In the Shadow of Crows (24 page)

I declined a second round of buttery toast and escaped back across the town to Uncle Oscar's old home, but nobody was in. I sat on the front steps to wait.

With alarming speed, clouds billowed over the mountains in ambush. Rain began to podded-pea-patter across the red tin roof. I took cover on the verandah as the orchids began to tremble, and the fronds of the high bamboo began to hot-coal-hiss. I watched the ants battle to build breakers. I listened to the parakeets giggle at the droplets trickling down their ribbed-stockinged legs, as far away querulous thunder grumbled, and inside the house an heirloom solemnly chimed the hour.

Cecilia soon arrived, busy with apologies. She immediately sent servants to summon family members from their homes. In minutes, I was being formally introduced to my new cousins with their complicated Nepali familial titles of
dajoo
and
didi
,
bhai
and
bahini
.
Maila-mama
and
Kancha-kaka
.
Jethi
,
Saili
,
Maili
and
Kaili
. It was breathtaking.

Cousin Samuel was my elder by just four days. However, due to our difference in height, he insisted upon referring to me as
dajoo
, “elder brother”, to avert confusion amongst his friends upon their introduction. He cuddled up beside me and affectionately clasped my hand.

“Just yesterday morning, my nephew woke me very early,” Samuel began, looking into my eyes without the least reserve. “He said, ‘Who is my new uncle arriving today?' I told him he was dreaming, but he said, ‘No, no, your new brother is coming here from far away.' So you see, we knew.”

At that moment, a figure appeared at the inner door. The gathered crowd fell quiet and respectfully made way for the eldest member of the family. I stood to greet a small woman wrapped in a white silk shawl from which shone sagacious eyes and a clement smile. I was instructed to call her
Phupu
, a term of affectionate respect meaning “Aunt”. I could not hide my surprise at the familiarity I felt with this woman, still beautiful at eightysix years old. It was as though my Grandmother had walked into the room.

Cecilia invited me to bow before this mellow matriarch, with hands pressed together at my heart.
Phupu
in turn placed her palms on the crown of my head. I was astonished. The woman in my dream had done exactly this during the previous night.

“This is
ahashis
,” Cecilia explained, “the blessing of an elder. You may now give
ahashis
to your ‘younger brother'
bhais
and ‘younger sister'
bahinis
,” whereupon I was inundated with dark heads on which to place my own palms. I, in turn, then bowed to receive the benedictions of my “elder brother”
dajoos
and “elder sister”
didis
, my
jethi
“aunts” and
kancha
“uncles”.

“Welcome home!”
Phupu
smiled from the chair in which she was now resting. “Come, sit with me,” she beckoned.

As I settled at her feet, she drew onto her knees a crumbling photograph album. My heart was pounding. I was back with my Grandmother in her Sussex cottage. I was back on the fraying harlequin pouffe, with Cesspit snoring by the fire and Bird in the kitchen battling with the bread bin.

As
Phupu
opened the front cover, a photograph slipped out onto the floor. I bent to pick it up and stared in wonder. Looking back at me were the unmistakable features of Rabindranath Tagore. He was wearing a traditional, black Nepali
dhaka topi
cap, his name written in his own hand across the bottom of the fading portrait in angular, Bengali script.

“You know who that is?”
Phupu
asked.

“Oh yes!” I exclaimed. “Tagore was my childhood hero! My Grandmother taught me his poems. And when I was older, my tutors would have me translate into German and French the
Gitanjali
she gave me, to practise my languages.”

The gathered crowd murmured their approval.

“But how do you have his picture?” I pressed.

“Ah,
Gurudev
Tagore was a good friend to our family during those last years of his life spent here in Kalimpong,”
Phupu
explained. “We children used to climb up on his knees and stroke his long, white beard as he sang to us his songs.”

She leaned to rest her cheek against the backs of her fingers, just as my Grandmother used to do.

“
Your joy is mine, my mischief in your eyes,
”
Phupu
recited, smiling with the recollection, “
Your delight the country where my freedom lies
...”

She gave the fading photograph that rested on her palm one last, affectionate caress, before slipping it back between the pages of the album. She turned the book on her knees to face me and opened its cover once more.

“Now this,” she announced warmly, indicating the picture on the first page, “is my mother, Lily. Oscar's eldest daughter.”

I gasped and my skin duned into goose-pimples.

The distinctive face looking back from the sepia photograph was the very woman who had placed her hands on my head last night, in the hotel room.

Chapter Eighteen

Bindra had hidden herself amongst the other passengers' luggage on the long journey north-westwards across the Plains. The overcrowded carriage was noisy, dirty and comfortless, but through the night she and Jyothi had wrapped themselves in their ragged shawls and cuddled close. They had never been in a train before.

Despite his excitement, Jyothi had quickly fallen asleep in the oppressive heat. Bindra had quietly repeated her Ganesha mantra, to focus mind and body on this new venture, to remind herself to be open to the many changes this new beginning would bring.

And when a difficult and restless sleep eventually came, she dreamt of mountains. Of the Shakti Tree,
gundruk
and
churpi
. Of Jayashri, Jamini and Jiwan.

Back at Varanasi City Station, Bindra had explained in slow, clear Nepali to the man at the window that she needed two tickets to the mountains. She had told him that she was going to find her son. His name was Jiwan. Perhaps he had seen him some weeks ago? Small boy, dressed like an
Aghori Baba
.

Jyothi had opened the folded newspaper for his mother and had shown the disinterested ticket-
wallah
the money given to them by the temple priest, to prove that they could pay. The unexpected sight of a bundle of rupee notes in the possession of such a vagabond hillwoman and unkempt child had naturally caught the clerk's attention. He had counted up the money, then passed over the counter two Gclass tickets to Dinantapur Junction, northwards in Rohilkhand.

“No seat guaranteed!” he had shouted at Bindra twice, in English. She had not understood.

Eighteen long hours later, the train finally dragged itself into Dinantapur Junction. Bindra struggled to her feet in the mayhem of a station arrival. She peered out of the small, barred window above them. She could see no hills. She breathed in the scalding air. She could smell no forest.

Jyothi clung to his mother's ragged sari as they anxiously descended into the boisterous crowds on the platform. Bindra directed him towards the communal tap, where they filled their water canister and washed their faces. They peered across the platforms in both directions. No mountains.

Bindra waited and watched. She decided they had better follow the jostling tide, but quickly found themselves forced and pushed until they were outside, exposed to the full flare of searing sunlight. Bindra was panting for air beneath her shawl, but did not dare expose her hands or head to public view. She did not fear for herself. Only for Jyothi.

Bindra drew her son towards the shade of the station canopy and sat to gather her thoughts.

“Are we where we're meant to be?” Jyothi asked, offering his mother gritty, metallic-tasting water from the canister.

Bindra scanned the horizon. A shimmering mirage of wilting rickshaw-
wallahs
, brightly painted lorries, rusting buses and crumbling concrete desiccated in an infernal haze.

Suddenly, the roar of “
Jaldi jao
!
Jao
!
Jao
!”

A policeman was storming towards them with fierce intent, raising his baton with every savage order for them to “Get moving fast!”.

Bindra stood tall and drew Jyothi close to her side.

“
Dajoo
,” she began, smiling at the perspiring officer, “elder brother, please tell us where we go to find the mountains . . .”

“
Saali kutti
!” he spat at her.

“We have come very far to find my youngest son. His name is Jiwan. Could you direct us to the
Aghori Babas
?” “
Yahan se nikal ja, kutiyaa
!”

She did not understand the words. She did not need to.

Bindra and Jyothi turned their faces from the angry, vicious man and scuttled out into the sunlight.

***

“Did you know
Sah'b-baje
took a princess as a wife?”
Phupu
asked, resting a papery hand on my shoulder. The day had passed with inexplicable speed, as we had acquainted each other with our family histories, giving credence to an array of inherited tales.

“
Sah'b-baje
?” I asked.

“British-master-grandfather,” she awkwardly translated, sending the rest of the room into hearty guffaws. “Your Uncle Oscar.”

“Ah yes, my Grandmother spoke of her, my great-aunt who was a princess,” I nodded enthusiastically. “She said people stepped off the path when she approached and bowed their heads.”

“Her name was Isi Mutanchi,”
Phupu
smiled fondly, “but in our Nepali way, she was known as
Kaili-boju
, ‘fourth-daughtergrandmother'. She was a Lepcha, one of the local tribe from these hills, whose father was the
Raja
of Phuptshering and the
Mandal
Overlord of Pachin - you know, where Margaret's Hope tea estate now lies, near Darjeeling.” I did not. “Well,
Sah'b-baje
had fallen very sick with dysentery in his own tea-garden at Turzum. Very sick indeed. He was not just an important man, but was much liked and respected. He did so many good things to help the people and improve their lives. Clean water, medicines, cinchona, and all. So the
Raj-kumari
, the Princess Isi, nursed him. She saved his life, they fell in love . . . the rest you must know.”

Phupu
was brimming with history and proud of her past. Proud of her improbable mix of English, Swedish, Nepali and Lepcha blood.

“And do you understand her name, Mutanchi?” she asked.

I shook my head, longing for her to continue.

“Mutanchi is the name the Lepcha give themselves,” she explained. “It means ‘Beloved of the Mother', of the goddess Itbumoo - Mother Nature, if you like. They're a remarkably friendly people, peace-loving and uncomplicated. They live in the forest, with names in their
Rongring
language for every bird, plant and butterfly to be found in these mountains, which delighted
Sah'b-baje
. He was a passionate naturalist and won awards in London for his lepidopteran studies - you see how he taught me that impossible word! But the Britishers just couldn't train the Lepchas to work the tea-gardens. They would throw off all the clothes that the planters and missionaries had made them wear in an instant - and run back into the trees, laughing and singing! Perhaps you already know of their reputation? It still enthrals anthropologists - and shocks priests of all persuasions!” she chuckled. “So the
sah'bs
shipped in the Nepalis instead.”

I was fascinated.

“But, of course,
Sah'b-baje
lived in very different times. The Britishers did not approve of such mixed-race unions. Their Christian god
-wallahs
refused to marry them. He had to keep
Kailiboju
secret, even here, and hide the children when Europeans passed through, to avoid a scandal. Even when Mallory and Irvine called in on their fateful route to Everest, we all had to stay down below without a whisper, until the coast was clear! And yet, you know,
Sah'b-baje
- your Uncle Oscar - loved and cared for all his family, unlike many of those Britishers in India who disowned and discarded their
chi-chi
children to the street, or abandoned them to orphanages.”

Phupu
rested back into her sagging chair and sighed with her memories. Again, I was back in Sussex, back with my Grandmother.

“It was in the same basement room where we used to hide,” she continued, drawing me closer, “that, after Sah'b-baje's passing, we found hidden bundles upon bundles of English pound notes. Perhaps it was the upheavals of Independence and Partition, but in those days rumours were running wild. My parents were assured that, with the demise of the Raj, the Bank of England had also collapsed, and because of the fall of the Bank of Simla some twenty years before, we all believed it. For months on end, these big bundles of Sah'bbaje's money, his secret savings for our security, were played with by us children in our silly games, then used as kindling on the kitchen
fire - yes, I know, I know! - until all were reduced to ashes ...”

The appearance of a silent servant girl in the doorway brought the recounting of family tales to a disappointing end. She bowed her head and indicated to
Phupu
that dinner was served. I was led through unlit corridors and down a staircase to a feast illuminated by candle and oil lamp. Steaming pots of sticky rice, vegetable curries of ginger and garlic. Spicy raw salads, eggs baked in a creamy coriander sauce, served with a variety of fresh
rotis
.

As at distant Dalba, the family did not eat with me. Only Samuel kept me company at the table. The others stood to watch with manifest delight at my every mouthful, taking it in turns to plunge forwards with spoons piled high and refill my plate, despite my remonstrations.

As a band of “cousin-brothers” prepared once again to escort me through the darkness and back to the hotel, my indulgent “aunties” asked me to stay, to live with them in Kalimpong.

“Don't leave, cousin!” they begged. “Learn Nepali here with us. And we'll find you a good and beautiful wife!”

They all laughed out loud and slapped their palms.

So I laughed too, even as I fought to restrain the searing memory of slim, dark fingers that had once entwined and loved my own.

***

Bindra and Jyothi were tired. They had walked slowly, from stretch of shade to length of shadow. The heat was unbearable.

As they wilted behind the trunk of a dead tree, Bindra threw off her shawl and gasped for air, hair limp with perspiration, damaged scalp throbbing with new infection. She longed for a mountain stream in which to plunge. Even the thought brought a sighing smile.

“
Ama
,” Jyothi mumbled through dry lips, “have you taken your foreigners' medicine today?”

She had not.

“We have to take care with our water and there isn't enough for me to swallow them,” she admitted, trying to dip a narrow edge of her shawl into the canister to wipe his face and eyes. “Now drink,” she insisted, awkwardly lifting the metal container to his mouth between her wrists.

“But
Ama
, you must!” Jyothi implored, his lips soft again and glistening as his thin, pink tongue explored their wetness. “I only needed a sip, so there's plenty left for your
paraiharuko dabai
.”

Bindra was unconvinced she needed to continue taking the Doctor-Madam's pills. The kindly woman had already told her that the disease had been stopped in its destructive course. Surely it was better, then, to save the remaining medicine in case it ever returned. Surely it was better to keep it stored, in case she were ever to discover a new birthmark on any of her
chora-chori
children.

However, to appease the anxiety of her son, Bindra turned to her carrying cloth, cumbersome and heavy with the doctor's boxes. She pushed one towards him, and he drew out a single, silver strip, polka-dotted with three different-coloured tablets. Jyothi squinted as the aluminium flashed in the aestival blaze, then abruptly, instinctively flinched.

A thin man with high cheekbones and harshly coloured hair had silently appeared beside them. He was dressed in bright-bleached
kurta pajama
and exposed a bloody grin.

“
Namaste-ji
,” he beamed, spitting a heavy globule of
supari
stained saliva into the dust. “
Aap kaha aai ho
?” he enquired with a nasal whine through darkly discoloured teeth.

Jyothi moved closer to his mother and wrapped his fingers around her forearm. He did not like this man. He did not want him near her.

The intense heat had slowed Bindra's responses, and she suddenly realised the hairless scarring across her head was still openly exposed. She self-consciously drew up her shawl.

Having induced no response, the man turned to Jyothi and asked, “
Thik hai
?”

This Bindra understood. She rocked her head in courtesy, even as she turned away, to indicate that all was well.

Bindra drew Jyothi to sit on her other side and together they quickly wrapped the medicine back into the cloth.

“
Behenji, kya baat hai
?” the man asked, moving to sit beside Bindra.

She shook her head to show she did not understand his Hindi and hurriedly instructed Jyothi to tightly tie the knot.

“
Kya aapko chot lagee hai
?” he pressed, pointing to her head, then indicating with his smooth, raised chin towards her fingerless hands and heavily bound feet.

“
Aapka ghar kaha hai
?” he tried.

This Bindra thought she understood. He wanted to know where they lived.

“
Paharma
,” she replied quietly, eager to move away from the unsettling, intrusive stranger. “In the mountains.”

Despite her caution not to engage with his eyes, the man became animated with her concession to respond.

“
Dinantapurme
?” he continued. “And in Dinantapur?”

Bindra shook her head and struggled to her feet. She looked from side to side, but did not know in which direction to start walking. It was impossible for her to move in this heat. Impossible for her to think.

The man rose to stand in front of them. He grinned his scarlet gash at Jyothi and stretched out long, thin fingers to take his hand. Jyothi recoiled and plunged his face into his mother's
pharia sari
.

The man sniggered.

“
Aaiye
,” he said, beckoning them to follow him. “
Ghar
!
Ghar
!” he pointed with affected excitement.

The tall, thin man in the bright-bleached
kurta
seemed to be promising them a house.

***