The Onus of Ancestry (16 page)

That day had passed and the night too. She had sat up a good part of the night thinking – how to proceed, how to reorganise her life in a way to reduce, if not eradicate the bleak uncertainty of her future. There was no use looking for sympathy, there was no time for self-pity, no room for despondency or inertia. Life was for living, and despite everything and everyone she must go ahead and live it. She had made a decision: she was not going to yield to the fatalism of her culture or upbringing, she was going to restructure her own destiny.

She felt stronger and far more confident when she faced the first rays of daylight across the floor of her bedroom. She spoke to everyone with her usual good humour, made an appointment to see her mother and scanned through papers looking for suitable vacancies in the employment market. To her surprise, she found that there were at least three for which she could apply – it cheered her a little. She sat down and wrote the applications neatly, put them in envelopes and stood them up for posting. She wrote another letter to the university, withdrawing herself from her postgraduate class. She got some stamps from the clerk on duty in the office and went out to post the letters.

She kept her lunch appointment with her mother who as usual complained that Dwita had not kept in touch for the last few days. She had silenced her momentarily by saying, “I now have another family – it was your idea that I should have one.” Mahama had enjoyed it enormously as she watched her, smiling toothlessly behind Parna, unobserved by her mother's hawk-like eyes.

Their conversation had been aloof, but friendly. Parna offered to drop her off at home, but she had refused saying she wished to spend a little time with Maheshwari. Her mother was about to protest but decided not to do so and had left for work. Being with Maheshwari was comforting to Dwita, but the older woman asked too many questions which made her uneasy. The last thing she wanted to do was to lie to Maheshwari.

She had returned to the house finally, to an atmosphere pervaded with tension and guilt. They looked at her with questioning eyes, followed her every movement, stole glances at her from under their lids when they thought she was not looking. She felt that they wanted her to blame them, to remonstrate and complain, to throw her calm restraint to the air – so that they could clarify, explain or argue, somehow absolve themselves of guilt. She was not going to give them that opportunity for a cathartic release from a guilty conscience. Her silence would haunt their existence, her quiet acceptance would rebuke their waking hours, her presence would remind them of their callous irresponsibility.

In the end Prithwish broke the silence.

“Have you heard that Dada will have to remain in Dr Mitra's clinic for six to eight weeks?”

“I hope you have informed Hutchinsons,” Dwita remarked tonelessly.

“Yes, I have. Dr Mitra is also not happy about him receiving any visitors. He said he would be put under strong medication and it was best if we did not visit him for at least a week. He would keep us informed.”

“Thank you Prithwish – and you will no doubt keep me informed.”

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked tentatively.

“Nothing for the moment – thanks.”

“Do you wish to spend a few days with your mother or anyone else in your family?”

“No thanks, unless of course it would suit your family to see me go?” she answered a little tartly.

“Of course not – we would like you to stay with us.”

“Thank you, then I will.”

“Please do not keep thanking me for nothing – do not thank me at all! Do not thank me for heaven's sake, for ruining your life, for not stopping others from causing you harm, for stifling my conscience and my better judgement–” He broke down completely at this point and wept like a child.

“Prithwish, please do not say any more. I do not wish to hear any more of that. Do not upset yourself for me – we must all carry on as best we can.”

“You are young, Dwita, you must leave him and start again, you must not give in to us.”

“Who said I was giving in? Come on, cheer up. I am not giving in to anyone or giving up for that matter. I am not crying nor agitating.”

“I wish you were – that might make us feel better. You have not shed a tear, uttered a word of rebuke or regret. You are carrying it all inside you.”

“We Chowdhurys were taught not to show our feelings in public.” She laughed dryly. “However, Prithwish, I have not wasted my time. I have been applying for jobs – and I hope I shall find something soon.”

“Can I help in any way? I can always speak to the Hutchinsons or some of my other business contacts.”

“No. I am sure Hutchinsons could do without another Dutta on their payroll. I shall let you know if I need help. Just be my friend.”

“That I promise. I will never let you down, Dwita, not ever again. I shall stand by you for as long as you need me,” he said, with deep emotion in his voice.

A few days later Dwita heard from a firm which published several journals and magazines and had offices throughout India. They also had distribution agents in some overseas countries including Europe and South East Asia. They were searching for a young management trainee who would learn various aspects of the business and eventually join the general management. She was invited to come for an interview which might last all day. The letter was signed by a Mr Katrak, their personnel manager.

When Prithwish heard about it he lined up the Mercedes and chauffeur to send her in style, but Dwita just laughed. “I am going job-hunting, Prithwish! I am not going to a board meeting. Please ask someone to get me a taxi.” She had arrived breathless and apprehensive, and walked into a reception area where at least another twenty applicants, both male and female, were waiting to be interviewed. Would she stand a chance? Should she turn round and leave before anyone noticed her? But it was too late, the secretary had already registered her presence.

An hour later she was summoned into Mr Katrak's office. He was an amiable man of about forty who spent a lot of time putting her at ease, then began asking numerous questions, apologising profusely each time the question was of a personal nature. In the end he threw caution to the winds and came to the point. “Mrs Dutta, you are a young woman, newly married, halfway through postgraduate work – you surely cannot give a long-term guarantee of service to us? You have to follow your husband's career, and you will no doubt have children. We need someone who can offer us security of service, and real commitment – after all the company is going to invest a lot of money in training you.”

“I understand fully. But I applied because I wish to be properly trained for a career, so that I could pursue it with knowledge and confidence. You need security of commitment from me and I need the security of a job – not just any old job, but one that will motivate and interest me.” She felt she could say anything as she was sure she was not going to be selected in any case.

“But what about your commitments to your family?”

“My commitments to my family are simply to be an earner and a provider. Children will not be a consideration.”

“Perhaps you can be a little more explicit?”

“I will – if you will first consider me on the basis of my suitability as a candidate in general terms, and not on the individual status of a newly married woman, shadowed by her husband's aspirations and hounded by multiple pregnancies! What I would have to tell you is quite private, and you will certainly earn the right to such information once you have decided in principle to employ me. I am afraid not earlier.”

Dwita thought that was her end, but Mr Katrak thought otherwise. “All right, Mrs Dutta – I have as much information as I need for the moment. Would you like to wait for a second interview or perhaps you could return after lunch – say 3 pm?”

“Yes. Thank you – I would prefer to return at 3 pm.”

Mr Katrak stared with amazement at Dwita's receding figure. He could see that the girl had tremendous potential – just the sort of person Rusi Wadia was looking for as an executive trainee for Sunbeam Publications. She was young and very attractive, soignée and confident. He was very impressed by her forthright honest approach to his questions. She had been firm but courteous in pointing out that he had overstepped his right to knowledge of her personal life. What could have driven her out of the hearth within weeks of getting married? He put her at the top of the short-listed candidates and carried on interviewing the other applicants.

He had completed his interviewing sessions and had finally short-listed four – he felt sorry for the ones whom he had interviewed after Dwita, he had been quite unable to place them – she seemed to have outshone them all. He had however called three others to return before Dwita deliberately, so that he could feel he had given them a fair chance. All three were men. Rusi Wadia could see them first and if he chose Dwita in the end, it would not be Katrak's fault.

So Dwita returned for her second interview.

“You are now going to meet our managing director, Rustomji Naoroji Wadia – Rusi Wadia for short.” Mr Katrak directed her to an office where she was received by two secretaries. One of them said, “You have to wait a while, Mr Katrak, as you can see the danger light is on.”

“We wait until he switches off the red light – he cannot be disturbed whilst the light is on.” Mr Katrak felt he had to explain to Dwita. The light went off, the phone rang, one of the secretaries nodded to the personnel manager. Then the door suddenly opened and a vast man stood there, solidly framed in the doorway. Their eyes met, “Come in, Mrs Dutta. Katrak you may leave us now.”

He pointed her to an armchair and eased himself into another with some difficulty saying, “Modern furniture is anything but comfortable.”

Dwita found herself facing a man in his middle fifties, very tall and very wide, with a shiny balding head, and keen, intelligent eyes twinkling with good humour – eyes which missed nothing. He lit a cigarette slowly and gracefully, “This is my fortieth today, do you mind? Or would you like one?”

“No thanks, I do not smoke – but please carry on.”

“Good – I prefer women who do not smoke.”

He regarded her openly and deliberately – she held his eyes equally well. He smiled and went on.

“Right – to business. I have seen your papers and noted the conversation you had with Katrak. I approve of your stand. Let me tell you a little more about the job. We are looking for a management trainee who will be groomed to take on management responsibility in the company. He or she will be exposed to all aspects of company work and will be expected to attend training courses from time to time – both in-house and externally. Whilst on training, the incumbent may have to travel outside Calcutta or even overseas, where some of our interests are based. There will be no definite working hours apart from those that the job demands or calls for. The trainee will report to me and will assist me as and when necessary. The job also involves social commitments – entertaining clients and business contacts is an essential part of our work. Above all the trainee has to put up with me, and my moods – they say I can be unreasonable and bad-tempered.”

He paused, studied her for some response. “What do you think? Is this a job for a newly married woman? A young woman with a husband and possibly children later, with their own demands and expectations?”

“No – but it could open a very interesting and lucrative vista of possibilities for a woman with no husband to speak of and who is denied the right to have a family. You are talking to someone no doubt young and inexperienced, but who has to learn her trade well and fast to carve out a career for herself, to become an earner and perhaps a provider. As for your bad temper, Mr Wadia, that does not worry me too much. One of us is good-tempered and that should suffice.”

Rusi Wadia smiled. He leaned forward and said,

“I do not know why, but I feel that you may do fine for me. I think we will get on – the job is yours if you want it. You can discuss remuneration with Katrak – it is not bad for a trainee, we pay well. You are given two years to develop yourself to our specifications, if you get there quicker the desserts are yours. When can you start?”

“Any time you like.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Fine, the earlier the better.”

“Before you leave – will it be too difficult now to answer a few personal questions? Or rather, would you like to tell me what you feel I should know in order to employ you?”

“Yes I will, as you have now the right to know.” She laughed to cover her embarrassment. “My husband is mentally ill. I was married off to him against my own wishes – though my family were not aware of his illness. His secret was well-kept by his family and employers – family funds are invested in the company so it was not hard to absorb him in a ‘managerial' position. He is now in a nursing home from where he will emerge sooner or later, but will never be well enough to lead a normal life again – in fact, the doctor says he will get worse as the years go by. The strong medication he needs to survive is going to weaken his constitution. We are of course forbidden to have children – the illness is hereditary – three generations or more have been afflicted with it. Hence my decision to pursue a career. In fact I have always wanted to work towards one, but circumstances intervened. If you wish to verify anything I can give you the telephone number of Dr Mitra, who is treating my husband.”

“That will not be necessary – I am sure you have told me the truth. I will not say I am sorry for you, as I do not feel you are someone looking for sympathy or special concessions in life – so I will just say, best of luck, comrade. Until tomorrow then – let us get Katrak.” Mr. Katrak came back in, clutching a file.

Wadia said, “Well you can put that away – we now have an executive trainee.”