The Onus of Ancestry (23 page)

“What can I do? He is still my husband – and he is a sick man.” She shook her head helplessly. “I have no shame in confessing to you that I am truly afraid of Nishith, ever since that night–” She shuddered. “But I cannot seem to make myself give him up.”

“I understand, my child, but he knows that too – look you must be sensible about it. Have you got someone who can keep an eye open at home and ward him off if he turns up?”

“Well, Raghunathan, my cook-bearer is there, but he does not know Nishith – my nanny is there too.”

“Well, it is reassuring that you are not completely alone. I shall see that the bearer recognises him. I am afraid I have to brief him, without telling him very much, but enough for him to understand that he is in as much danger as you. He may be more motivated to self-protection than you are. Had you been my daughter, I would have forced a few decisions on you.”

They finished their tea, strolled back to the Wadias for a short exchange of pleasantries, and he then took his leave of Dwita, having made her promise that she would send Raghu to the clinic to be briefed by him.

Dr Mitra's apprehensions proved right. A few weeks later Nishith, whilst visiting his mother, had crept out to the car and driven to Dwita's. She had just returned from work and was sipping a glass of
nimbu-pani
when the doorbell rang. Raghu peeped through the eyehole and turned back to her saying, “Memsaab, please go in for a minute, I have to speak to someone.” He looked embarrassed and she knew immediately who it was.

“Let me deal with it, Raghu.”

“No, Memsaab, Doctor Saab said not safe. You must excuse me this time, I only obey Doctor Saab's orders.”

Whilst this conversation was in progress, the bell continued to ring relentlessly, as though the caller had guessed that they were conspiring against his coming in. In the end Dwita gave in and disappeared into her bedroom, glass in hand. Maheshwari rushed out from the kitchen, and stood within easy reach of the bedroom. Raghunathan opened the door.

“You take a long time to hear,” a familiar voice barked. “Is this Mrs Dutta's house?”

“No Saab – you make mistake.”

“I make no mistake.” He had seen Maheshwari, who had been too slow to retreat. He pushed Raghu aside and tried to come in.

“I am sorry, Sir, but I cannot let you in. I do not know you.”

“Move aside or–”

Dwita came out. It was impossible not to, hearing the raised voices in the corridor. “Shut the door, Raghu. Come in, Nishith” she said calmly even though she was feeling far from calm. He looked demented and furious.

“May I indeed, madam?” he spoke with bitter sarcasm. “You bitch,” he added, under his breath. “Go away, all of you!” he screamed at Raghu and Maheshwari. Raghu looked at Maheshwari and she disappeared out of the front door as though she had received a signal of some kind. Raghu refused to budge and stood firm. “Have you not heard me?”

“There is no need to shout at him, Nishith. He is only obeying orders. I live alone here as you know, he has strict orders not to let any strangers in – surely you cannot object to that?”

He strode up to her, gripped her arm viciously and pushed her inside the bedroom, then shut the door. He was looking for the key to lock it. It was not there, someone must have removed it quickly unobserved by either of them.

Dwita tried to breathe normally and maintain her calm. “Nishith, why don't you sit down instead of being unpleasant. You must have come to see me and not to behave unreasonably. Why don't we talk sensibly instead of your losing your temper for nothing.”

“I have come to tell you that if our home is not good enough for you, I shall come and stay here.” She heard the sound of the outside door close again and a shuffling of feet just outside the bedroom door.

“This is a company flat – I do not have permission to keep anyone here.”

“Not even your husband? Or is it because you have your assignations here and it will not do to have your husband around to spoil them?” She bit her lip and said nothing. “Speak up, you bitch, you whore!” He shook her violently and pushed her towards the cupboard. She fell hard against it.

“Nishith, that is enough. Leave at once.”

“I shall go when I want to.”

The door now opened quietly behind Nishith. Raghu and Ram crept in and both took hold of him. He struggled to free himself, but the two together were stronger than him. They took him out of the room and put him in an armchair, then looked at her awaiting her instructions. She was far too upset and humiliated to say anything.

Maheshwari was nowhere to be seen. She had not known the extent of Nishith's illness, having not seen him for some time. Her strength had left her and she had broken down, weeping not for herself, but for the child of her spirit, if not of her womb, and one whom she had brought up with every breath of love in her heart. Dwita picked up the telephone and rang Nishith's house. Prithwish was at the other end. “Please come here in a taxi – your car and brother are here,” she said flatly and put the receiver down.

Nishith had heard her telephoning – he had not tried to rise from the chair but kept saying, “I will show you, I will show you.” Raghu and Ram stood motionless on either side of him, ready to restrain him if need be.

Prithwish had arrived within half an hour, though it seemed a lot longer to Dwita. He looked angry and for the first time she saw him lose his temper with Nishith. He shouted, “Why can't you leave her alone?”

“She is my wife and this has nothing to do with you. Or are you one of her many nocturnal fancies?”

“Shut up, you filthy pervert. It was not enough to destroy her life; now you come here to insult her. Say no more or I shall do something which both of us will regret later.”

“I am not going anywhere – I have the right to be here.”

“You have no rights over her. You deceived her into all this in the first place. Now, just be sensible and come away with me peacefully.”

“And what about her vows at the altar?”

“You have not kept any of them, why should she? She should have left you long ago, left you for good. You have turned into evil, Dada, you are not just sick.”

Dwita pleaded, “Please go Nishith – let us say no more in front of these boys. Go with Prithwish. It is no use, you cannot stay here. You know you can't.”

“You shut up, I shall sort you out soon.”

“You will do nothing of the sort, whilst I am alive,” said Prithwish furiously. “I shall see to that. Now, not another word – leave Dwita in peace and come with me.”

Nishith had absorbed the quiet threat in his brother's voice and he followed him to the door.

“Take Ram and Raghu with you, Prithwish,” Dwita said.

“That won't be necessary – I brought the durwans with me.” He looked at her solemnly, his eyes lingering kindly on her face and on the arm where a wide maroon ring of bruising was developing from Nishith's vicious grip. Her back was also hurting. It felt wet under the kaftan she was wearing. She must have cut herself against the brass knob on the cupboard door when she had fallen against it. She went into the bedroom and heard Raghu replacing the key quietly.

When she emerged after cleaning the wound, Maheshwari rushed towards her, putting her arms around her, resting her small old head between her breasts. “Why did you never tell me? Your mother was your worst enemy.”

“Ssh, ssh, Mahama – let bygones be bygones. We shall gain nothing now from blaming her. But you must promise never to breathe a word of all this to her.”

“Should we not tell her, so that she can at least see her own folly and repent a little?”

“No, Mahama, her heart is already overburdened with her own memories, her personal griefs and losses. I do not wish to add to that – moreover she and I have never understood each other, and it is too late to begin now.”

“Whatever you say – come and rest now. I will make another
nimbu-pani
with lots of ice in it.”

But Raghu said, “You leave Memsaab's drink to me. She needs something stronger. I will bring it for her.”

Raghu's gin, lime and soda mixture soon became a favourite with Dwita. He always brought her one when she was especially tired, out of the bar that was mostly stocked for official guests and friends. She found it so reviving that she rarely had the will power to turn it down.

Two years had passed since that night when Prithwish had taken Nishith away. Dr Mitra had finally given in and arranged for Nishith to be transferred to a mental hospital in a place about a hundred and fifty kilometres from Calcutta. Dwita was hardly allowed to visit him as he was still aggressively violent towards her. He had begun to attack Prithwish as well, having decided that his brother and Dwita were in league against him. Only Protima could go near him, but she was hardly ever in Calcutta these days. Her visits to ashrams and holy sanctuaries had accelerated as she increasingly found little to hold her interest at home. She only returned to see her two sons occasionally; her married daughters had disappeared from her life. She was concerned about Prithwish because she knew he was lonely. He spent most of his time at the estate and when he was in Calcutta he spent his evenings at the club or at Dwita's.

Dwita seemed to be on Prithwish's conscience. He felt personally responsible for her misfortunes, believing he could have prevented her from falling into Nishith's clutches had he been more honest or less afraid of his brother. Then one Tuesday morning he had called by her office and asked her to accompany him urgently to the house. It was unusual for Prithwish to come to her place of work. He had done that only once before. She felt she knew what it was but did not dare enquire. She had just asked if she would be back today, and he had shaken his head silently. So she left a message for Rusi with her secretary that she would ring him and asked, “Please send my car and briefcase to the house later on today.”

Once Prithwish had started the car she asked, “Is he very ill?” He was silent. “Tell me, is he – is he then no more?” He still did not answer but looked away, trying to hide the tears which were now pouring down his cheeks without restraint, blinding his vision.

“Let me drive, Prithwish.” He stopped the car and she took over at the wheel. He sat by her side, still sobbing like a child.

“I loved him Dwita, but he never believed it. He died hating me, hating you, hating the world.”

“Yes, I know. He hated me because in the end he wanted more than I could give. He forced his way into my life and I am afraid I felt deceived and cheated. I could not love him, Prithwish, but I wanted to help him. His arrogance would not allow him to be helped – I fear even today my tears are frozen inside me. I cannot weep for Nishith. I feel numb all over.”

She stopped in front of the house, and Prithwish had recovered himself. He took her indoors with his arm around her, as though protecting her from all onslaughts. Protima was alone, sitting beside Nishith's body, gazing into his face with sightless eyes as though to ascertain where she had gone wrong. He lay calmly, his eyes closed. “He died in his sleep – cardiac arrest,” she said in a toneless voice.

*

The news had spread. The house became full of people – relatives and friends arrived, Nishith's sisters and their families too. Parna, Mahama and Dr Mitra were already there. People thronged around her. Dwita felt suffocated, a dry, tearless feeling of grief seemed to be choking her, her head threatened to split in two. She wanted to run from there, from all of them. Her link with the Duttas had been broken, after having first broken her, torn her life into shreds and shattered all her dreams. She sat with her head bent, on the rug in the farthest corner of the room. She had been in a trance when they pushed her into the cortege; she was still in a trance when they made her sit on the steps of the cremation grounds watching the funeral pyre burn. Then they brought her home and Rusi Wadia had walked in suddenly, uninvited, and claimed her, to take her away from them. When Parna came forward to stop him he had said with unsparing cruelty, “I am sorry Mrs Roy Chowdhury, you may have given birth to her, but I have made her what she is today. I have seen her dying a little every day. It is all over now, finished –
khalas
. I am taking her home with me for the moment.” He had held her hand firmly and taken her out of the melee of people. “She is not needed here.”

His was an act against all social propriety. When Janet had intervened to say that the family would misunderstand Dwita and spurn her, he had replied, “What do I care? I am an old Parsee, I am answerable to none, only to my God. I do not think he will make me answer for saving a life – a life swallowed by crude practices and dying traditions. Dwita must live again without looking back. She must only look ahead, I have sworn that to myself.”

Although many had subsequently said unkind things about her and Rusi, Dwita knew he had saved her from dwindling into the expected existence of widowhood for a man who had been hardly more than a stranger to her. Rusi had submerged her in work and more work, taken her to social and professional gatherings, enrolled her in more management clubs and societies until she had scarcely time to breathe. She found herself speaking at meetings, presiding over committees, and in a few months she was a much invited member of the professional world in which she moved. She spent her weekends mostly preparing herself for the next week's commitments. Her spare time was devoted to reading books and journals on management to keep herself abreast of the latest developments. She visited her mother regularly and sometimes went away with the Wadias to the seaside, or some rural hideaway outside Calcutta.

Prithwish still visited her on the rare occasions she was in town. He had offered her half of the family assets as a matter of duty, but she turned it down and he did not press her again. She doubted if there was very much to divide, apart from the land and houses. He would surely need what they had left for himself and Protima, who had now retired into an ashram for good. She lived in a cottage, by herself, looked after by an old retainer from the estate.

Over the next two years, the only person who had occupied her subconscious mind was Christopher. She found it difficult sometimes to live with the possibility of never seeing him again. He had written to her a few times and she had replied. Each time he had complained about the sheer futility of their relationship if they could not see each other even once every few months. He had asked her to try to meet him somewhere, some time, but she tried to explain how difficult it would be unless he came to India. He had written again after hearing about Nishith's death, saying that though she was now free, his hands were still tied. She was a little hurt that he felt it necessary to point this out, as she had not given him the news expecting anything. She did not write for some time after that. She felt her letters to him perhaps only served to remind him that he was not free, whereas his always renewed her belief in their love for each other.

Then a month ago she had received a letter saying that he was going to be in Bombay to attend a management conference, and would like to see her very much. If she was unable to come to Bombay, he would come to Calcutta. Dwita was in fact going to attend the same conference, to give a paper entitled ‘The Onus of Leadership in Indian Business Today'. It was Rusi's idea.

She had sent a message to Christopher, saying she would see him in Bombay as a co-delegate in any case, which would spare him the journey to Calcutta. Nearer the time she sent him her arrival details, as they were all staying at the same hotel where the conference was being held. She had deliberately chosen to arrive on a Friday, so that they could be together over the weekend – the conference itself did not begin until Monday afternoon with the registration of delegates.

She heard from the Parkinsons quite often. They wrote to her regularly and always sent her gifts whenever an acquaintance visited Calcutta. They talked often about their plans to visit India but somehow these didn't materialise. However, she felt that something had happened between Rusi and the Parkinsons – he never responded warmly when she mentioned their names; in fact he always preferred to change the subject. She had often wanted to ask Janet, but somehow felt it would be unwise to do so – it could be a personal matter which they did not wish to share with Dwita.

Her mother had finally accepted Dwita's separate identity and began to respect the privacy of her existence. Only once since Nishith's death had she mentioned the prospect of remarriage, saying, “I think I made a mistake in not marrying again and I hope you will not make the same mistake. It is not easy to be alone all the time and to live on memories that will fade away with time.”

Dwita had merely said, “Mother, I have no memories that I wish to preserve, to lose them would be ideal and I only wish it were less difficult. I have no other concerns and will accept life as it comes.” The subject had not been approached again.

Sunbeam had been her saviour and she concentrated wholeheartedly on its growth and development. She now had an important position, her title being General Manager (Personnel) – Mr Katrak had left the company to take over as a director elsewhere. Her rise to seniority had been somewhat meteoric, but no one disputed it. Her only concern was that she wished to look beyond the limits of Sunbeam and could never do so as long as Rusi was in harness. But these days he often talked about superannuation, and also mentioned from time to time buying an alternative property in England. She dreaded losing Rusi and Janet – they were so much a part of her life. It was then that she thought of leaving Calcutta, India and all the familiarity of the past and present, to begin over again somewhere where the bitterness and the pain of the past would not haunt her, where the reminders of her previous existence could be left behind – if she could do this it would be her second chance, a new lease of life.

*

She landed in Bombay as scheduled with the faint hope of meeting Christopher at the airport, but he was not there. She was met by members of the reception committee for the conference and driven to the hotel with some of the other delegates. She knew a few of them already as they were from the business houses of Calcutta, those who had decided to arrive early. They also met up with some of the Delhi delegates, the flight from the capital having landed a few minutes earlier. They all piled into a minibus, which wove its way through the congestion of Bombay traffic.

She liked Bombay, despite its skyscrapers and tenements. It was friendly and cosmopolitan and had an air of sophisticated anonymity. The sea made all the difference to the soul of the city – it gave an openness, a breadth, and the humidity of a sweating population seemed to vanish away in its fathomless depths. The promenade on the Worli Seaface always seemed inviting and the vast stretches of ocean visible through the Gateway always made one feel that the world was infinite, that there would always be a refuge beyond the limitless horizons of the Arabian waters. The minibus had finally brought them to the most prestigious hotel in Bombay, right on the seafront and commanding a breathtaking view of the harbour and beyond.

Dwita was happy to retire into the solitude of her comfortable hotel room. She was getting so used to living in and out of suitcases that she usually settled into any new place quickly. She checked the lock, the lights and the fittings in the bathroom. Everything worked like a dream. The air-conditioning was quiet and double glazing on the windows gave her the superb view while keeping out the sounds of the world outside.

It was so peaceful after the noisy ride in the minibus. The other passengers had talked non-stop about the recent Indo-Pakistan clashes, of their past doubts and future fears and the effect on Indian politics and the economy. Dwita too was unhappily conscious of the situation, but she refused to see Hindus and Muslims separately, to consider them apart from each other – such thoughts always brought back to her the nightmare of 1947/8 and those were times best forgotten.

She pushed those thoughts out of her mind and sought refuge as usual in a nice warm bath. She changed into a pure silk kaftan and poured herself a reviving gin and tonic out of the mini bar, thinking of Raghu's ministrations at home. The mini bar in the room even offered slices of fragrant Indian lemon and she put in two slices as a gesture of extravagance, as well as several cubes of ice. The drink looked and tasted good. She decided to avoid the hotel restaurants, ordered herself a Waldorf salad from room service and submerged herself in the pages of a thriller, a form of escapism she enjoyed immensely.

The salad had arrived promptly – she had eaten it slowly and left the tray outside the door, to be collected later. She was actually not hungry but ate out of habit, while feeling rather disappointed that Christopher had not arrived. She had checked twice with reception – they said that he had his reservation and they were expecting him. She decided to leave a message at reception saying that she had arrived. She then wondered if he had changed his mind, as the flight he had given her had already landed – could he have changed planes? She was still wondering and speculating, when there was a knock on the door – the three familiar knocks, never to be forgotten. Her heart was thumping but she opened the door cautiously – suppose it was her imagination and it was not him?

She peered out – the man she had waited to see for a thousand days stood there, solemn and hesitant. She smiled and took his hand – he came in slowly, and shut the door behind him. He put both his hands on her shoulders, looking into her eyes very tenderly. “Do you still remember me?”

“I was going to ask you that.” Not another word was uttered. There was no need for words any more, they were together.

After what seemed ages, he said, “Dwita, I am very thirsty. I just dropped the bags in the room and came straight here.”

“Shall I make you a whisky and water or would you prefer something else? Would you like something to eat?”

“No thanks, I'm not hungry. I would love you to make me a long drink – then make sure you come straight back over here. Darling, I so wanted to meet you at the airport, but at the last minute my plans had to be changed, and I had to stop for a day in Hong Kong.”