Of Marriageable Age (64 page)

She no longer shed tears. Her soul was parched, scorched into tearlessness.

A
FTER SIX MONTHS
Savitri's spirits were lower than ever. Gandhi had not replied to her letter. Inside, she was disintegrating. Do something useful, she told herself. She found volunteer work at the government general hospital in Madras, and they were glad to have her. Give yourself in the service of others, and then your own problems will shrink in magnitude. Keep on. Nataraj is somewhere, waiting. Thinking of him, worrying about him, will not bring him back. Do what you can to find him, but turn mind and body to a greater task. And so she worked on.

She held a baby who had been blinded and crippled by her own beggar father so as to earn more money; and she knew there was greater misery in the world than her own, and that sanity lay in that remembrance.

F
IONA WAS ALREADY LOSING HERS
. When Paul could not be found she sank deeper and deeper into the slough of despond. Unable to keep herself, much less Gopal, fed, clothed, clean, alive, she had returned to Fairwinds; after all, it was hers alone, now, for her parents had been killed in a London bomb raid, and David… who knew where David was. A little Christian maid looked after her, and a Cooky cooked for her. Gopal drowned his sorrow in alcohol and a mountain of work, returned to Bombay and turned his back on the mess of his life.

S
AVITRI ALONE REFUSED
to abandon hope. Henry and June regarded her with concern. Finally June said, 'Savitri, listen. Henry and I have decided to emigrate to Australia. For one thing his contract's running out at the end of this year, for another, the war's on our doorstep, and for another the English are going to be thrown out of India anyway. I've got a brother living in Perth; we're going to live there. We want you to come with us, to start a new life. There's so much strength still in you. Your life's not over, but you're wasting it here. We'd love to have you; we'll help you get whatever papers you need, get a job, everything.'

But Savitri merely shook her head.

S
AVITRI BENT
down to pick it up. A letter. A personal letter, from him, from Bapu. Apologising for the delay: his wife had died earlier that year, his own health had collapsed. Malaria, dysentery and a hookworm had kept him immobile and unable to answer letters for some time. Reading her words he felt there was little he could do to intervene, but he would write a personal note to the authorities concerned. In the meantime, it was essential for Savitri to gain peace of mind. Peace of mind, Bapu said, must be found in all circumstances.

'There is a true Mahatma living not far from Madras. I will give you his address. Go to him,' he advised. 'There you will find true solace.'

64

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

SAROJ

London, 1971

O
VER THE LAST
few days Nat had gently coaxed and courted her. Like a rosebud she had opened one petal after another, hesitantly at first, for she was treading on new and unexplored ground and did not know her way; but he was gentle and he was strong, and his love was constant as a rock, and true, and the twilit areas of her soul reached out to him as to a gentle warm light, and she found words for him, and learned to transform the shadows into speech, and share all with him.

She had never really seen London, cocooned as she'd been within herself; now, Nat showed her the city. She saw, and yet she saw not, for more real than all was the love that buoyed her. Laughter spilled from her soul with Nat at her side, his eyes receiving her always, his arm across her shoulders, his hand around hers, or brushing the hair from her face, the warmth of his touch and the beauty of his laughter.

She had never known laughter like this; it transformed her mere physical beauty into brilliance, for it lit her from within, and filled her, and she flourished.

They met every day at Baba's bedside. Nat would already be there when Saroj came after work. She liked to approach silently from behind, and catch them at their conversation, and listen. Nat, she found, could beat Baba at his own game, turning up with arcane translations of Sanskrit texts, arguing him out of opinions and prejudices so ingrained in Baba's mind they seemed, to her, the very quintessence of Baba's being. In Baba's world every living creature had an established and indubitable place in the hierarchy of existence: ordained by God and eternally valid. Nat shattered that rigorously structured world with logic, tact, and humour.

'You see,
Pitaji,
I found that book I was telling you about. It's a centuries-old commentary on the Vedantic Sutras. One Sri Karapatra Swami condensed the salient points into twelve chapters and it's been recently translated into English. It's one of the finest Advaitic texts. It says there's no essential difference between a Brahmin and a Sudra.'

'What nonsense! The difference between a Brahmin and a Sudra is like the difference between a lotus and a clod of earth! Don't play with me!'

'Yes, but what do you bet that I can refute that belief ? That at the very core of the Vedas you will find the teaching that no difference at all exists?'

'The differences have been ordained since the beginning of time!'

'What do you stake on that?'

'Aha, now I know what you're up to! You're the evil Sakuni trying to defeat the good Yudhisthira with sly tricks!'

Nat chuckled, and wagged a finger at Baba. 'No no,
Pitaji,
none of that good-against-evil business! Your own Vedic scriptures say there's no distinction, I have it here in black and white. Shall I read it to you?'

By sleight of hand, it seemed to Saroj, Nat's hand, empty just a moment ago, held a little yellow book which he now waved at Baba. 'Give me that book!' said Baba, reaching for it.

'No, I'm going to read it to you. You can read it yourself afterwards. Listen.' He opened the book at a marked page. In the
Sutra Samhita
it is said that . . . Obediently, Baba listened as Nat read aloud. Turning a page, he held up his finger once more, saying: 'Now listen,
Pitaji,
here it is: . . .
there is absolutely no distinction bearing on caste, stage of life or other similar matters. Be the seeker the foremost scholar, pandit, illiterate man, child, youth, old man, bachelor, householder, tapasvi, sanyasi Brahmin, ksatriya, vaisya,

Sudra, a chandala or a woman . . . This is the undisputed view of the Vedas and sastras.

'It can't be!' cried Baba.

Nat chuckled and continued to read, as in imitation of Baba:
Disciple: This cannot be. How can illiterate men, women and
chandalas
be qualified to the exclusion of a pandit learned in the sastras?

Nat read on, occasionally interrupted by Baba, discussing and arguing over interpretations of the text. Almost unnoticed, Saroj slipped in, drew up a chair, and sat listening. Nat and Baba merely glanced at her.

Saroj grew bored. 'Why do you people always talk such nonsense?' she interjected at a convenient pause. 'Stop it now and let's talk about practical matters.'

Nat closed the book, turned to look at her, smiled. 'You're late today.'

Deodat stretched out his hand to her. She took it, and he pulled her gently towards him, patting the bedside so she would take her seat there.

'Nat is just explaining to me the theory of Advaita. Non-duality. He is too clever for me by far. I am terrified of these Advaitists! They would destroy the entire universe, reduce us all to one unalloyed Self without distinctions!'

Nat chuckled, and Deodat joined in.

'All this theorising is beyond me,' said Saroj. 'Me, I like to believe in what I can see and touch and prove.'

'Yes, but listen, Saroj: if this whole universe is nothing but a mental concept as the Advaitists say, what is there to prove and who will prove it?' There was excitement in Baba's voice, and he elbowed himself into a half-sitting position.

'Oh, leave her alone,
Pitaji.
Saroj says she wants to talk about practical matters so let's listen to her.'

'Even if those practical matters are completely unreal? Huh? What do you say to that? According to your theory…’

'Not
my
theory. Advaitic teaching dates back several thousand years.'

Saroj could only stare in silent wonder at Baba. It was as if a completely new person lay there before her, a relaxed, open-minded, generous, affable old man, joshing with Nat, the perpetrator of this miracle. For there was no doubt in Saroj's mind that it was through Nat, and Nat alone, that Baba had found redemption. Just as she herself had. Her own reconciliation with Baba was only a part of that other, bigger miracle, its logical consequence, its result, and not its cause. It was as if something good and healing flowed from Nat's hands, turning all he touched to gold.

'So what's the practical matter you wanted to talk about, Saroj?'

'Oh, nothing in particular. Just that I wish you'd change the subject. This is all too abstract for me.'

'Well, I have a practical subject I want to discuss. Why don't Ganesh and his wife come and see me?'

They stared at him. Then Nat looked at Saroj with triumph in his eyes and a wide grin across his face, and when Saroj could only stammer in reply to Baba's question Nat said,
'Pitaji,
Ganesh and his wife will be here this time tomorrow. I guarantee it.'

'Baba, we thought, we thought...' Saroj grasped for words.

'You thought I'm a very stupid, hard-headed old man incapable of admitting his errors. Well, as Nat has just so lucidly explained, there are absolutely no distinctions between the various physical forms, so why get het up? And even a poor ignorant non-dualist like myself must remember Krishna's words on the battlefield of Kurukshetra, that the wise man remains in equanimity no matter what befalls him. So let them come and stop treating me like a senile old fool. Let them come!'

65

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

SAROJ

London, 1970

T
HE PAPERS
, bundled together and tied with twine, almost fell apart in Saroj's fingers. She had found them in a suitcase under Deodat's bed, the suitcase containing his private correspondence and other personal papers. She had gone through the papers one by one, and made two piles, one to throw away, and one consisting of official papers, to keep and to deal with; Baba, having lost interest in worldly matters, had given her authority to dispose of everything. ‘Everything?’ she had asked, and ‘Everything,’ he had firmly replied. ‘I am only waiting to untie the strings that bind me to this earth.’

Most of these papers would almost certainly belong on the throw-away heap, but Saroj, sighing, untied the bundle the way she had untied every other bundle.

Deodat's correspondence with India had been sparse, yet constant. But till now everything had been unreadable, all written in Bengali, except the envelopes, which were addressed in English. Of course, they could just as well throw out everything wholesale. Gan had suggested that. But Saroj had refused; her meticulous, methodical nature did not permit such slipshod disposal of material, and so it was up to her to go through it all, to sift through the chaff for, perhaps, a few grains of wheat.

What she now held in her hand was promising: four Indian red-and-blue-edged air-letter forms with return addresses in English. She turned them over, and on three of them read a return address from various Roys in Calcutta. The fourth letter was different. The spidery hand was hard to read, but, squinting in the dusky light of Deodat's abandoned flat, Saroj made out the capitalised word Madras. She started. Ma was from Madras, not Baba. But all Ma's personal correspondence had perished with her. Back in Guyana, Baba had conducted his private affairs from his office; home, he had always claimed, was too chaotic, with children running in and out all day. And it was in his office that he kept the rickety old typewriter with which he wrote his letters, both business and private, which was why these papers had survived.

Saroj unfolded the air-letter form, so thin and flimsy it threatened to fall apart in her hands. Feeling like a trespasser on forbidden territory, she read it.

It was difficult, and took some time, for the words were scrawled more than written, faded with age and almost illegible. And when she had read it she read it again, and then copied the words down into a half-empty exercise book she had found among the papers, the other half-filled with lists of numbers of some arcane meaning.

Dear Sir,

My family was very interested to read your advertisement in
The Hindu
as enclosed herewith. I am hurrying to dispatch for your immediate notice a photograph of my younger sister who is a beautiful young Brahmin unfortunately widowed at a tender age, without issue, although she is proven capable of producing live healthy offspring. Unfortunately however the fine son she produced is now deceased as is her late husband. I
am seeking remarriage for my sister and distance is no hindrance. Although this is not a recent photograph, having been taken before her marriage, I am sure you will deduce that my sister is a highly suitable match for your esteemed personal self. She is also beautiful and extremely homely. Her English is as you require excellent. She is also highly skilled in cooking and in all housewifely duties. Should this humble application arrest your interest, please reply to above address.

Yours truly

The signature was illegible, but at the top of the letter was printed the name: G. P. Iyer, followed by a Madras address. Gopal Uncle.

The eternal busybody and matchmaker. This, then, was the letter that had joined Ma to Baba, the letter received in answer to the little ad pasted in Balwant Uncle's family archives, the letter that had accompanied that first photo of a young and hopeful Ma.