A House Called Askival (20 page)

THIRTY

It was Saturday morning, the third day of waiting at the Unity Guesthouse and the day of Mrs Gandhi's cremation. Entire Sikh communities lay gutted: homes and property destroyed, over two thousand people murdered and tens of thousands fleeing to refugee camps. The army had finally been summoned to help and the violence was beginning to ebb. They and the police would be thick upon the streets for the funeral procession and control would be tight. Mr Das had got word from his second cousin in the force that it would be safe to leave that evening. Ruth called home as soon as she heard and nearly whooped when the phone was answered, not detecting the strain in her father's voice.

She was tripping over herself with relief and urgency. ‘Everything's ok here. Can you come up to see the show next week? Please?'

‘What?' He sounded far away.

‘You know –
The Gospel of Jyoti!
All the performances here were cancelled so we've only got one now, back at Oaklands. You have to come! It's amazing.'

There was a pause, then his voice. Like a whip.

‘What in God's name—? Your
show?
No, of course we can't come up to see your show! Have you no idea?
No
idea what is happening around
you? Ruth?' He was terrible, incandescent, like she'd yanked open the door of a furnace. ‘Are you
that
selfish?!'

She fled to the roof of the house and huddled in a corner, barely breathing, stinging with the rebuke and the exploding of her dream.

Her silly, selfish,
stupid
dream.

The school party set off at sunset as a dusty orange pall gathered over the city, the air heavy with smoke and incense. Driving through the barren streets they saw gaping houses and overturned trucks, still smouldering. Here and there were charred bodies. Sometimes they could make out the remains of a turban, crisp and flaking on a blackened head, but even when they could not, they knew all the dead were Sikhs.

Except for Mrs Gandhi, of course, whose body was also burnt that day.

Mr Haskell, looking tired and older and avoiding Ruth, had put the white kids by the windows, and when he ran out of white ones, moved on to the half-white, like Kashi. The idea was to make it look like a bus full of foreigners, which was why Ibrahim from Somalia was an exception to the colour scheme and given a front window seat. Notions of foreignness were complex at Oaklands. Most of the white kids were brought up in Asia, or other places not of their citizenship. Many, like Ruth, were born in India. On the other hand, half of the “Indians” had passports from Canada, Europe and the US with accents to match. There were quite a few with mixed parentage and homes in several continents. It was hard for most of them to say where they were ‘from' but at Oaklands this growing up between worlds was not a lack of identity, but integral to it. And as much as they might have protested the idea – Ruth especially – the school itself had become home.

Manveer, the only Sikh on board, was put on the back seat in a row of girls. Ruth and Sita commandeered the spaces either side of him while Abishek whistled and said Manveer was exploiting national crisis for personal gain.

‘Shut it, Abishek,' Sita said.

‘Yeah, that's not funny,' Dorcas added.

‘Don't worry,' said Manveer. ‘I'll just beat him up back in the dorm.'

‘Oh, you wish, babu! You wish!' crowed Abishek. ‘This guy can't even squash a cockroach.'

‘Least he doesn't look like one,' said Sita.

‘Ow-ow-ow-OW!' Abishek howled, shaking one hand as if badly burnt.

‘Cut down, yaar!' grinned Manveer.

‘Cut down
bad
!' Abishek vouched, with a defeated shake of the head and a crooked grin. Ruth tried to smile, but the events of the past few days were taking their toll. Manveer looked at her keenly, his dark eyes searching and gentle.

‘You ok?' he whispered.

‘Yeah,' she mumbled, and stared at her hands. The nails mocked her.

As they pulled out of Delhi, the great Doab plain stretched around them, flat and patched with fields, the ground turning cool and bloodless as the low sun drew all colour into itself. Ruth could see dark figures walking along the field edges towards the muted glow of village lights. It was the same scene she gazed out on from a train window every time she travelled back to Oaklands after a vacation. Mom and Dad would take her from Kanpur to Lucknow and then hand her over to the party of Mish Kid travellers from Varanasi, Calcutta and even Nepal. They would meet up in the high-ceilinged waiting room at Lucknow Station where fans turned slowly and a man in khaki swished a filthy mop from side to side. The handful of adult chaperones would count heads and bags while Ruth and the other girls squealed and hugged each other and scanned for signs of new clothes. If someone had been “home”on furlough they were the envy of the rest with their new jeans, Nike running shoes and permed hair.

The goodbyes were brisk and matter-of-fact. Dad would pat her on the head and say a short prayer. Mom would squeeze tight, but let go quickly and smile so brightly that Ruth could only smile back and wave. Then they were gone.

On the train there was always happy chatter and hi-jinks. They bought steaming sweet chai from the platform wallas and had
competitions hurling the conical clay cups at pylons. They ate samosas and puris, glistening with hot oil, and passed round bananas and peanuts and bottles of warm Limca. They told jokes, played cards, swapped comics and chewed gum and at bed-time squirmed into their canvas
bistars
on the bunks and whispered and giggled. In her early years, when the train was rattling through the dark and everyone was quiet, Ruth would move her face to the window and stare into the blackness. Only then would she cry. Silently. No one ever knew, not even Hannah on her bunk above. And by the time Hannah had left Oaklands and Ruth was fourteen, she had stopped crying on trains. Almost stopped altogether.

The bus rumbled and rocked, setting the tinsel and pom-poms at the front window swinging. Ruth felt the warmth of Manveer's arm and thigh next to hers and glanced up at his face. He was staring straight ahead.

Then he stiffened.

Out of the black, further along the road there was a sprinkling of lights. As the bus sped closer, the lights waved and brightened, moved out into the road and blocked it.

The driver swivelled his head round. ‘Hide him!' he shouted and pressed on the brakes. Everyone whirled round in their seats. Mr Haskell jumped up.

‘Manveer!' he shouted. ‘Get down!' Manveer had already dived under the seat as Ruth and the others were yanking shawls over their knees.

The bus slowed to a halt, the chug of its engine drowned by the shouting of men. There was a banging on the door and a tightening of the air as Mr Haskell opened it a crack.

‘Let us on! We are after the Sikhs!' a man bawled. Ruth felt a shock down her body.

‘There are none here,' Mr Haskell replied in Hindi, his voice brittle. There were yells from the mob and the man pushed on the door.

‘No Sikhs on this bus,' said the driver, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

‘We are a school group,' Mr Haskell went on. ‘Just kids. Foreign kids.'

The foreign kids stared bug-eyed at the men, who had sticks and sickles and rusty blades. The Indian kids slunk down in their seats. The
driver revved his engine, the men hesitated and Mr Haskell shut the door. The bus took off.

Once the black had completely swallowed them again and the headlights stretched out into empty road, Mr Haskell moved down the bus and without looking at Ruth, knelt and lifted her shawl.

‘It's ok, Manveer,' he said, though his voice was still strained. ‘You can come out now.'

Manveer crawled out and dusted himself off. ‘That was a close one, Mr Haskell,' he said, trying to laugh.

‘Yeah, I know,' the teacher nodded. ‘But don't worry. We're not going to let anything happen to you.'

Manveer sat down again between Ruth and Sita.

‘Mr Haskell?' came a girl's voice from half way up the bus.

‘Yes?'

‘I think we should pray.' It was Dorcas.

Mr Haskell stood without saying anything for a moment. As he held onto the seats around him, his body jerked and swayed with the motion of the bus. Both Mrs Banwarilal and Mr Das nodded vigorously.

‘A-huh, Dorcas,' Mr Haskell said slowly. ‘I'm sure a lot of people have been praying already.'

‘Yeah, but, I mean, out loud,' she pressed.

Mrs Banwarilal piped up. ‘Yes, yes. I think that is a very good idea. Please pray.'

‘Right,' said Mr Haskell and ran his hand through his hair, dislodging a chunk from the ponytail. ‘Ok, Dorcas. You go ahead.'

Ruth looked at Manveer but he had already closed his eyes and bowed his head.

‘Dear Lord,' Dorcas began, her voice thin and faint under the roar of the bus. ‘Please be with us now. Please keep us safe…'

Manveer slipped his hand over Ruth's. When Dorcas finished there was nothing but the noise of the bus, the growl of its engine, the bouncing and squeaking of its old joints. Then another voice began. It was Thomas Verghese.

‘Oh Holy God, Our Father,' he began. Ruth tensed. He was known
for long prayers that pushed out the boundaries of ecclesiastical discourse. ‘In thine infinite grace and mercy thou hast ordained the days of our lives and even the very hairs upon our miserable heads. Thou hast always granted solace in times of tribulation and protection from the vicissitudes of the evil one.' There was a blast on the bus horn. Thomas waited then raised his voice. ‘On this dark night of the soul, we cry out to thee. Forgive us our iniquities. Judge us not harshly, and though we be deserving of eternal damnation, in our distress we beseech thee to extend thy mercy and spare us from the grave.'

There were a few
amens
. Mr Das clicked his tongue appreciatively.

After quiet, a voice came from near the middle of the bus. It was Kashi. No one had ever heard him pray.

‘Dear God,' he said, his rough voice breaking as he spoke. Then a silence that made people wonder if he'd finished. Or perhaps was crying. But at last he continued. ‘We need you.' Then another silence. And finally, ‘Amen.'

The bus heaved on. No one else spoke for a moment till there was an
amen
from Shamim, the devout Muslim boy who had surprised everyone by joining the production and cheerfully playing the disciple Peter (alias Pawan). Then a cascade of
amens
around the bus. Ruth heard Manveer whisper it and she squeezed his hand. He squeezed back and stroked her thumb with his own.

Then there was a prayer from Abishek (Judas), who was Hindu, and Nina, (Woman at the Well) who was Zoroastrian, and Pema, (Martha, Roman Guard and Second Pharisee) who was Tibetan Buddhist, all interspersed with the Christian kids (assorted disciples, guards, lepers and Sadducees). Ruth was even contemplating praying herself, when there was a further blast on the horn and a volley of curses from the driver. Up ahead another swarm of lights was filling the road.

There was a sharp hiss from Manveer as he squeezed her hand, then scrambled down under the seat. The girls yanked again at their shawls, Sita swearing, Ruth starting to shake. This time the men were drunk or perhaps just delirious with rage. They howled and drummed their fists on the sides of the bus and banged open the door. Mr Haskell tried to
block them but they shoved him aside and piled up the steps. They were heaving, sweating beasts, dishevelled and roaring, sticks and knives in their hands.

‘Where are the Sikhs!' they shouted. ‘Any Sikhs here? We will kill them!' Flaming torches lit their faces and licked the ceiling of the bus. Ruth could see streaks of dirt and grease on their faces, missing teeth, scratches.

‘No Sikhs here,' insisted Mr Haskell, voice loud but wobbly, as he tried to pull one of the men back from the aisle. The man was big, with a thrusting stomach and a face flecked with blood. He swiped at Mr Haskell like a mosquito and began pushing his way down the bus.

‘I will check,' he said, running his eyes over the students and banging his stick against each metal seat. As he moved closer, Ruth could see rings of sweat at his armpits and a long, dark stain down the front of his kurta. She wedged her hands under her buttocks to hide their shaking but could do nothing about the pounding in her chest. When he got to her he stopped, the bulk of him blocking the aisle, a giant hand gripping the seat in front. One of his bulging eyes lolled to one side, while the other fixed her with a lewd stare, his mouth half-open and strung with spit. As he leaned close, reeking of alcohol and sour skin, she felt sick with fear. His face inches from hers, teeth rotten, breath coming in heavy rasps, he took his stick and began lifting the shawl across her knees.

Just then a shout came from further up the bus and he swung round. Ruth breathed out and shoved the shawl back down. A weedy man was pointing at Mrs Banwarilal.

‘You!' he shouted. ‘You're
sadarni
!'

‘I am not!' she said. ‘I'm Hindu.'

‘No, she's Sikh,' said the man with the stick, starting to move back up the bus. ‘Look at her hair.' Her shiny tresses were today woven into a long, muscled braid that fell half way down her back.

‘I am not! I swear it!' she cried, but the men were closing in.

‘Leave her,' Mr Haskell shouted, trying to push his way past the men.

‘Get her!' one shouted, and the stick man grabbed her arm.

‘No!' screamed Mrs Banwarilal.

There was a crashing blast from the horn.

‘STOP IT!' The driver jumped up on his gear box. The men turned to him in surprise. He was laughing. ‘Stop it, friends! I'm your Hindu brother.' They cheered. ‘Do you think I would let Sikhs ride on my bus?'

‘If you did we'd kill you!' a man shouted, shaking his sickle.

‘Of course! But there's no need,' the driver said, spreading his hands genially. ‘Do you not believe that if there were any Sikhs on my bus, I would have killed them at once and thrown their bodies to the jackals?'