Train to Delhi (16 page)

‘I'm not so sure about Sona,' said Berry. ‘You see, she may have to visit her ailing aunt that evening. And Gautam's away in Allahabad … But I'll come.'

Sonali was left with no alternative but to give in to her husband's will.

‘I'm sorry,' Sonali said. ‘My aunt has not been keeping too well, lately.'

‘What a pity!' Bob said. ‘I hope she gets well soon.'

Why didn't Berry take her out anywhere? But she knew he was too tough for her. While she felt happy to be called a bride and sweetheart, inwardly she sulked at being left out of the party.

‘Sona, darling, Bob should have at least a glass of beer before he goes …'

There she was, Sonali thought, just another maid in the house. For once, she wished he'd asked Shyama to bring in the drink.

As soon as Sonali walked out, Bob said: ‘I wish you'd let her also come to my party.'

‘Oh God,' Berry said, ‘she'd have ruined my evening.'

Sonali brought in a plateful of popadom and a bottle of beer. Assuming that the two men would like to be left alone, she withdrew.

Taking the beer from Berry, Bob said, ‘It's a great pity Gautam won't be with us that evening … You know, I like him enormously.'

‘He's away on a secret mission,' said Berry. ‘Remember the girl he'd met at the Bridge?'

‘Yes.'

‘I guess he's fallen in love with her.'

‘But wasn't she a call-girl?'

‘Not really,' said Berry. ‘She was a Muslim girl abducted from Allahabad. So he's taken her back to her family. Sort of freed her from her captors.'

‘Interesting.'

‘But this is not going to be smooth sailing, you know. For a Hindu to have an affair with a Muslim …'

‘He'll come through all right,' Bob said, ‘if he really loves her.'

‘I hope so.'

As soon as Bob left, Sonali was back in the room, ruffled.

‘You never take me out anywhere,' she sniffled. ‘Am I just a servant?'

‘No, my Sona, my dovey,' he cooed. ‘It's just that Bob's party is likely to be much too boisterous. You don't know these Englishmen, my love …' He paused. ‘But I'll take you to some other party. I promise—really.'

‘It's always another party, another time.'

Berry took her in his arms, planted a gentle kiss on her lips, then pressing her close to his bosom, whispered: ‘I love you.'

‘I love you too,' said Sonali. ‘But …'

‘Would you like those foreigners to leer at you, my sweetheart?' he asked.

‘Horrible!' she cried out. ‘Please don't say such things.'

But she imagined how very exciting it would be to be hustled by a white man—so clean, so perfumed, so sophisticated.

17

I
ndians invariably come late to parties, but if they choose to impress their hosts, they can be awfully punctual too. Rather excited over the invitation to a party where he'd meet some Englishmen, Berry decided to make it precisely on time—eight o'clock. In fact, since he arrived at 17 Hastings Road a few minutes ahead of time (according to his watch, of course), he got off his taxi and began to pace up and down the lane next to Bob's bungalow. Then, as his watch showed 7:58, he adjusted his tie, smoothed the sleeves of his jacket, and briskly returned to the gate that displayed the name: ‘Robert Cunningham.'

It was an old two-storeyed house—a spacious lawn in front, a side-path running down to the backyard, with a garage on one side and a servants' annexe on the other. Although the front lawn was somewhat dimly lit, the terrace was flashing with Chinese lights. Bob must have arranged the party up there, Berry thought, on a pleasant evening like this.

He now walked up to the porch, but he didn't hear any voices. Where was everybody else? He rang the doorbell and an old, turbaned servant, with a gilded belt round his waist, appeared at the door.

‘Please come in, sir,' the servant said, in a typical British accent.

‘Thank you,' Berry said, stepping into a luxuriously furnished lounge, with a high ceiling. ‘Am I too early?' he asked the servant, glancing at his watch.

‘No sir, it's about time,' came the crisp, polite reply.

But as he looked at the wall clock, showing a half-past seven, he realized that his watch was running too fast. So there he was, about half an hour before time! Never mind, he consoled himself. Wasn't he in the house of a friend?

He looked about the room. On the left wall hung a large reprint of
The Rape of Lucrece,
the ruddy, fulsome breasts and thighs of the woman glistening under the multilimbed chandelier. To the right was another painting, a Velasquez, showing a nude woman reclining on a couch, a hand mirror held close to her face by Cupid. So Bob had chosen the right sort of paintings for his house.

In a corner stood a huge piano, its glazed mahogany top glittering under a candelabrum of six uplifted arms. On one side of the closed piano lay a song book, half open. On the rear wall hung two large pencil sketches—one of the first East India Company ship that sailed to India and the other of the Victoria Memorial in Calcutta. Between these two sketches was a miniature, showing boar hunting in the deep forests of Rajasthan.

Berry felt quite impressed with Bob's palatial bungalow, its high ceilings, Persian carpets, rosewood chairs and silken tapestries. Feeling excited to claim someone like him as his friend, he thought, he'd now be awfully jealous of any other Indian getting anywhere close to him except, of course, Gautam.

‘Omar!'

A voice boomed from the first floor. It was Bob's—deep and resonant, like an organ note.

‘Yes, sir,' responded the turbaned servant, dashing up the steps.

A couple of minutes later, both peered down the banister.

‘Is it Berry?'

‘Yes, Bob,' Berry replied in a tone of exuberant informality.

‘Is there anybody else?'

‘No.'

‘Then come right up, old boy, into my bedroom.'

Berry climbed up the steps.

‘Aren't I a bit too early, Bob? … My watch is running fast.'

Berry hesitated at the door, expecting to be called in again.

‘Come in,' said Bob. ‘So this time it's your turn to spin out explanations and apologies.' As Berry stepped in, Bob added, ‘I'm glad you're early. I can now introduce you to my friend. She must be somewhere in the dining room below, fixing things for the party. She's been a great help, you know,' Bob smiled.

‘In bed too?'

‘Of course.'

There was a moment's silence.

‘What's her name?'

‘M-a-l-a!' Bob let the name ring out like a church bell. ‘Mala Patnaik!'

‘Any other Indians coming?' Berry asked.

‘No. Only my compatriots. All packed up to return home—to London, Liverpool, Glasgow …'

‘So it's a sort of farewell party.'

‘Yes, the play's done.'

‘You know, Bob, they did a marvellous job here. I do feel sorry for them. I'm sure they're going to miss this bloody, hot country.'

‘Miss?' said Bob, ‘… they're already feeling very low. A poor life awaits them out there. Meagre pensions, no servants, freezing winters—and the fog, the deadly, yellow fog.'

‘Sounds ghastly,' said Berry. ‘Then it was better here in spite of the heat and dust.'

‘Any time. One can always beat down the heat with ceiling fans, khus-khus, and a little dust doesn't do you much harm,' Bob said, spraying himself with some perfume. He continued: ‘I'm glad I'll be staying on for quite a while … An occasional meal at Neel Kamal and now friends like you and Gautam. Thank God, I'm not a bloody civil servant. I'm in business here, you know.'

‘From here you may start another cycle,' Berry teased, though he felt touched by Bob's reference to him and Gautam. ‘That's how it all began, didn't it? … First you came in as traders, then hung on—to rule.'

‘Aren't we already working on the idea of equal partnership in the British Commonwealth?' He smiled.

‘The same old game of diplomacy!' Berry said. ‘No other nation can ever beat you in that, you know.'

‘You got it, old boy,' Bob said. ‘But, look, I forgot to mention that Bill may also join in, though for a short while only. You know, he's like a gynaecologist who may be called away to deliver anywhere, any time.'

‘Who's Bill?' Berry asked, a little confused.

‘Bill Thornton, your ringmaster, of course.'

‘Oh, yes,' Berry said, feeling exultant at the prospect of meeting the great administrator, whose name he had used to manipulate rail reservations for Gautam and Haseena.

They both now came down the steps. Stepping into the dining room, Berry saw a beautiful young lady giving directions to a bearer. In a corner of an oblong table had been arranged spoons, forks in circular and pyramidal patterns, while at the centre stood a cut-glass flower vase. On a side-table, near a window, were placed several bottles of drinks.

‘We'll have cocktails up on the terrace,' Bob said, ‘and then come down to eat.'

Mala turned to see them coming in.

‘This is Mr Birendra Dhawan, I guess,' she said, in a voice that was husky and sensuous.

‘There, you see, she knows you already,' said Bob. ‘Knows everything about you and Gautam.'

‘And you're Mala Patnaik,' Berry smiled. ‘I hope he's said only nice things about us.'

‘Of course.'

Berry now looked closely at Mala. She was beautiful indeed—arched neck of a swan, limpid eyes of a doe and a mole on her left cheek. Even though her complexion was dark, her fawn-coloured sari had toned it down. Round her neck, she wore a fragile gold chain with a pendant of onyx. But what attracted Berry most was her ebony hair, rolling down her shoulders in a wave. Each time she moved her head, her long hair swung like silken tassels. Berry wondered how much sex there was in a woman's hair. Her choli, a couple of inches above her navel, revealed her belly down to the waistline. She resembled an Ajanta woman.

‘And what has he told you about me?' Mala asked, her doe-like eyes dilated.

Before Berry could say anything, the doorbell rang. Looking at the wall clock, Bob said: ‘Here they come! Pat on the stroke of the hour!'

The guests trooped in, almost in a procession, as if the same omnibus had unloaded them at Bob's gate, although each couple had come independently by private car or taxi.

There was Colonel Roger Lucas, formerly of the Third Gurkha Battalion, flaunting his perky brown moustache, and his roly-poly wife; Mr James Griffith, OBE, former deputy defence secretary, in his crisp Burton-tailored suit and his whippety wife; Dr Max Taylor, former medical adviser to the Ministry of Health, with his pallid wife; and Mr John Green, MBE, retired district magistrate, Ghaziabad, and his olive-complexioned wife. The last couple ushered into the lounge was the prematurely retired Major David Foster and his young pretty wife.

Since all the English guests knew each other, Bob introduced them only to Berry, Mala still being busy in the dining room. Although they beamed their complacent smiles, most of them felt embarrassed to meet an Indian whose presence, they felt, would be a damper on the party. But, then, everybody knew that Bob was utterly un-English, being something of ‘an irregular', who enjoyed hobnobbing with ‘the natives'.

The loss of the Empire had already left them embittered; destiny, they realized, had pushed them out of their cushy jobs, and there wasn't much to look forward to in England. Thousands of them had already gone, hardly any Englishman wanting to stay back on his job under the Nehru Government. They'd much rather face hardships back home than lend themselves to the indignity of working under their Indian counterparts, whom they had bossed over till the fifteenth of August.

However, those who were attached to such commercial firms as Philips, Dunlop, Remington or Crompton, took the new situation as a great challenge. Some of these firms, particularly Philips, tempted their English officers to stay on in their jobs so that their Indian market might not slip into the hands of the American businessmen, who'd suddenly appeared in this part of the subcontinent as the most favoured foreigners.

Then there was a small minority of Englishmen—professors and principals in state colleges and universities—most of whom had taken roots in India. To them England would be an alien land.

‘Would you all like to move up to the terrace for cocktails, please?' Bob announced. ‘And then we'll come down for supper.'

The terrace had been brilliantly lit with Chinese lamps, and Crompton pedestal fans were whirring away at top speed to cool off the evening. Around a few potted crotons, with large spangled leaves, were arranged some chairs and tables in a semicircle. Near the parapet was a large table on which was arrayed a variety of Scotches—Dimple, Queen Anne, Black Dog, Jonnie Walker—along with Gordon Dry Gin, Hayward Brandy …

Since Mala was still downstairs, Berry was the only ‘native' to move among these Englishmen. ‘Transit passengers,' he mumbled to himself.

But as he looked at these white faces, glowing in the lights on the terrace, he couldn't help feeling impressed with their poise, solemnity and grandeur—traits he found utterly lacking in the new crop of Indian civil servants. Berry was indeed happy at his country's freedom—but at what price! Like his chief engineer, most Indian bureaucrats were vindictive, mean, conceited, tardy at work and irrepressibly corrupt. The Gandhi cap was now an ‘open sesame' by which flew open all the portals of power.

Carrying his glass of neat Dimple, Berry walked over to the major's table, attracted by his young beautiful wife.

‘May I join you, please?'

‘Certainly,' replied Major Foster. ‘Lovely weather—isn't it? Not too oppressive.'

There it was, an Englishman's perennial obsession with weather, Berry thought.