Anila's Journey (32 page)

“You are Patrick Tandy.”

How peculiar it was to say those words to my father. But the doctor had advised me to speak like this.
Be very clear
, he had said.
State simple truths even if they seem obvious to you. Be prepared to say them again and again
.

Papa was staring at me, as children do, with no shyness or embarrassment

“And Patrick Tandy has a daughter. You have a daughter.”

He smiled at this information, with none of the discomfort he had shown when I said my name. Then he shook his head, slowly, even politely.

“Well, now. I wasn't expecting you to say that, you know, such an odd thing. They tell me all the time that I forget what happened before I came here, no, not here, the other place. But I remember some things, not only songs. You'll call me foolish but I think it used to be cold enough for four, five blankets, imagine the weight of that, and then a big white cat would come and sit on top of the pile.”

I could not hear that without letting him know he was right.

“Oh, Papa, that was when you were a boy in Ireland. You told me about the cold that makes the leaves fall from the trees, and about the cat white as snow. Papa, I'm your Anila. And you're not foolish, not one bit.”

There – I had said the wrong things and now I could say no more. My throat was full. He reached out and took my hands in his, staring first at them and then at my face.

“I remember a lot of girls I played with in a garden. I don't think you were one of them even though I see the ring you're wearing and I know it. But I'd surely remember such a lovely face.”

I looked down at Miss Hickey's little ring, with its golden handclasp.
That
one I hadn't counted upon to work on my father's memory. But it gave me courage again.

“Papa, the song you were singing. How do you think I knew it?”

Again, he looked baffled. He let my hands go and rubbed the side of his head where the wicked scar lay.

“You look like a clever girl. I suppose that's how. Do you know these lines?”

He spoke the strange words with his eyes closed and his head tilted back until he finished. I had seen Mr Hickey recite verses in just the same way.

I shook my head when he looked at me for my answer.

“I don't recognize the words, Papa. But I like the sound and they make good sense.”

He seemed disappointed.

“Of course you don't know them, they don't belong to the song at all. But they came into my mind just now, somehow. I thought you might be familiar. See, I'll write them down in my notebook.”

He reached under his drawing papers and found a small black notebook and a pencil. I stood up to watch him write his lines down on a page that was crammed with jottings and small drawings. His script was still the same, neat, with small, well-formed letters.

He snapped the book shut before I could distinguish any of the other entries.

“The doctor who lives here said I should write down anything that came to mind that I couldn't explain. He said it might all make up a pattern one day, like knots in a carpet.”

He laughed.

“I had a meeting with a rock in the sea. That's what took my sense away, they tell me that every day so I can remember it.”

“Papa, I heard that you had an accident, that you were very brave.”

“Oh, they say this and that. Some people even come to see me for the novelty. But I don't think anybody has ever said to me what you did. Now, isn't that a strange business that you call me Papa and I don't mind it? And yet I have forgotten the name you gave, my dear, though I do know you said it.”

“Anila. It means blue like the skies, Papa.”

“You see,” he said, holding his open palms out towards me. “I would not deserve a daughter. But what in the world is it anyway, do you think, that has conspired to set us two people down here this beautiful morning, like birds in a cage?”

He stretched his arms out to touch the latticework of the gazebo and he was smiling at me, even though I saw tears washing out of his eyes. One blue eye and one green, the green with speckles of gold in it, dancing like atoms in sunshine.

I wanted to sing my own sad song, a song that had no rhymes.

Oh, my dear papa. You are not become foolish. For that has been my chief fear. No, you are full of a life that begins every day afresh, as birds do, or brave beasts, that have little care for what has happened to them or what may yet befall. But your Annapurna and I, we are your pearls, mired in that watery main of yours, down deep, farther than anyone knows
.

Sad, but I could make it into a song nonetheless. For somehow at that moment I knew that it would be all right, that I would find the courage to face my father as a friendly stranger, day after day, for as long as it would take. It might take wisdom or patience, or perhaps it might only take a lucky chance, to find the right words, the right pictures, the right knots, that might mend his broken life together in some fashion.

Now I could see how clever my mother was, all along.

To be the teller of a story you must begin and end it, yes, and if you decide to leave for another day what comes before or next, that is your choice. I was right about that.

But my mother, the queen of storytellers, had the real truth in her hand when she drew that never-ending line on the stone she picked from the fountain. She knew that every story, every life, is as round and complete as a moon that lights up the sky with its own perfect face. But just as a moon turns dark and mysterious half the while, so a story cannot tell you everything you wish to hear, nor can a person. You must discover the rest with your wits and your senses and, most of all, with your heart.

To be alive, and to see that, what could be better or braver or more wonderful?

Bengali words whose meaning may not be clear in the text.

anna
– one-sixteenth of a rupee
Asarh
– the fourth month of the Hindu year, divided between June and July

bibi
– a lady, but also used to mean mistress
bombazine
– fabric of cotton and worsted wool
brinjal
– aubergine

charpoy
– a light bed
chikan
– embroidery, especially from Lucknow
coolie
– labourer

dacoit
– armed gang robber
dadamoshay
– maternal grandfather
dhoti
– length of fabric tied at the waist, worn by Hindu men

East India Company
– The English East India Company (there were also French, Dutch, Swedish, Danish and Portuguese EICs) was chartered to trade by Elizabeth I in 1600. By the late eighteenth century, the Company ruled a considerable part of India in governmental style, with presidencies in Calcutta, Madras and Bombay. The British crown took over after the widespread rebellion of 1857.

Ganga
– the Ganges river which divides itself to flow into the Bay of Bengal. One of its delta rivers is the Hooghly, the river of Calcutta.
Gentoo
– a term for Hindu, used only by foreigners
ghol
– a yogurt-type drink
godown
– warehouse
gur
– unrefined sugar solid made from sugar cane or date palm juice

Holi
– Hindu spring carnival in honour of Krishna

Ikri-mikri-cham-chikri
– a finger game played with children

jheel
– floodwater pond

kash
– tall grass with white flowers, grown for weaving
kerseymere
– fine wool twill

maidan
– park-like open space; parade ground
mohur
– gold coin, worth, at this time, sixteen rupees
Mussulman
– Muslim

paan
– a popular concoction not unlike chewing gum, made of betel leaves, lime and areca nut paste
palki
– short for palanquin, a box-like personal transport carried on the shoulders of bearers
panchali
– Bengali folk songs
payesh
– a sweet rice pudding
puja
– Hindu religious ceremony; also prayers
pukka
– well-made, proper, reliable
pukka mix
– mortar made with molasses, brickdust and lime

rupee
– standard unit of currency

sindur
– red powder that married Hindu women apply to their hair parting
syce
– groom or stableman

tiffin
– light meal, lunch

veena
– stringed instrument like a lyre, used in Indian classical music

Annapurna
– the celestial benefactress who fills the rice pot
Dakshin Rai
– god revered in the Sunderbans mangrove delta; friend to tigers and to man
Durga
– mother goddess and consort of Shiva, often depicted with eighteen arms and riding a tiger
Ganesha
– elephant-headed god of wisdom, son of Shiva
Hanuman
– the monkey god who helps King Rama find his wife Sita
Jatayu
– the vulture that witnesses Sita's kidnapping and dies attempting to rescue her
Kali
– another, fiercer, manifestation of the mother goddess, much celebrated in Calcutta
Kalidasa
– India's classical poet and playwright of the first millennium, who wrote in Sanskrit
Krishna
– a human incarnation of the god Vishnu, whose adventures are told in the
Mahabharata
story cycle
Lakshmi
– goddess of fortune and wealth, and consort of Vishnu
Radha
– a gopi or cowherd beloved by Krishna
Rama
– King Rama and Queen Sita are lovers separated by evil and magic, whose story is told in the
Ramayana
epic poem
Ravana
– the king of the island Lanka, who captures and imprisons Sita
Saraswati
– goddess of learning, music and poetry, and consort of Brahma
Surya
– the sun god

The song Anila's father sings is “The Snowy Breasted Pearl”, an eighteenth-century Irish love song.

The lines he speaks are from
Aeneid Book VI
by Virgil, in John Dryden's verse translation. After many difficulties, Aeneas (who is alive) has found his father Anchises (who is dead) in Hades, the Underworld.

All the birds that Anila draws are real except one. Mr Walker's bittern, the “veena bird”, is a fictional bird. Sadly, the beautiful pink-headed duck is today almost definitely extinct: no sighting has been recorded since 1935.

Thomas Hickey (1741–1824) was a prize-winning art student at the Dublin Society Drawing School. Being adventurous, he travelled widely and worked as a portrait painter in Dublin, London, Rome, Lisbon, Calcutta and Madras. He was also chief expedition artist on a diplomatic mission to China. His two daughters came with him on his second tour to India. He died in Madras after spending a total of thirty-four years in India. These are facts. But all the events described in
Anila's Journey
are entirely fictional.

The two paintings described on pages 190 and 209 are actual paintings and can be viewed in the National Gallery of Ireland in Dublin.
An Indian Lady
(the cover painting, dated 1787) is believed to depict the bibi/mistress of the lawyer and memoirist William Hickey (no relation). She died in childbirth. The young sisters in
Portrait of Two Children
(1769) are not named.

Mary Finn worked for years as a magazine journalist with Radio Telefís Eireann, the Irish broadcasting service. A particular pleasure was dealing with children's books, their authors and illustrators, and the very keen readers who always insisted on knowing where ideas came from.

“My fascination with India began when I was about eight,” says Mary. “There was a story at school that I now know came from the Mahabharata. It was rich and strange, packed with lotus flowers and princesses and birds that were twice as wise as humans. So, for me, it was a pleasure to avoid the usual advice offered to writers (Write What You Know) and instead go for the alternative version (Write What You Want To Find Out). I recommend this. As a time travel device it's the only one we've yet discovered and it's one hundred per cent eco-friendly. But having a true regard also for Writing What You Can See With Your Own Eyes, I confess I did get to go to India too.”

Mary lives in Dublin with her son and works as a freelance writer.

I owe a great debt to Bunny Gupta in Calcutta, for her interest and encouragement throughout and for her keen historical eye. Thanks also to Dr Robert Prys–Jones of the Natural History Museum at Tring in the UK, who mailed me the mythological story of the sarus crane. Colette Edwards of the National Botanic Gardens Library in Dublin was assiduous in digging out many a tree and plant fact for me. I am grateful to Assadour Guzelian and Armenag Topalian for Armenian references. Any errors are mine.

Thanks, too, to my editor, Mara Bergman, and my agent, Sarah Manson, friends now, enthusiasts always.