The In-Between World of Vikram Lall Page 12

  But it was unendurably hot and muggy, physically uncomfortable, and even in its own way frightening and mysterious. It was not easy to be a Nairobi boy—as I was derisively called—with my pressed shorts and my shoes and socks, my uncallused feet, my combed and gelled hair, my manner of speaking, my language. Mother, on the other hand, fitted perfectly: this is India, she would say gleefully, walking about barefoot.

  We stayed a week in this wonderland—mother had to be pulled away—and then proceeded to our own disciplined and at the time beleaguered world.

  After we returned I began corresponding with some of my cousins, and with a friend I had made in Mombasa. There was talk now in my family that I would ultimately go to school in Nairobi. And we all awaited anxiously the arrival of Aruna Auntie. Bill and Annie must have undergone their own profound transformational experiences; we saw them again after four months. We all looked a little bigger to each other now. Bill’s games were the same as before, but his movements slower and more deliberate, and I think a little abstracted. Annie was a little thinner; she still stayed close to me and there was still that mischievous, drawn smile on her face, the twinkle in her eyes, as we followed the warring Bill Bruce on the trail of one enemy or another, on sea or land, or in the skies. Bill gave me some comic books. Annie had brought a Stanley Gibbons stamp album for me. I had nothing for her and felt terribly guilty, and Mother, to comfort me, said, What do you give to someone who’s just returned from England, and you’ve come only from Nairobi and Mombasa? There was truth to Mother’s words, but I’ve always regretted my fickleness; surely there was enough to choose for her (and Bill) from among all the exotic wares on sale in the streets of Mombasa. The plain fact is that Annie and Bill had practically vanished from my thoughts during the four weeks of my holidays.

  The Stanley Gibbons album remains one of my treasured possessions. As does my memory of Annie.

  And Njoroge?

  Nairobi had much to offer in the way of presents for someone who had not gone to London, and we brought for Njoroge an eighteen-inch-long pencil shaped like a cane, with frills at the top, and a Mickey Mouse pencil sharpener. This was a present from all of us. But wilful Deepa also managed to give him a paintbox, from only herself. She had got my parents to buy her one at Patel Press, then on our way back from Mombasa, tears flowing down her grimy cheeks, she sobbed, It is gone. A new paintbox had to be purchased. The original item miraculously made its reappearance in Nakuru, and so with Mother’s permission Deepa gave it to Njoroge, with a knowing sideways look at me.

  The week of our return from holiday, Farmer Hackett and his wife were hacked to death in their home down Njoro way, as they sat down at night to listen to the news. The pun was not lost on anyone; the Mau Mau, it was said, had many educated men among them. One of the Hackett cows was discovered wandering about, its eyes gouged out. More than twenty of them were discovered hamstrung.

  A package arrives from Deepa, couriered. It contains a box of Punjabi sweets and a rakhi. The latter is an elegant bunch of coloured threads, a couple of them silver. A sister presents a rakhi to her brother to affirm their closeness and his role as her protector. Deepa always took the greatest pleasure in tying a rakhi around my wrist, as Mother did in giving one to her brother Mahesh, in a solemn ceremony that took place for some reason at the threshold between our living and dining rooms. There would be a wonderful smile on Mother’s face as she began the ceremony by covering her head with her dupatta. Mahesh Uncle would extend an arm, saying, Accha, tie me up, sister; gently, Mother would tie the threads, orange, vermilion, and white in those days, round his wrist, patting it when she finished. Then, dipping a finger into an orange paste in a saucer, she would put a tilak on his forehead. Finally, taking the plate of sweets from whoever was attending her, Deepa or I or Papa, she would break off a piece of burfi or petha or shakar para with one hand and put it into his mouth. He would present her with a gift in return: some money, a bottle of perfume, a photograph of our family that he himself had taken and had framed.

  That year she suggested that Deepa present a rakhi to both Njoroge and me, and little Deepa went about it with great enthusiasm. Thus, though unwittingly, she made Njoroge her brother, a fact that Mother would use as an argument in later years with much force.

  TEN.

  How is my little boyfriend Vic?

  A beautiful face beaming at me as I open my eyes—Aruna Auntie sitting on my bed. She had finally arrived, late the previous night while I was asleep.

  You have come, I said. Why didn’t you wake me up as soon as you arrived?

  Kids need their sleep. And besides, do you think your mummy or daddy would have allowed me to disturb you?

  How long will you stay? Stay for long, stay forever!

  We will see, she replied pertly, standing up. I took her hand and at the door we bumped into Deepa rushing in. Together, holding her hands possessively, we escorted Aruna to the breakfast table, where Mother admonished us to go and brush our teeth first.

  How could there have been a more perfect match for my uncle? She was a beam of sunshine, a great dollop of extra happiness in our household. How different from our dull, picky parents! How lucky Mahesh Uncle was! She got along with simply everybody. She engaged easily and passionately in discussions, so that my father found her companionable at mealtimes and afterwards, when we sat in the living room. She liked to banter with him, and he rather enjoyed the attention. With my mother she sat huddled for hours—so it seemed—until we had to pull her away to play with us.

  She was very thin but lithe, always ready for a game outdoors or inside. She had a husky laugh and big, liquescent brown eyes in a fair, oval face framed by dark hair plaited at the back—eyes that all of a sudden turned pensive, and she would be speaking to you. There were tiny, delicate lines at the outside corners of her eyes, and her high cheekbones gave her an oriental look: both features, she said, due to the blood of the Himalayan mountain people in her veins. She was in her late twenties, which I now know meant that she was getting on in years for an unmarried woman.

  She had recently come from India to visit relatives in Nairobi, had been introduced to my parents during our recent visit there. And here she was now, a bringer of joy to our home, a prospective wife for our uncle.

  On the Saturday following her arrival, we set off in our Prefect for that long-postponed trip to see Mahesh Uncle’s place of work, out at the Resham Singh Sawmills in Elburgon. The road leading off King Street was straight, through vast wheat fields, and there was fair traffic mostly the opposite way, with farmers going to Nakuru from Njoro and Molo. Papa enjoyed these road trips, and he was a friendly driver who liked to throw a wave at passing cars, in the belief that it was good highway etiquette, and that some of the people were his customers anyway. He received not a reply in return, and Mother told him to stop his display. This brought them back on track with each other, for it was obvious to the rest of us that they had had a tiff. At the back, however, cheerful Aruna started the game anantakadi, in which the three of us sang in turns, taking our cue from the last syllable of the previous singer. Mother brought out namkeens to eat and joined in the game, and Papa too sang, in his typical way mixing in Bing Crosby and English nursery rhymes with Hemant Kumar and Talat Mahmood. When he had to stop so Aruna could take Deepa behind the bushes, he said to Mother, continuing a conversation it seemed they had begun before, And do you think her family will agree to a match with a communist? Mother replied in exasperation, He is not a communist—and anyway, what communist-shommunist thing can he be up to, out here in the jungle? And what about the family?—they have sent her here, haven’t they, so she can find a husband? All he needs is a wife to look after him and settle down, and here you go. Why are you acting as her protector, anyway?

  All right, all right, Papa said, as Aruna and Deepa returned, swinging hands together.

  The sawmill came as a clearing in the woods, to our left, some ten miles further from Njoro, where Papa had stopped briefly for a chat w
ith acquaintances. There was an iron gate, where Mahesh Uncle met us, looking somewhat frazzled because we were later than expected. He waved us through and, once we were inside, instructed my father where to park, then asked two servants to carry our bags and bundles to the bungalows. It was breezy as we alighted, and there was a smell of fresh wood, jungle, and smoke. It had apparently rained here a couple of nights before, bringing welcome relief from the drought. Large piles of grey logs and smaller ones of sawed wood were scattered straight ahead of us, in front of two long sheds where a couple of lorries were parked. The two bungalows stood on a rise to our right, away from the main track and the screeching mills, and we walked toward them, my uncle in the lead, explaining the layout. One of the bungalows was for his own use, the other for guests. There was a small log cabin office closer to the gate.

  It’s lively enough at this hour, Mother remarked, but the nights—

  Quiet as a cemetery, her brother said, and dark as dark.

  She shuddered.

  Do they leave you alone—the Mau Mau fighters? Aruna asked. Are there any in this area?—the Aberdares are in the opposite direction…isn’t that where they hide?

  Mahesh Uncle, as was his way, became thoughtful for a moment, then said, Before I arrived, they had come once and poisoned the dogs and stolen some equipment. But they haven’t bothered us much. The dogs bark now and then, and we suspect the fighters are passing through—

  I’ve told him—Mother began, but thought better of it. The conversation had obviously gone off in the wrong direction.

  But Mahesh Uncle and Aruna hit it off immediately. Within no time, over tea, he was passionately explaining to her how it was in Kenya. The settlers saw it as another South Africa, he told her, except this would be better, more like Devonshire or Surrey, with the Africans their happy servants or junior partners. And the Indians—

  He paused, with a dramatic look at the others.

  And the Indians? Aruna asked excitedly, obviously anticipating the nature of his observation.

  The Indians are exclusive—almost as racist as the whites—and lazy. Afraid of the outdoors, frightened of wild animals; they will not lift even a spoon but will ask a servant to do so, or to fetch a glass of water—

  Aruna was delighted.

  But Mahesh, I saw your own tea brought to you by a servant just now, Papa said rather smugly, and Aruna laughed out loud, clapped her hands.

  Mahesh Uncle coloured considerably and said, Bhaiya, this is his house as much as mine, there’s nothing wrong with giving someone employment; and—

  Papa, pleased as punch, was ready with another riposte, but Mother cut in, But Bhaiya you never told me I was lazy!

  Mahesh Uncle was even more embarrassed: I didn’t mean everybody—

  We know what you meant, Aruna said with a kindly smile, adding, Are you going to give us a tour?

  Mother eyed Papa, who said he would look around later, and so she turned to Mahesh, Why don’t you show Aruna round the place?

  Come along kids, my uncle said, and the four of us strolled out, Deepa holding Aruna’s hand.

  From a distance came the whine and shriek of machinery slicing through fresh wood. The lorries we had seen earlier were being loaded. The gate was open and a mountain of logs was being dragged in on a handcart pushed and pulled by four people straining with all their might. A group of villagers were walking out with bits of bark and baskets of wood chips which they would use for fuel.

  How did you get interested in this line of work? Aruna asked.

  After I found the job, came the reply. I enjoy the peace and quiet. Though I don’t relish supplying the settlers with the material to make even bigger dwellings on land taken from the Africans.

  They strode together, Aruna intermittently looking up at him with what seemed to be an admiring, affectionate smile. As we approached the main sawing shed, Mahesh Uncle supplied us with wads of cotton wool to stick into our ears. A circular saw was in operation, lengths of shaved tree trunks approaching it fitfully on a belt and submitting to the angry, slicing blade. A grinning, ghostlike attendant, face masked and arms gloved with sawdust, was guiding the logs on their way, another was constantly pouring water on the blade to cool it, as the dust flew from its sides to form flourlike yellow heaps on the ground.

  We walked back, the couple now in front of us and deep in conversation. I thought what a nice pair they made, what a nice auntie Aruna would make, and I confided to Deepa, with a wise nod, They are going to get married.

  Why do you show so much concern for the Africans, Aruna asked. Surely they have people of their own to speak out for their rights?

  Perhaps I simply need a cause. But—he looked at her earnestly—surely it is the duty of everyone to speak out when they see a wrong being done.

  And the Indians of Africa? Who speaks out for them? You’re not fair to them. Nobody wants them. Not even Pandit Nehru, I bet.

  He nodded. I know. I get inflamed when I see their pride going hand in hand with their stupidity. They are naïve and not educated—except in the art of business. They have no idea how the world has changed. They get flattered when a District Commissioner visits their mosque or temple to pray for Our Beautiful Queen and the Empire! In this atomic age! After India’s independence, after its partition!

  Yes, she affirmed to him a little later, she too had marched in college for Panditji and Gandhiji and India’s independence, and had faced a laathi charge once.

  He said: My father was a police inspector in Peshawar. I went around on behalf of Congress explaining to the Muslims that it was not a Hindu party…and later I travelled as a Congress observer and placator during communal riots and during the violence of Partition.

  Did you see the violence? Women jumping into wells, did that really happen?

  He nodded. There was a crazed Sikh in one location who, when we went to pour lime disinfectant into one such well which contained his drowned womenfolk, asked me to remove the gold ring from his wife’s finger—he would need it later, he said. And then there were all the lost children and those left behind…

  I had never seen my uncle speak to anyone like that; he had met a kindred soul. So far he had had only my mother to speak to in such a vein, but she was only a sister; the bond between them was love, and there was always my father around her, from a quite different, colonial world.

  That night we were invited to eat at the Singhs’ house. It had become incredibly dark outside. A sliver of moon shone brightly, which we all stepped out to watch for a while, admiring its false cheer; then Mother shivered and said, I’m afraid to go anywhere at this hour, why don’t Aruna and I cook something for us?

  What, corned beef from the tins? asked Papa. Baked beans?

  Oh, I do have groceries, and Jonas cooks for me, Mahesh Uncle said, referring to one of the servants.

  Then what do you need all the tinstuffs for? Mother asked. Who eats them?

  We had brought a box full of tinned food for him, at his request, and whenever he visited us, among the stuff he took back with him to Elburgon there were always some tins of food. But Mahesh Uncle said nothing, and Papa, after watching him pointedly for a moment, said, Let’s go to Resham Singh’s—we don’t want to offend him. Come on, nothing will happen to us.

  The six of us squeezed into our car, and we drove off in the dark to Resham Singh’s house down the road. It was a nerve-wracking drive, with everyone frantically peering outside in all directions. Attempts at conversation were brief and abortive. The forest was a deep, dark, murky space on our right, home to tall and strange sinister shapes made out fleetingly by the headlights, creatures that could at any moment—it seemed—leap out onto the road and attack us in a fury. Finally, with audible sighs of relief from Mother and Aruna, we reached the house and the gate was opened to us.

  The house was a grey stone-brick bungalow with a large veranda; the floors were smooth, polished wood, and there were all sorts of trophies on the walls inside, including a frighteningly immense lio
n’s head and a Masai shield and weapons. The rug in the sitting room was a zebra skin. Resham Singh with his wife and daughter was visiting his son Ajit Singh, who ran the sawmills with Mahesh Uncle. The old man had a greying beard and a paunch, and wore a long-sleeved shirt, untucked. His son was dressed in a safari suit with a vest. All the five women there, including Mother and Aruna Auntie, were dressed alike in Punjabi costume. There was a small kitchen area at the side of the front anteroom that preceded the sitting room, where an African cook was quietly busy. There was deer meat, which my father ate with the Singhs, and a lot of vegetarian fare with chappatis. It surprised my mother that the African had learned to cook so well.

  Ajit Singh spoke rather like an Englishman, with a lot of “old boys” and “dear ladys”, and talked a lot of politics, which suited Mahesh Uncle and Aruna fine, but the others looked bored. He went into Mau Mau horror stories with a mischievous smile, declaring nonchalantly, My butler James here has taken the oath, I know that, and I dare say also the cook, who has given us this fine fare tonight!

  Deepa was fast asleep when we left, and I could barely stand on my feet. Ajit Singh offered to escort us back in his Land Rover and gave Mahesh Uncle and Aruna Auntie a ride, bringing his Alsatian Toby along with him. It was a sombre trip back, Ajit Singh’s vehicle with its wide headlights setting a fast pace. He’s a brave fellow, Papa said of him, but then you know these Sardarjis, they like to show off that they are afraid of nothing.

  I don’t think Mahesh belongs here, Mother told him.

  Pitch darkness around me; the jingle of curtains skidding on their rings; a thin wedge of light seeping in from the side of the door, where it was open a crack. Someone—Mahesh Uncle—moving about on the other side, in the front room. I murmured something, tried to go back to sleep; heard another door, the outside one, close shut, and my heart leapt. All alone, Deepa and I? The two of us were sharing the spare bedroom in Mahesh Uncle’s cabin. A little later the outside door opened again, clicked gently shut. I got up and went to peer through the crack. Mahesh Uncle was dressed for outdoors, in a green windbreaker. He was standing at the table, only partly turned away from me, so that I could see what he was up to—intently occupied with an old Indian jute bag he sometimes had on him. On the table were bottles of medicine, packets of Epsom salts—which I knew to be highly recommended by my father as a purgative—tins of various foods…a few newspapers…and something brown and bulky that seemed to me shatteringly familiar. He carefully placed the medicines and tins inside the bag, then folded up the papers and shoved them in, and finally picked up the last object…a gun in a deep-tan holster, simply too much like the one my father had lost!