The Onus of Ancestry (21 page)

“My situation is not so simple and cannot be put as neatly into a nutshell as you have done.”

“You mean you don't wish to tell me.”

“No, not yet – I must have time to consider.”

“All right, tell me when you want or feel able to do so – I honestly do not care what secrets you have. I am interested in you as you are – can we not be friends, at least? You can call me Chris.”

“Yes, but that is all you can expect from me for now. Chris, I would truly like to be friends with you, I would like it very much, but it is only possible to continue our friendship with limitations it may be hard for you to accept.”

“There's no harm in trying, is there?” He was attempting a lighter note.

“No, no harm at all.” She smiled back at him.

“When can I see you again then?”

“I start my training tomorrow – I promise to call once I know how Ernest is scheduling my time.”

“How about dinner tonight?”

“No tonight – I am dining with Ernest. He is important as he is my local sponsor.”

When Christopher left she sat there for some time, wishing she had never met Nishith, never had to bear the onus of her traditional upbringing on her weakening shoulders – and above all she wished had never met Christopher Ashton. She felt very despondent.

She dragged herself upstairs, showered and changed for dinner and sat down to write to her mother and to the Wadias. She had already cabled her safe arrival.

*

The dinner with Ernest Reed had been pleasant and uneventful. It was good to be able to put a face to the man she had known through letters and on the phone for some time. He was stout and broad, of medium height with a jovial face, clear blue eyes and a shock of pale blond hair that he kept pushing back from his forehead in an involuntary gesture. He represented successfully an impressive list of organisations with varying interests. He also had the loud, voluble speech of a cheerful salesman and loved to hear the sound of his own voice; he did most of the talking whilst Dwita played her part of attentive listener. Her programme was discussed at length and seemed well-structured and useful, though heavily concentrated. Apart from a few special attachments, she was to attend an eight-week course in general management at a reputed business school near London. The shorter attachments would concentrate on practical experience in departments of various organisations. Most of the programmes would be residential, which meant that she would be able to avoid familiar faces for some of the time. Her condition was making her increasingly self-conscious. Ernest had given her a lift after reconfirming arrangements for the next day, dropping her safely at the door of the hotel.

Dwita retired early, but could not sleep. She could not get Christopher out of her mind or even out of her subconscious. He was there like a permanent nightlight and she found herself reasoning with him senselessly until the small hours. She felt somehow that it was not a one-way transmission but almost telepathic in nature and content. She definitely seemed to receive answering vibrations from him, as though they were operating on a two-way wavelength.

As the night wore on, she grew increasingly aware of the strength of her emotional attachment to him and of the sheer happiness of it all. They had met only a short while ago, but there was now no doubt in her mind that she had fallen in love. She realised that she, who had never loved anyone before, never given an iota of herself to anyone except what had been taken by force, or given in obligation, was ready to give all of herself without stinting or withholding. There was something in him that magnetised her and she felt no urge to pull herself away. She made up her mind to see him again as soon as possible and confide in him – tell him everything, absolutely everything. This was a risk she had to take, she could not deceive someone she loved and see him gradually lose faith in her. If on hearing her out he decided to withdraw, it would be his choice and she would accept it.

She felt more at peace in the morning, having accepted her weakness and decided to live with it whatever happened… She arrived on time for her appointment with Ernest Reed and they were locked in a meeting for a couple of hours. She had also been given reading notes to brief her on the programme and the organisations she was going to visit. All this kept her occupied throughout the morning. Before lunch, the telephone rang just as she was about to pick it up herself to put a call through to Christopher.

“Who rang first, you or me?” a familiar voice said at the other end.

“You, I believe. You have beaten me by a few seconds.”

“How very telepathic! You mean you actually remembered to call me?”

“You were never forgotten. Will you be my guest to dinner tonight?” she said.

“No, you will be mine.”

“Ernest is going to keep me busy until six I think, so shall we say seven-thirty at my hotel?”

“Fine – see you then. Thank you, Dwita,” he said very quietly and put the phone down.

She was awaiting him anxiously in the foyer when his car stopped for a minute at the door, and he peered to see if she was there or if he would need to park. She waved at him and slipped into the car. He gave a small whistle. “You look beautiful in black – and unattainable.”

“Thank you – is that a compliment or shall I go and change?” she teased him.

“You sound more friendly today – am I forgiven?”

“You never needed my forgiveness.”

“I thought I was in the dog-house?”

“You put yourself there – I did not send you.”

He laughed happily and took her hand briefly. “We should have gone in chauffeur-driven comfort then I wouldn't need to keep my eyes fixed on the road – I think even a London cab would have been a better choice tonight.”

They were both relaxed and happy, the previous day's tension seemed to have dropped away – they chatted on until they had arrived at their destination. She did not know the area, Christopher said they were in the heart of South Kensington and the restaurant was French – quiet and exclusive. She liked it instantly. They were taken into a small parlour, warmly furnished in bear-brown and cream, where they could have aperitifs – they chose a place near a terrace door and ordered martinis. The menu appeared and they chose the same courses –
paté de foie en croûte
and
darne de saumon en sauce d'oseille
, with a good bottle of Chablis. They both declined dessert at first, then weakened at the thought of a sorbet-citron flamed in whisky. The coffee was excellent.

Although it was a gastronomic evening, their minds were not often on the food. Initially they said very little, enjoying the silence, with mutual warmth and understanding. They then gradually began to unwind and chat, and Dwita broached the subject of her reticence and hesitation. She told him about her life, from the day of her meeting with Nishith until now, only leaving out the most painful details of her prolonged humiliation at his hands and her submission to maternal blackmail. She somehow could not bear to relive those moments with any guarantee of self-control – in retrospect they seemed to hurt terribly.

Christopher heard her out, not saying a word, only touched her hand occasionally to reassure her and continued to look at her steadily. When Dwita had finished, he only said, “Please forgive me for my insensitivity earlier – I wish I had known.”

“Would you then have stayed away?”

He shook his head slowly. “No – but I would have behaved differently.”

“Please do not blame yourself. I have told you everything because I feel it will be wrong not to do so. You had to know everything in order to appreciate the reasons behind the permissible terms of our friendship.”

“It changes nothing for me,” he said, “but what are you going to do with yourself? You cannot destroy your life, give up all your hopes and aspirations for a man who has deceived you, tortured you and will in any case spend his life in an asylum? It would be criminal of me – of all of us – to see you drift away into an impossible and absurd way of life just because of promises given in ignorance. There must be a way out for people like you – surely you can consult a lawyer?”

“Do not upset yourself for me. None of us in the world are blessed with unadulterated happiness – most of us have our individual crosses to bear, Christopher. Have you not one as well?”

“I suppose you are right – yes, I do. In principle, I should now be home with my family or away on holiday with them, instead of spending my evening with another woman – in the eyes of society I am adulterous and deceitful. But I am paying today for my early mistakes and youthful stupidity. I have been married twice, divorced once, and now I continue to live in a marriage which in truth ended long ago, because I cannot steel myself to go through the nightmare of another divorce.

“I married at twenty against all advice, a woman much older than me, a Polish emigrée teaching at my university. She was lonely and I was young and available. She also knew that I was not poor. We both soon realised it had been a mistake and she began to drift towards other men. But she would not grant me a divorce for ages. She wanted money and in the end I gave her most of what I owned to buy my freedom. In the process I lost the love of my friends, my parents and of course sacrificed most of my financial assets – not to speak of the two years at university which I had to catch up later. However, I was not a quick learner. I managed to retrieve the lost years of academia, but I never caught up on common sense.

“When I was in Bahrain nearly nine years ago, I came across Julia, my present wife. I met her through Jean-Pierre, her estranged husband who was my colleague at Browne & Hastings, as it was at that time. Jean-Pierre Aumont was Algerian-French and Julia is half British – her mother was Belgian. Jean-Pierre and Julia had met in Bahrain some years ago when she came out to teach English at one of the local schools. They married but it had not worked out, and he deserted her, leaving her with their son Jean-Claude then about two years old. She was miserable, afraid to be in an alien world on her own, and I began to see a lot of her. She was also virtually penniless, having given up her job a year earlier to stay at home to look after Jean-Claude. She had problems too with her visa – the Bahrainis were not keen on accommodating single women, much less those deserted by their partners. I took pity on her, spent more and more time with her and finally, when my divorce came through we decided to get married.

“Julia and I come from different backgrounds, not that class matters any more. But what we thought at the time were feelings of love and affection turned out to be pity on my part and a desire for security on hers. Although we both realised this we decided to have a child, our son, Brent, hoping that he could bridge the chasm that was developing between us slowly but surely. He certainly helped to increase our mutual sense of duty but did not nurture any real love within us. I also adopted Jean-Claude, as his father was not interested in him; Jean-Pierre was back in Algeria and had taken another wife. Jean-Claude is now nearly twelve years old and knows no father but me, and Brent who is now seven loves him like his own brother. Julia has taken up teaching again, we live together in name and lead our own lives. We both felt that only our love for the boys held us together and that it would probably continue to do so in future. But, Dwita, I am suddenly not so sure any more, I wonder how long I can continue to live like this.”

“I believe we all have more endurance than we imagine, Chris, and though the threshold for bearing pain varies with individuals, we can still bear far more than we think.”

“But now that we have met, I feel life can offer me so much more than I have ever thought possible – now that I have felt–'

“Ssh, dear Chris – we must not go so fast. You cannot afford to make another mistake. In any case, do we not both have our hands tied? So do not make yourself suffer now needlessly. Let us just be friends and remain so without any more expectations.”

“You are so calm in your forbearance,” he said, wonderingly. “It must be your Indian upbringing or some inherent Hindu fatalism – how else can you accept your situation?”

“You almost make me sound ascetic or a freak – now, we'd better make a move, I can see the maitre d's polite but anxious eyes from here. It is well past midnight, and he obviously has someone at home to whom he wishes to return.”

They left and in the car Christopher said, “Let's see each other again soon – what about tomorrow? We can go to the theatre – would you enjoy Pinter? Or does it need to be Shakespeare or Shaw, I believe they are favourites with Indians?”

“No – though I would enjoy Shakespeare or Shaw, I am equally at ease with Pinter. But Chris, I must warn you that we won't be able to see much of each other from next week onwards. Ernest is sending me away on all sorts of visits and courses. So we must make the most of it until then. However, I am off to Waverley on Friday evening for the weekend. I hope you can wangle an invitation from the Parkinsons for at least a Sunday lunch like last time. We could then come back together on Sunday evening as John does not return to town until Monday morning.”

“That shouldn't prove too difficult – I think John and Jennifer will not object, particularly as Julia will be away with the boys for the weekend. It will be considered quite correct and entirely proper, I think, to invite me alone. I think they may guess we like each other but they would never pry.”

Dwita was nearly through her programme of visits and courses, she had only a week to go with Ernest Reed Enterprises. That last week was mostly debriefing sessions with Ernest and writing reports for the Sunbeam Board and Rusi Wadia. Her health had kept good, John Parkinson had kept his eye on her and boosted her up with an assortment of vitamins and calcium pills. She had spent a lot of time with the Parkinsons in their London flat as well as their country home in Waverley. She had become almost a permanent feature of their household and either John or Jennifer always rang on alternate days to make sure she was well. She left contact details with them when she travelled and they never failed to page her.

Throughout, the person who filled most of her mind and all of her heart was Christopher Ashton. He telephoned her regularly wherever she was and sometimes drove up to see her at weekends. He was correct in assuming that John and Jennifer had not failed to notice his complete absorption with Dwita and were aware of the fact that he seized every opportunity to meet up with her, whether in London or Waverley. They did not pry or judge but were worried, knowing both circumstances. The older couple had grown very attached to Dwita and they did not want her to be hurt again. They also knew that Christopher would never be free of Julia, the boys' happiness was too important to both of them. Hence Chris had nothing to offer except a transient form of attachment. John particularly wanted Dwita to be free to start again properly and he was not sure that the man should be Christopher. Like Rusi he felt she deserved another chance in life. Without Dwita's knowledge he had even written to Rusi, asking him to take legal advice in India on her behalf with regard to her own marriage, but had been saddened by the reply. Indian law did not as yet favour divorce on the grounds of mental illness of one of the partners – the law was being scrutinised, could be revised at some future date but not now. So Dwita had to wait, but he felt that she must not get hurt – by Christopher or anyone else who was not in a position to make a clean offer. What neither John nor anyone else, not even Christopher, realised, was the extent of Dwita's private commitment to him. She knew that she loved him completely and without doubt, despite the circumstances that surrounded them, and beyond any expectations of fulfilment. Love for Christopher had become part of her very being, nothing and no one could take it away from her, not even Christopher himself.

Dwita had meanwhile received a letter from Dr Bijit Mitra. He was coming to London to attend the conference he had mentioned some time ago and was hoping very much to see her. He would contact John Parkinson on arrival, already had his address, and he was also aware that Dwita was travelling extensively on business.

Dwita was looking forward to seeing Dr Mitra again. She wanted to talk to him about her fears concerning her unborn child. As the birth drew closer, she was more and more oppressed by thoughts of that fateful night and the history of the curse in Nishith's family. She was suffering from insomnia and often woke herself up with her own screams and perspiration in the grip of nightmare. She feared the child would be both permanent reminder of that night and inheritor of the curse. It was unfair, she knew, and how could she bring into the world this innocent victim, expose it to an uncertain reception and make it the repository of her mixed feelings. She was concerned for herself and for the one still to come. Dr Mitra perhaps could advise her, help her out of this dilemma which now haunted her. She could not confide in anyone else, not even John in his role of her medical specialist.

The final week had come and gone. She had received a letter from Rusi giving her news of the office and how anxiously he was awaiting her return. He had also informed her that he had arranged for her to join a two-month tailored course on personnel and project management at a training centre in Sussex, run privately by a retired management consultant, known to the Wadias. Dwita knew that Rusi had done this to keep her occupied until the last moment and had arranged it privately to keep it outside the ken of Ernest Reed. John had said he was amazed how well she hid her increasing waistline and recently she had resumed wearing sarees for official visits as they seemed to conceal her bump more effectively. She did wish sometimes that she was in a position to carry her pregnancy openly and proudly like other women, rather than hiding it.

Parna had written, asking to come and visit her – she had turned her down yet again, saying she was travelling and attending residential courses, both of which were true. It was also true that the last person she wanted near her was her own mother. Parna had always preempted her wishes and inclinations without ever trying to understand her – and although she tried to absolve her mother most of the time the thought kept returning to her mind that but for her she need never have met the Duttas, or Nishith himself. But she missed Mahama, missed her toothless smiles, her loving admonitions, her gentle acts of pampering. She could no longer cope with her magnificent head of hair and one lunchtime had just gone to a salon and had the long tresses cut off. Christopher and the Parkinsons were horrified, Jennifer had chided her mildly, but in the end they all agreed that she still looked elegant and in fact younger with her shorter hair style. To Dwita the most important thing was that she was not defeated by it every morning and could care for it more easily.

Prithwish also wrote from time to time and Protima, whenever in Calcutta, added a line. Dwita too had written to them. They all had the local Wadia address and Rusi forwarded the mail to her. Nishith, she was told, was still under treatment and came home occasionally but under strict vigilance. He had not written to her at all, she had occasionally sent postcards to him. She did not know why she maintained this almost invisible thread of communication – was it part of the promise made years ago at the altar, or was it a sense of pity for his broken mind? She did not know.

Time was passing quickly – her work at the Sussex centre kept her busy. She attended most of the sessions and at times helped her tutors with some of the group activities through her contribution as an observer. It was a new and exciting experience for her. Peter Atkins who was the Director of the Centre and her personal tutor did not spare her, though by now her condition was quite obvious. Rusi must have briefed him well, Dwita thought. Only her weekends were her own and the afternoons when she had to go to Harley Street for her regular appointment with John. She even lived at the Centre in a tiny flat where she cooked her own simple meals and ate them alone. It was much nicer when the Parkinsons or Christopher came to dinner, which they did from time to time to relieve her boredom.

Finally the day arrived when she would see Dr Mitra. They were going to meet in London at his club, where he always stayed when in town. It was both a happy and a painful meeting. They were delighted to see each other, but when she had spoken to him about her doubts and fears he was able to offer very little comfort. He reminded her frankly that she had had a choice and had chosen this path against his advice – now he suggested that she might like to think in terms of foster care or adoption. He felt they must wait and see the birth through and then observe the gradual development of the child before any decision could be made. He also warned her in no uncertain terms that she must be prepared for the resistance she had in her heart towards the unborn child and that learning to live with it would be no easy task. Theirs could be a difficult mother and child relationship. This was the most painful part of the bargain. She wanted to love the child openly and freely, without possessing it as her own mother had been guilty of doing, but there was no such spontaneous flow of love in her heart as yet. She told herself it would come, and its emergence would surely dispel the darkness and fear that now pervaded her very existence. Dr Mitra left, saying he was going to meet John Parkinson the next day for a discussion. He had also said that she must not hope for any improvement in Nishith – he would not say beyond that.

Thus there was no real solace from anywhere, nor any dissolution of her doubts. She did gain a great deal of comfort from her occasional meetings with Christopher, however. These were not many, as she hardly ever went to London and Christopher was not able to get away easily from his family over the weekends.

Then came a day when he drove down to Sussex to tell her that he would have to go away for at least six months on assignments to South East Asia – Singapore, Hong Kong and Djakarta. His company had landed a substantial consultancy contract and one of the partners would have to manage it. He would take his family with him and probably base them in Singapore. Julia was prepared to take unpaid leave to accompany him. For the first time the reality of the situation struck Dwita, and their position in terms of family commitments became clearer to her. They were two people who could never rise above their existing ties and obligations – they not only had no right over each other's time or companionship, but they might not even see each other in the months and years to come. Christopher did not quite see it that way. He felt confident that modern communication systems and their own way of itinerant living would make it possible to meet at regular intervals. She did not wish to disillusion him nor spoil the last few days of being together by talking of bleak times ahead.

Saying goodbye was difficult. Christopher had been particularly upset as the impact of the parting suddenly dawned upon him – he had talked non-stop of a hundred ways of keeping in touch and had finally given up pretending and sunk into depression. She had kept calm as she was so used to constant denials in life that complaining about them or expressing disappointment or resentment seemed only to result in loss of dignity. The only truth that prevailed was her love for him.

The only people who were relieved at Christopher's departure were John and Jennifer, for whom a relationship between Chris and Dwita had seemed without future. Soon, the weeks with Peter Atkins were over as well, and Dwita left him to stay with the Parkinsons in Waverley, ahead of her imminent confinement. She then suddenly received news from India that the Wadias were arriving shortly to spend some weeks holidaying in England and Europe. Dwita thought how nice it would be to see them again – she especially wished to see Rusi who always made life such a simple matter for her.

She thought of how he used to tell her, “always be prepared for the storm and the thunder, and you will then never be struck by lightning.” He was the kind of man who had injected strength and confidence into her at moments of fearful disappointments and hopeless despair. She had always gone out of his office feeling stronger and renewed.

*

Dwita knew she was in a strange room. She could see dimly through a haze of returning consciousness, faces she recognised – John, Jennifer, Janet, Rusi. Rusi seemed to be holding flowers, red gladioli and red carnations. The white head of a woman was bending over her, was she checking her pulse? John was speaking to her softly, “Dwita, my dear, can you hear me? You had a difficult time, but you will be better soon.”

“Baby?”

“Yes, a girl.”

“Can I see her?” Her voice seemed not to belong to her.

“Not yet, my dear, later.”

She sunk back into oblivion and knew nothing of time, but it was daylight when she opened her eyes to find someone sitting by her side, holding her hand. It was Janet.

“What time is it, Janet?”

“Nine in the morning – you have been a good girl and slept right through the night until now. Do you feel a little better, my dear?”

“Yes, thank you. Is she well? Can I see her?”

“John will soon be here.”

“What is wrong, Janet? Please look at me–”

“I must go and get John.” She rushed away, and returned in a few moments with her husband.

“Dwita, you must be strong, for I have to tell you something.”

“Is she dead?” she said in a flat, toneless voice.

“We could not save her.” He swallowed his words.

“My retribution.”

“Do not say that – we all tried. It was a very difficult birth.”

“I deserved it – it was my fault all along.” She turned away and closed her eyes. Why did she feel so strongly for someone she was not even sure she wanted? “Where is she?” She asked with her eyes closed tightly. She did not wish to see their faces.

“I know it is hard for you but perhaps this was best in view of what we had all feared. We had to lay her to rest as you had been unconscious for several days. It was the best we could do under the circumstances. Believe me, Dwita.” John kept on comforting her as though to comfort himself.

“Yes, yes, that was the best we could do for her and for you, Dwita.” She heard him repeat, in a voice that seemed so far away. The only feeling within her then was her sense of guilt, as though she had brought about this death herself by not willing the unborn to live. She allowed her mind to sink down slowly into a void, ignoring the protests of her consciousness, but resting her trust and confidence in John. The events of the last few days fled past her sedated remembrance – the journey to the little village in Switzerland, somewhere near Chamonix, she could not remember the name – her admission into a small private nursing home, being greeted by a friendly Swiss woman who spoke little or no English – the Parkinsons and the Wadias shadowing her, protecting her – nothing more… she did not wish to remember more. Deep, slumbrous oblivion overtook her.