In the Shadow of Crows (22 page)

Jyothi gently placed his hand on her arm.

“And what happens when
I
die,
Ama
? Where do
I
go?”

“Well,” she took a deep breath, “
Bahun
priests with their laws and castes, and mountain
lamas
with their
Dharma
and Buddhas, believe each of us is born again in another body. Many times, over and over. They believe that if we're ‘good', we're born as a paleskinned Brahmin, or as a holy monk. And if we're ‘bad', they say we're born dark-skinned, low caste - or as a woman!” she chuckled out loud. “But, of course amongst our people, it's different,” she emphasised. “We don't hold to caste, do we?”

Jyothi shook his head.

“We see all men, all women as equal.”

Jyothi rocked his head from side to side in agreement.

“We see all life, in all its forms, as an expression of Shiva and Shakti - consciousness and energy - in perfect union.”

“So when I die?” Jyothi reminded her.

“When
we
die, all the elements from which we are made, including the knowledge we have learned and the wisdom we have gained, return to earth, plant and animal. To fire and water, air and sky. All back to the single, underlying source from which new life continually springs.”

Jyothi now lay very still.

“So you see, we each have a responsibility to seek out good knowledge and learn true wisdom,” she impressed on him. “Each life has a bearing on what comes after. Nothing and no one is lost. For, in truth, there is no ‘death', no destruction, no end. Only absorption back into the ceaseless course of creation.”

Jyothi listened hard. He listened for answers and understanding. “My good, kind boy,” Bindra assured him, “as you grow older, you will see how our gods and our
puja
all help us to understand this essential truth.”

Jyothi put his arms around his mother and hugged her tightly.

“
Ama
,” he whispered, “I hope I have life enough to learn.”

***

With “Gorkhaland! Gorkhaland!” still ringing through the town, and half-sized Rambo-imitators storming through the streets in green headscarves, waving flags and tying banners to drainpipes, I was relieved to reach the Club without incident.

The fog that had enshrouded Darjeeling since my arrival had begun to dissipate in the late afternoon sun. I paused to look from the balcony across rooftops and market, wooded heights and dark valleys, but was quickly driven inside by an increasingly aggressive wind. I entered the room to find my bed prepared and curtains closed, the fire lit and bath towel hung nearby to warm through.

I pulled back a curtain as I undressed to peer out at the dying glow of dusk, when lightning blazed in silence across the distant mountains. I watched from my sitting-room window as the entire view of snowy peaks, forests and tea-gardens disappeared in a second ferocious flash that knocked out the town's power supply. In moments, Yashu arrived with an oil lamp and ginger tea. “Most mighty great big one coming, sir!” he warned and scurried off to the shelter of his quarters.

It appeared as though forest beasts were opening their heavy eyes, awakening to revel in nocturnal secrets, as little windows and doorways across the hills gradually began to glow with oil lamps and candles hung in jars. In mere moments, a thick, wet fog flowed in with criminal stealth. The lambent, amber eyes blinked momentarily and were gone.

The vociferous rhetoric in the town fell quiet. I looked up from my book and instinctively held my breath.

A roaring wind suddenly tore against the verandah, stealing away wicker furniture and plant pots, blowing in my double doors. Hail the size of Koh-i-noor diamonds volleyed furiously against the roof and windows. I forced a desk up against the doors to keep them shut, and withdrew to the safety of the bedroom and the comfort of my blazing fire.

With the battery raging on outside, I packed my rucksack in preparation for an early departure and the next stage in my search for Uncle Oscar. I attempted a hot bath, but once again there was no water in my taps, only bilious gurgles and a rusty sludge.

I retired instead to my bed, where I lay smiling at the ceiling, replete with fruit cake and ginger tea, a head full of chocolatesmeared ragamuffins, yellow-stockinged monks, and spectral
sahibs
.

“I'm happy here!” I said out loud, surprising myself.

I listened for an echo of the unexpected words as they pulsated through the room. I sought to seize the syllables as they rebounded from flaking veneer and peeling wallpaper, before they were absorbed by discoloured damask and unlaundered candlewick. I needed to be sure.

“I'm happy here!” I tried again. “And I'm here because of you. Thank you, Grandma. Thank you, Priya,” I whispered into the flame-lapped shadows.

Another assault of thunder and Tagore was once again bright in my memory, like a heartfelt promise:

“
In the gusty night when the rain patters on the leaves you will hear my whisper in your bed, and my laughter will flash with the lightning through the open window into your room
.”

I closed my eyes smiling and, despite the storm, sank into a sleep that remained unstirred until the crows announced a clement dawn.

***

It was dark when the
Aghori Baba
returned to stand by Bindra's bed. She withdrew her arm from around her sleeping son and eagerly sat up to greet him.

“
Behenji
, many friends is searching your son,” he smiled.

“Jiwan!” she gasped in anticipation. “You have found my Jiwan?”

“Yes, yes,” he assured her. “He's fine. Very fine.”

Jyothi was immediately wide awake. “
Ama
, is Jiwan-
bhai
back?” he asked with excitement.

Bindra looked to the
Aghori
in hope.

“
Behenji
, be brave,” he replied. “Your son is choosing his path. Not your path. His path.”

She nodded. She knew.

“
Behenji
, your son is went away from Kashi. No more here.”

“Went away?” Bindra was unsure that she had understood his awkward Nepali. “Jiwan has gone where?”

“
Behenji
, your son is went away to guru's guru. Far away, in Himalaya.”

“But,
Babajyu
!” she gasped. “He's just a child! He needs his mother! He is not ready!”

The
Aghori
raised his hand to calm her.

“
Behenji
, nothing is belonging to us. Not our clothings, not our houses. Not even them we are loving. All is Shiva, all is one. Be brave. No problem.”

Bindra could not offer
pranam
as the
Aghori
disappeared back into the darkness. Her arms were clinging too tightly to Jyothi. Her mouth was pressed too hard against his head as she fought to muffle her sobs.

Chapter Sixteen

The town of Kalimpong spread broadly around a narrow mountain ridge, at an altitude of over 4,000 feet. Its temperate climate and spectacular views of the Kanchenjunga had drawn the likes of Rabindranath Tagore, Helena Roerich, the Maharaja of Dinajpur, two dispossessed Afghani princesses, the Bhutanese royal family - and Uncle Oscar - to settle in the lush forests of its precipitous hillsides.

The three-hour journey from Darjeeling through the mountains revealed an astonishing landscape of peaks and forest, valleys and jungle, rivers and tea. The wild beauty of the uninhabited country beyond the windshield was in stark contrast to the suffocating crush inside the jeep. Ten adults were unceremoniously crammed into the suspension-less vehicle. A further six clung to the outside by their fingernails.

In my efforts to ensure an uninterrupted view, I had chosen to sit beside the driver, as had three others, all of whom were wedged onto the front seat beside me. A sudden, deep inhalation on my part could have cracked the ribs of a Buddhist monk or a Catholic nun sitting two passengers away.

At the jumble of wooden shops and houses of Teesta Bazaar, the jeep stopped. My fellow passengers exploded like spiderlings from the cruel confines of their nest, enabling me to hand over my credentials for scrutiny by bored officials. I sat in a military
daftar
office for over an hour, whilst humourless despots read and re-read my passport. They lethargically recorded my details in triplicate and eventually deemed my visa worthy of a smudgy stamp. I was now permitted to remain in the sensitive border district for a non-negotiable fifteen days.

Over a rickety, army-built bridge and across the roaring, deepgreen torrent of the snow-fed Teesta, we commenced our climb towards the hill station through a sub-tropical wilderness of towering ferns and giant palms.

Kalimpong town was disappointingly squalid, with none of the architectural charms of Shimla or Darjeeling. I asked a sober-looking young man for directions to the one hotel emphatically recommended by my magnanimous, new Uncle Harry.

“I am, sir, Sangay ‘Tiptop' Tamang,” the youth announced, “a faithful civil servant and most terrible pleased to be of your humble servicing.”

“Tiptop” promptly marched ahead, one hand stopping traffic in our path with all the confidence of a village constable, whilst the other enthusiastically beckoned me to follow him up an interminably steep hill. My calves were dripping with perspiration under the strain of my cumbersome rucksack by the time we reached the hotel gates, where my smiling guide took his courteous leave and waved me down a gravel drive into an Eden of verdant lawns and secluded flower gardens.

“Mr McKenzie?” I enquired of the handsome, Anglo-Indian gentleman who approached in greeting. Beyond, in the shade of the verandah of a solid, stone-built colonial house, his wife nodded a gracious welcome. “Mr Harry Duppa has sent me from Darjeeling,” I explained, wiping rivulets from my forehead and eyes.

It was all I needed to say.

In minutes I was showering in a spotless bathroom, which opened directly into the gardens, and unpacking in a teak-floored, whitewashed bedroom, tastefully furnished in old mahogany. I was flopping onto the freshest bed linen and softest pillows I had seen since home, sipping cold, sweet lemon juice and munching on homemade fruit cake, brought to me by my cheery room-boy, “Named Christopher, sir, and most goodly Catholic.”

I had stumbled into paradise.

***

Bindra was fascinated by the four neat stubs where her fingers had once been.

“Doctor-Madam is very pleased,” translated the Nepali novice from the temple.

Bindra looked up. The doctor was certainly smiling.

The young man listened to the woman's refined Hindi and continued: “She's saying . . . that the disease is no longer alive in you, but you must continue to take your medicine every day . . . for many more months. You'll be given a complete supply.”

“So am I cured?” Bindra dared to ask, with tentative excitement.

The doctor leaned forwards and tapped her polished nails on the desk to emphasise her phrases. The young man listened intently.

“Doctor-Madam's saying . . . not strictly ‘cured'. You must continue with your regular check-ups until the disease is gone . . . until you are ‘burnt out' (I don't know the Nepali for this term,
didi
).”

Bindra looked back at the deformed clumps that had once been her capable and hard-working hands. Hands that had planted seeds and milked her goat, oiled her daughters' hair and massaged her sons. Hands that had clung in love to Kailash and stroked the perspiration from the length of his spine in the still of night.

“Will they grow again?” she almost whispered. The doctor intuitively replied.

“Doctor-Madam is saying . . . the disease has done its damage,” the novice translated, with an apologetic wince. “Your fingers and your toes are gone, sister. They will not come back . . . nor will the feeling return. (I'm sorry,
didi
,)” he quietly added.

Bindra slowly nodded her head from side to side. She already knew.

“And . . . she's saying you must wrap your feet to protect them from cuts and blisters. You must clean and oil your skin twice a day, to stop it cracking . . . to stop infection and more disease.”

Bindra nodded again, but wondered how she would buy oil. She had no money for food.

The doctor stood up.

“Doctor-Madam's saying . . . it's time for you to go now (let me help you stand,
didi
) . . . You must come back in two weeks for a check-up, then two weeks after that.” Bindra gingerly rose to her feet.

“This is your medicine,” the young man smiled, handing her a silvered box of silvered cards, to which were attached tablets of different shapes and colours. “And here's a bottle of good oil for your skin.”

“
Dhanyabad didi
,” Bindra bowed in gratitude to the kindly doctor. “Thank you, thank you, elder sister.”

As Bindra made her way down the corridor towards the ward, she could see Jyothi sitting on the end of her bed. He was anxiously waiting. But as his mother approached, he had his answer.

Bindra was smiling.

***

Washed, well fed and more refreshed than I had felt in many weeks, I left the hotel and strolled into Kalimpong town. I was clutching the piece of paper given to me by Uncle Harry, on which he had written the address of Doctor Alex. He alone, I had been promised, could answer my questions.

It was not a market day. The large
haat
square was virtually empty, its numerous stalls and stands little more than the playground of bare-footed children, scraggy chickens and mange-marked pyedogs. A broad-faced boy ran with rosy cheeks up to me with a glistening grin and told me he was Pemba. I asked if he knew of a Doctor Alex. He eagerly rocked his head in excited affirmation, grasped my hand and led me through filthy streets, soliloquising in Nepali all the way.

The oppressive shadow of tall concrete and busy clutter of wooden cottages quickly gave way to the cool dapple of towering bamboo. At the base of Deolo Hill, my chatty companion stopped and pointed off the road. Pemba indicated that I was to descend a narrow, stony path that wound away into a thicket.

“Doctor Alex?” I asked, doubtfully.

He nodded in cheery confirmation and again pointed down the track.

Twisting through dense undergrowth and impenetrable clumps of bamboo, I could see a scattering of houses and bungalows tucked in against the hillside. From the Art Deco “sunburst” balcony of an old wooden building, a fair-faced woman watched my descent. I asked for directions and, with a broad smile, she directed me towards the lowest path. I could see her continuing to stare after me until the heavy foliage of the trees became intrusive.

As I walked past the second house, a teenage boy looked up in surprise. He was polishing a bicycle. Distinctly Anglo-Indian in appearance, he mouthed a shy “Hello” in greeting, blushed and slipped away inside.

I paused to chuckle in amazed delight at the sight of my very first live mongooses, energetically rough-and-tumbling on the lower lawn.

I looked back to the house into which the bashful youth had vanished and caught sight of three pairs of eyes staring at me through the crack of the door. The smile and wave I offered in greeting prompted a peal of ethereal giggling and the crack closed shut.

The bungalow at which I next arrived was surrounded by a welltended garden of roses, camellias and fruit trees. The broad verandah was adorned with an abundance of geraniums in hand-thrown pots, mounted antlers and the once brightly feathered head of a shabby hornbill.

I knocked. And knocked again.

No reply.

A curious servant peeked around a corner.

“
Namaste
,” I offered in greeting. “Doctor Alex?”

As she approached, I could see that the diminutive woman had a beautiful mountain face and a nervous smile. She was dressed in an adventurously patterned half-sari and blouse, her greying hair bound in thick cloth.

I asked again, “Doctor Alex?”

She shook her head and beckoned for me to follow. We left the garden and made our way through guava, luffa and banana trees, to a second bungalow. She indicated that I was to wait outside on the front step, whereupon she bowed and scurried backwards into the kitchen block.

I was looking for the mongooses when a small woman in a lavender cardigan opened the front door and demurely welcomed me in. She led me to the sitting room, sat me in a chintz armchair, then promptly left without a word.

In a minute, a serious ten-year-old entered, dark hair sharply parted and still wet with his mother's lick. He formally greeted me with a rapid nod, then sat on a stool at my feet, whilst maintaining total silence.

The woman in the cardigan soon reappeared, having changed into an elegant sari. She was attended by a pretty young girl, who was too self-conscious to look up at me. They were followed by a round-faced, pale-skinned woman draped in blue. With smiles, nods and quiet cluckings, they offered me hurriedly cut sandwiches of tomatoes, ginger root, curd and black pepper.

Two servant girls poked their heads around the door to see if it was true. When I offered them a sandwich-plumped smile, they ran away squealing.

The women let me finish my second plate before they probed the purpose of my search for Doctor Alex. I explained that I was on a quest for information regarding a member of my family. That Mr Duppa of Darjeeling had sent me. That I hoped to find a grave.

They all rocked their heads from side to side, but did not seem to understand.

Cashew cake was being sliced and sweet tea poured when a fairfaced older woman entered. I immediately felt drawn towards her. She smiled broadly in welcome, her eyes bright with life. Brief words in Nepali were exchanged between the three women, then in perfect English she asked me to repeat the reason I was seeking out Doctor Alex. I told my story again. Still it did not seem to register with them.

“I'm his niece, Cecilia,” she explained, “and I regret to tell you that you are too late. Doctor Alex expired over a month ago.”

I was shattered. Uncle Harry had been convinced that only Doctor Alex could answer my questions. Only Doctor Alex could reveal the full truth of the family secret. I was unable to hide my disappointment.

“You are a missionary?” the young woman in the cardigan enquired.

“Our maids are certain you are an English prince!” the woman in blue blushed with unexpected embarrassment at the candid admission.

I laughed and, for a third time, patiently explained the reason for my appearance on their doorstep. Slowly, a light seemed to dawn and they began to chatter excitedly to one another.

Cecilia turned to me with raised eyebrows and tentatively asked, “Please tell me, do you know Aunt Helena?”

My heart began to pound.

“My Grandmother was Helena!” I stuttered in confusion.

To hear her name! To hear it here!

“You knew my Grandmother?” I burst. It seemed impossible.

Cecilia caught her breath for a moment. “We never met, but ...”

She suddenly turned to the others for another hushed exchange in Nepali. They all stared back at me, their dark eyes wide.

“What is the name of this relation for whom you are in search?” she asked.

“Oscar,” I swallowed. “My great-uncle Oscar.”

The three women blinked at me.

“If Oscar was your uncle and Aunt Helena was your grandmother,” Cecilia said with careful consideration, as she raised her arms towards me, “then you are . . .”

“Our cousin!” they cried in unison.