations and then decided it was enough. She decided to retire early on the Sunday as Monday was not going to be an easy day. She fell asleep easily, thinking that she slept too much and too deeply lately – maybe she was tired and needed a holiday. She was dreaming about her meeting with Rusi Wadia and the board which was scheduled for Monday afternoon and the heavy backing of files were pressing down upon her – very heavy, nearly suffocating her with their weight. She suddenly became aware they were not files. Someone was on top of her, pressing her down, penetrating her. A hand pressed shut her mouth and a thick voice said, “You thought you could deny my rights forever – no such luck, my dear wife. Do not try to shout, there is no one here tonight – I shall kill you if you so much as stir, so be quiet.”

She offered no resistance, did not try to call any of the servants – there was not much point. What could she tell them – that she was being raped by her husband? Who would understand? It went on a long time – on and on and on until he had expended all his energy and lay on his back, exhausted by his own violence. She still did not stir, afraid that he would suddenly regain strength and renew his onslaught. She did not know how long she had been lying in the same position, immobile. At last she heard sounds of deep breathing from the body beside hers. She got up stealthily, pushed at the door and realised that it was locked and the key was not in the lock. She went into the bathroom, locked it from the inside and crept out through the sweeper's entrance. Then she made her way to the study, locked that door from the inside and phoned the clinic – she seemed to do it all in a trance. Within an hour the ambulance had arrived and Nishith had been taken away. One of the attendants had handed her two keys from his pocket – one was hers, the other was a duplicate. She never found out how Nishith had got hold of it in the first place, but it appeared that Nishith had escaped from the clinic and simply walked in through the front door – the durwans had not had the nerve to stop him.

That day the dawn seemed to have taken a long time to break into morning. She went to the office as usual, worked through her file of papers mechanically, and made her presentation to the Sunbeam board. The morning had ended late. She felt she had performed like an automaton.

Rusi Wadia had thanked her and said, “That was wonderful Dwita, but you look shattered – are you feeling unwell?” What she felt was bruised and unclean, exhausted and defeated. But all she said was, “I am fine, just a little tired.”

“Look, take a couple of days off – not tomorrow of course, we have a lot to discuss. I know what, we are off to Digha for the weekend, you can join us. No excuses – it is an order from God. In fact, let us be devils, let us leave on Friday and make it a nice long weekend by the sea.”

“Thank you, I would love to come. May I go now? See you early tomorrow.”

Rusi Wadia stared at Dwita's receding back. What had hit her, he wondered. She seemed to have been struck by an avalanche. I must find out tomorrow, he told himself.

Dwita hailed a taxi carelessly. Her thoughts were far away. She thought of the rolling relentless seas in Digha. Was it clear and clean? She could cleanse herself then in the cool of the bay – let the changing waves of the sea wash away her stains and ease her bruises. It still hurt – it hurt very much. The memory of it would hurt for ever, especially when she was alone with her own thoughts in the hours of her solitude.

Prithwish was standing in the portico when her taxi drove through the driveway and parked in front of him. He took her briefcase from her while she paid the driver. “It has been a long day for you,” he said.

“Yes – and how did your trip go?” she answered, without looking up.

“I have heard of the disastrous visit last night. Were you all right?”

“Yes,” she said, still avoiding his eyes. She was not going to discuss her shame with anybody – not even with Prithwish.

It was three months since that fateful night. Somehow she had known that this was not going to end quietly or without further trouble. Nishith was not going to stay out of her life, he wanted to put his mark on her indelibly, his property and no one else's.

She had been to Dr Mitra, her only mentor. He had ordered a test and confirmed what she feared. She was carrying Nishith's child – history was about to repeat itself. She would bring a miniature Nishith into the world, who would perpetuate the same streak of insanity and destroy other innocent lives in the process.

Dr Mitra was very disturbed as well. He had been aghast at Nishith's escape and had sacked the two male nurses who should have kept a more careful vigil on him. But what he had learnt now cast a dark shadow of guilt upon him. He blamed himself for Dwita's predicament. He knew she had built a cocoon of security around her, her world of work. She would probably have to sacrifice that – and what would she be left with if she lost the motivation and absorption of her professional existence? He had thought a great deal about it and then arranged a private consultation with her.

So Dwita had come to see Bijit Mitra. After some moments of hesitation he had decided to be completely frank with her. “Dwita, I am a doctor and old enough to be your father and I have to say this – I cannot allow you to make it possible for another Nishith to plague this family. This disease must stop with him. I have a friend in Bombay, a very close friend. He is a gynaecologist and has his own nursing home. You must go there immediately and have this dealt with. He will do it for you, whatever the ethics, if I explain the case to him properly. We cannot postpone it – it must be attended to urgently.”

“Are you suggesting abortion?”

“Yes I am – never mind medical ethics and all that, don't you see that we have no choice? You cannot waste your life any further, you must not sacrifice your profession. You have married a madman, you are not going to spend your life bringing up another. No, Dwita, you are a victim of rape – yes I call it rape – because of me and my team's mistake. I must get you out of it – it is my moral obligation.”

She was taken aback with the strength of her feeling. “No, Dr Mitra – my beliefs, my conscience forbid me to do what you recommend. I simply cannot live with it – it is like murder, even if it is in self-defence.”

“Stuff and nonsense – what beliefs? What conscience? Would you be able to love this child? To look at it without remembering the origin of its birth?”

“You are right, doctor. The way I feel now I cannot love him or her for this child is as unwanted as you say – but I still cannot do what you suggest. Abortion is unthinkable in my way of life–”

“Do not be self-righteous.”

“Please try to understand – I must go through with it. I cannot destroy life. I cannot live with the thought of another's death on my conscience for the rest of my life. I am not brave enough.”

“As you wish,” he said helplessly. “But you must promise then that this will be our secret – on no account will you share this with the Duttas. The child must be born and brought up outside their influence and environment. You must try and get a transfer from here as soon as possible.”

“That may be possible – I shall have to speak to Mr Wadia in any case. My promotion to a more senior post is in the offing and he may wish to review his decision.”

“Nothing of the sort. I know him well – we are both Rotarians. Rusi Wadia has the reputation of being fair. I know him well enough to have a little chat with him, if you like.”

“Please do nothing until I have spoken to him first. It is important that he finds out from me. I owe him this. I must keep his trust.”

It had taken Dwita a few days before she could gather enough courage to face Rusi Wadia with the news. She had in fact gone to see Janet at home and had told her everything. Janet was a quiet sort of person, always very calm and sensible. She had let Dwita speak, never breaking in with a single word of advice or consolation. When Dwita had finished she merely said, “You have taken the right decision and we shall stand by it. Rusi will speak to Bijit. We must make a plan that will be expedient and feasible. But we cannot delay much longer, Bijit is right – you must leave Calcutta.”

The next day Rusi Wadia had called her in and had spoken to her briefly. There was concern in his voice. “Dwita, Janet has told me everything. Bijit and I have discussed it as well. You are being posted to our London office for a period of training and you must leave next Friday, three days from today. You will stay in the office guest house in Calcutta en route, and once in England you will move in with John and Jennifer Parkinson. Jennifer is Janet's younger sister and John, her husband, is a gynaecologist who will look after your case.”

“I do not know how I can ever thank you and Janet – I am only sorry I have let you down.”

“You have not – and you will not be permitted to let me down. You will carry on as before. Work must take first priority in your life. I shall say no more now. We shall catch up with you in England. Now off you go and carry on as usual. We have two more meetings before we can call it a day – not to speak of travel arrangements for you. Send Katrak to me immediately.”

Dwita had left him without another word – there was no need, she knew, to say any more, they always understood each other perfectly.

*

Parna and Mahama were amazed to hear of her transfer at such short notice. Mahama was very upset at the thought of not seeing her for months, though she was pleased at Dwita's good fortune. She would at long last escape her fate for a while. Parna immediately threatened her with the possibility of a visit. Dwita put that down firmly by saying that she would not be allowed visitors or guests during the period of her training and she would be expected to travel extensively as well. Parna was far from happy at being discouraged and ended with her usual petulance, “You are not the only one I could stay with in London. If I wish to go, I will go and stay with colleagues and friends.”

The Duttas had not objected. Protima had in fact encouraged her and Prithwish had said, “There is nothing to keep you here.”

Dwita had not visited Nishith since that fateful night. She knew she had to see him once before she left. She went to say goodbye to Dr Mitra and at the same time saw Nishith briefly under his supervision. Her husband did not raise his eyes to meet hers, nor offer a word of apology. Dwita left knowing that she would never be able to forget him or forgive him. He would remain in her life as a malignant presence, an irredeemable burden.

Bijit Mitra had looked relieved at her decision. They had not discussed the subject – he merely wished her luck and said, “But you cannot get rid of me so quickly – I hope to be in London in three months' time attending a seminar at one of the teaching hospitals.”

She had packed her case in readiness for her departure, the office and the Wadias had done the rest. She was seen off by them at Dum Dum airport. Parna, Protima and Prithwish had come as well. The flight took off on time to her relief, as there was some tension between the Wadias and the Duttas which had mounted with the ticking of the clock and was beginning to infect Dwita as well. Rusi Wadia had decided to act coolly towards them and had hardly acknowledged their presence.

In the air, Dwita rested her head against her seat and closed her eyes – it was so peaceful to be away from it all, rising slowly into the sky, detached from all ties but one.

“Madam, can I get you something? Do you feel all right? the stewardess asked kindly.

“Yes, fine, thanks – my head swayed a little. Just tired perhaps. May I have a lemonade, please?”

“I would recommend something stronger if you need a pick-me-up – a glass of vermouth, dry, with plenty of ice and a slice of lemon perhaps? That should do the trick.” She laughed.

“Sounds wicked, but I will have it if that is what the doctor orders,” Dwita returned with good humour.

The flight was comfortable, she was pampered by the friendly young stewardess, and the passenger beside her was a taciturn Arab who spoke no English. Thus she was able to drift into undisturbed sleep until the flight touched down in Cairo. The passengers were asked to remain on board, so Dwita continued to float in her own euphoria. The pilot had made the landing at Heathrow very smoothly and the huge aircraft rolled down the tarmac gracefully until it came to a halt. She could not believe that she had left everything behind and was about to begin a new existence amongst new people who would expect no clarification, demand no justification – her life, her time, were all her own.

She sailed through immigration despite the unpleasant man in uniform who scrutinised her passport suspiciously, looked her up and down and finally decided to wave her through. She had heard before about these petty officials who made some visitors feel like escaped convicts or irresponsible immigrants seeking asylum in free British territory, imposing on British generosity and taking jobs and resources meant for the indigenous whites. She heard the man asking awkward questions of the passenger behind her. She had not stopped to find out more.

She picked up her case and an elderly porter took it from her, placed it on his trolley and wheeled it through the green customs channel into Great Britain. She called in at the information desk as she caught her name being announced over the microphone. A tall man was standing there, who said, “I am Christopher Ashton – a friend of the Wadias and Parkinsons. You are Dwita Roy?”

“Yes, indeed I am. How kind of you to meet me on a Saturday evening when you must have had better and more important things to do.”

“Better? I don't know about that, but certainly not more important. The Parkinsons had intended to come down from Waverley but their car started misbehaving. I live in London so it was easy for me to come.”

“Thank you very much for meeting me,” she repeated formally.

“I have my car, so shall we go to the garage, unless you wish to do something else first – such as the bank?”

“Yes, of course – I had forgotten about that, being an inexperienced traveller.”

“You'll soon learn,” he said good humouredly.

She had been in such a daze that she had hardly looked at Christopher since their meeting at the information desk. Once they were safely installed in his car and his eyes were on the road, she had time to study his face. She guessed him to be in his mid-thirties, and he was quite tall and well-built with rather bushy eyebrows arched over a pair of cynical eyes – they were deep and penetrating, even quite disconcerting. She suddenly felt very aware of him.

“Do you approve of what you see? Am I presentable and trustworthy?”

She was taken aback and embarrassed, as she had not realised that she was staring at him, but he just laughed. “Well, don't worry – I am only taking you as far as Mount View hotel in Mount Street where I believe you have a room booked for the night, and then tomorrow, I shall drive you to the Parkinsons for lunch and a few days rest and recuperation.”

“That sounds very nice.”

“We can have something to eat en route to the hotel or a little later – if you are hungry that is?”

“Not really after all those airline meals–”

They were now near the hotel. He said, “Would you then excuse me after you have checked in? I shall see you at ten tomorrow morning.”

“Of course, and thank you for everything – until then.” They shook hands and parted.

She went up in the lift to her room on the fourth floor. The case had preceded her and was already parked on the wooden stand. The room was small but comfortable, furnished in blue and white, with a sparklingly clean bathroom. She ran the bath immediately, adding bath oil, longing to submerge herself in hot fragrant water. Then she climbed in and relaxed. She had lost all count of time – did it matter? Not tonight anyway. The pair of cynical eyes she had just encountered kept disturbing her thoughts. She thought that it was ridiculous to be affected by someone she had met just over an hour ago.

*

Dwita stirred herself out of the depths of the blankets and eiderdown – it was not easy to do so. She was still tired and suddenly felt very lonely. The bed seemed so much safer and more reassuring than what awaited her. She was perhaps a little too lethargic – she blamed it on her condition. She forced herself to get up and stood in front of the long dressing mirror framed in the panel of the bathroom door. She was still very slim, her pregnancy was not at all noticeable – she thought it must be her height that concealed it well. She did not want people to know yet, she wanted to get on with her work and did not wish to be noticed or spared. But she must stop daydreaming and ruminating as Christopher Ashton would be here shortly and she had to meet him in the foyer.

She stood under a hot shower for several minutes, the jet of water woke her up properly and refreshed her. From the depths of her case she pulled a saree out – a thick Bishnuper silk in pale ivory, hand-painted with turquoise and black paisley. She decided that a saree would be impractical in future for normal wear – she must ask Jennifer Parkinson for some help with clothes shopping. Rusi Wadia had allocated a generous sum as clothing and incidental allowance, she could afford to go a little wild. She was already missing Rusi, his good-natured grumbles and grouses, his concern and guidance – it felt strange not to have him around after all these years. She put on her pearls quickly, picked up her commodious black bag packed with her weekend requirements and raced down the stairs – the lift was taking ages to appear. She arrived flushed and breathless in the foyer. “You need not run, you are not late, I am early–” a voice said from behind her. Christopher was already there, reading a newspaper.

“Just bad habit,” she said, “I can never ever wait for lifts, they take so long to appear.”