The Inheritance Of Loss Part 4

He continued to be amazed by the sights that greeted him. The England in which he searched for a room to rent was formed of tiny gray houses in gray streets, stuck together and down as if on a glue trap. It took him by surprise because he'd expected only grandness, hadn't realized that here, too, people could be poor and live unaesthetic lives. While he was unimpressed, though, so too were the people who answered his knock, when they opened their doors to his face: "Just let," "All full," or even a curtain lifted and quickly dropped, a stillness as if all the inhabitants had, in that instant, died. He visited twenty-two homes before he arrived at the doorstep of Mrs. Rice on Thornton Road. She didn't want him either, but she needed the money and her house was so situated-on the other side of the train station from the university-she was concerned she wouldn't be able to find a lodger at all.

Twice a day she put out a tray at the foot of the stairs-boiled egg, bread, b.u.t.ter, jam, milk. After a spate of nights lying awake listening to the borborygmus of his half-empty stomach, thinking tearfully of his family in Piphit who thought him as worthy of a hot dinner as the queen of England, Jemubhai worked up the courage to ask for a proper evening meal. "We don't eat much of a supper ourselves, James," she said, "too heavy on the stomach for Father." She always called her husband Father and she had taken to calling Jemubhai James. But that evening, he found on his plate steaming baked beans on toast.

"Thank you. Absolutely delicious," he said as Mr. Rice sat looking steadily out of the window.

Later, he marveled at this act of courage, since he was soon to lose it all.

He had registered at Fitzwilliam with the help of an essay he penned for the entrance examination, "Similarities and Differences between the French and Russian Revolutions." Fitzwilliam was a bit of a joke in those days, more a tutoring place than a college, but he began immediately to study, because it was the only skill he could carry from one country to another. He worked twelve hours at a stretch, late into the night, and in thus withdrawing, he failed to make a courageous gesture outward at a crucial moment and found, instead, that his pusillanimity and his loneliness had found fertile soil. He retreated into a solitude that grew in weight day by day. The solitude became a habit, the habit became the man, and it crushed him into a shadow.

But shadows, after all, create their own unease, and despite his attempts to hide, he merely emphasized something that unsettled others. For entire days n.o.body spoke to him at all, his throat jammed with words unuttered, his heart and mind turned into blunt aching things, and elderly ladies, even the hapless-blue-haired, spotted, faces like collapsing pumpkins-moved over when he sat next to them in the bus, so he knew that whatever they had, they were secure in their conviction that it wasn't even remotely as bad as what he he had. The young and beautiful were no kinder; girls held their noses and giggled, "Phew, he stinks of curry!" had. The young and beautiful were no kinder; girls held their noses and giggled, "Phew, he stinks of curry!"

Thus Jemubhai's mind had begun to warp; he grew stranger to himself than he was to those around him, found his own skin odd-colored, his own accent peculiar. He forgot how to laugh, could barely manage to lift his lips in a smile, and if he ever did, he held his hand over his mouth, because he couldn't bear anyone to see his gums, his teeth. They seemed too private. In fact, he could barely let any of himself peep out of his clothes for fear of giving offence. He began to wash obsessively, concerned he would be accused of smelling, and each morning he scrubbed off the thick milky scent of sleep, the barnyard smell that wreathed him when he woke and impregnated the fabric of his pajamas. To the end of his life, he would never be seen without socks and shoes and would prefer shadow to light, faded days to sunny, for he was suspicious that sunlight might reveal him, in his hideousness, all too clearly.

He saw nothing of the English countryside, missed the beauty of carved colleges and churches painted with gold leaf and angels, didn't hear the choir boys with the voices of girls, and didn't see the green river trembling with replications of the gardens that segued one into the other or the swans that sailed b.u.t.terflied to their reflections.

Eventually he felt barely human at all, leaped when touched on the arm as if from an unbearable intimacy, dreaded and agonized over even a "How-do-you-do-lovely-day" with the fat woman dressed in friendly pinks who ran the corner store. "What can I get you? Say that again, duck..." she said to his mumble, leaned forward to scoop up his words, but his voice ran back and out as he dissolved into tears of self-pity at the casual affection. He began to walk farther across town to more anonymous shops, and when he bought a shaving brush and the shop girl said her husband owned the same item exactly, at the acknowledgment of their identical human needs, the intimacy of their connection, shaving, husband, shaving, husband, he was overcome at the boldness of the suggestion. he was overcome at the boldness of the suggestion.

The judge turned on the light and looked at the expiration date on the Calmpose package. No, the medicine was still valid: it should have worked. Yet, instead of putting him to sleep, it had caused him to dream a nightmare wide awake.

He lay there until the cows began to boom like foghorns through the mist and Uncle Potty's rooster, Kookar Raja, sent his kukrookoo kukrookoo up like a flag, sounding both silly and loud as if calling everyone to the circus. He had been healthy again ever since Uncle Potty had turned him upside down, stuck him headfirst into a tin can and eradicated the bluebottles in his bottom with a heavy spray of Flit. up like a flag, sounding both silly and loud as if calling everyone to the circus. He had been healthy again ever since Uncle Potty had turned him upside down, stuck him headfirst into a tin can and eradicated the bluebottles in his bottom with a heavy spray of Flit.

Confronted yet again with his granddaughter, sitting at the breakfast table, the judge instructed the cook to take her to meet the tutor he had hired, a lady by the name of Noni who lived an hour's walk away.

Sai and cook trudged the long path that traveled thin and black as a rat snake up and down the hills, and the cook showed her the landmarks of her new home, pointed out the houses and told her who lived where. There was Uncle Potty, of course, their nearest neighbor, who had bought his land from the judge years ago, a gentleman farmer and a drunk; and his friend Father Booty of the Swiss dairy, who spent each evening drinking with Uncle Potty. The men had rabbit-red eyes, their teeth were browned by tobacco, their systems needed to be dredged, but their spirits were still nimble. "h.e.l.lo Dolly," Uncle Potty said, waving to Sai from his veranda, which projected like a s.h.i.+p's deck over the steep incline. It was on this veranda that Sai would first hear the Beatles. And also: "All that MEAT and NO PERTATAS? Just ain't right, like GREEN TERMATAS!"

The cook pointed out the defunct pisciculture tanks, the army encampment, the monastery on top of Durpin hill, and down below, an orphanage and henhouse. Opposite the henhouse, so they could get their eggs easily, lived a pair of Afghan princesses whose father had gone to Brighton on holiday and returned to find the British had seated someone else on his throne. Eventually the princesses were given refuge by Nehru (such a gentleman!). In a small drab house lived Mrs. Sen, whose daughter, Mun Mun, had gone to America.

And finally there was Noni (Nonita), who lived with her sister Lola (Lalita) in a rose-covered cottage named Mon Ami. When Lola's husband had died of a heart attack, Noni, the spinster, had moved in with her sister, the widow. They lived on his pension, but still they needed more money, what with endless repairs being done to the house, the price of everything rising in the bazaar, and the wages of their maid, sweeper, watchman, and gardener.

So, in order to make her contribution to household finances, Noni had accepted the judge's request that she tutor Sai. Science to Shakespeare. It was only when Noni's abilities in mathematics and science began to falter when Sai was sixteen, that the judge was forced to hire Gyan to take over these subjects.

"Here is Saibaby," said the cook, presenting her to the sisters.

They had regarded her sadly, orphan child of India's failing romance with the Soviets.

"Stupidest thing India ever did, snuggling up to the wrong side. Do you remember when Chotu and Motu went to Russia? They said they had not seen the like," remarked Lola to Noni, "even in India. Inefficient beyond belief."

"And do you recall," said Noni back to Lola, "those Russians who lived next door to us in Calcutta? They'd go running out every morning and come back with mountains of food, remember? There they'd be, slicing, boiling, frying mountains mountains of potatoes and onions. And then, by evening, they'd go running to the bazaar of potatoes and onions. And then, by evening, they'd go running to the bazaar again, again, hair flying, coming back crazy with excitement and even hair flying, coming back crazy with excitement and even more more onions and potatoes for dinner. To them India was a land of plenty. They'd never seen onions and potatoes for dinner. To them India was a land of plenty. They'd never seen anything anything like our markets." like our markets."

But despite their opinion of Russia and Sai's parents, over the years they grew very fond of Sai.

Nine.

"Oh my G.o.d," shrieked Lola, when she heard the judge's guns had been stolen from Cho Oyu. She was very much grayer now, but her personality was stronger than ever. "What if those hooligans come to Mon Ami? They're bound to come. But we have nothing. Not that shrieked Lola, when she heard the judge's guns had been stolen from Cho Oyu. She was very much grayer now, but her personality was stronger than ever. "What if those hooligans come to Mon Ami? They're bound to come. But we have nothing. Not that that that will deter them. They'll kill for fifty rupees." will deter them. They'll kill for fifty rupees."

"But you have a watchman," said Sai, absentminded, still trailing the thought of how Gyan hadn't arrived the day of the robbery. His affection was surely on the wane....

"Budhoo? But he's Nepali. Who can trust him now? It's always the watchman in a case of robbery. They pa.s.s on the information and share the spoils.... Remember Mrs. Thondup? She used to have that Nepali fellow, returned from Calcutta one year to find the house wiped clean. Wiped clean. Wiped clean. Cups plates beds chairs wiring light fixtures, every single thing-even the chains and floats in the toilets. One of the men had tried to steal the cables along the road and they found him electrocuted. Every bamboo had been cut and sold, every lime was off the tree. Holes had been bored into their water pipes so every hut on the hillside was drawing water from their supply-and no sign of the watchman, of course. Quick across the border, he'd disappeared back into Nepal. My G.o.d, Noni," she said, "we had better tell that Budhoo to go." Cups plates beds chairs wiring light fixtures, every single thing-even the chains and floats in the toilets. One of the men had tried to steal the cables along the road and they found him electrocuted. Every bamboo had been cut and sold, every lime was off the tree. Holes had been bored into their water pipes so every hut on the hillside was drawing water from their supply-and no sign of the watchman, of course. Quick across the border, he'd disappeared back into Nepal. My G.o.d, Noni," she said, "we had better tell that Budhoo to go."

"Calm down. How can we?" said Noni. "He has given us no reason."

In fact, Budhoo had been a comforting presence for the two sisters who'd reached old age together at Mon Ami, its vegetable patch containing, as far as they knew, the country's only broccoli grown from seeds procured in England; its orchard providing enough fruit for stewed pears every day of pear season and enough leftover to experiment with wine making in the bathtub. Their was.h.i.+ng line sagged under a load of Marks and Spencer panties, and through large leg portholes, they were favored with views of Kanchenjunga collared by cloud. At the entrance to the house hung a thangkha thangkha of a demon-with hungry fangs and skull necklaces, brandis.h.i.+ng an angry p.e.n.i.s-to dissuade the missionaries. In the drawing room was a trove of knickknacks. Tibetan of a demon-with hungry fangs and skull necklaces, brandis.h.i.+ng an angry p.e.n.i.s-to dissuade the missionaries. In the drawing room was a trove of knickknacks. Tibetan choksee choksee tables painted in jade and flame colors piled with books, including a volume of paintings by Nicholas Roerich, a Russian aristocrat who painted the Himalayas with such grave presence it made you s.h.i.+ver just to imagine all that grainy distilled cold, the lone traveler atop a yak, going-where? The immense vistas indicated an abstract destination. Also, Salim Ali's guide to birds and all of Jane Austen. There was Wedgwood in the dining room cabinet and a jam jar on the sideboard, saved for its prettiness. "By appointment to Her Majesty the queen jam and marmalade manufacturers," it read in gold under a coat of arms, supported by a crowned lion and a unicorn. tables painted in jade and flame colors piled with books, including a volume of paintings by Nicholas Roerich, a Russian aristocrat who painted the Himalayas with such grave presence it made you s.h.i.+ver just to imagine all that grainy distilled cold, the lone traveler atop a yak, going-where? The immense vistas indicated an abstract destination. Also, Salim Ali's guide to birds and all of Jane Austen. There was Wedgwood in the dining room cabinet and a jam jar on the sideboard, saved for its prettiness. "By appointment to Her Majesty the queen jam and marmalade manufacturers," it read in gold under a coat of arms, supported by a crowned lion and a unicorn.

Then there was the cat, Mustafa, a sooty hirsute fellow demonstrating a perfection of containment no amount of love or science could penetrate. He was, at this moment, starting up like a lorry on Sai's lap, but his eyes looked blankly right into hers, warning her against mistaking this for intimacy.

To guard all this and their dignity, the sisters had hired Budhoo, a retired army man who had seen action against guerilla factions in a.s.sam and had a big gun and an equally fierce mustache. He came each night at nine, ringing his bell as he rode up on his bicycle and lifting his bottom off the seat as he went over the b.u.mp in the garden.

"Budhoo?" the sisters would call from inside, sitting up in their beds, wrapped in Kulu shawls, sipping Sikkimese brandy, BBC news sputtering on the radio, falling over them in sparky explosions.

"Budhoo?"

"Huzoor!"

They would return to the BBC then, and later, sometimes, to their small black-and-white television, when Doordarshan provided the treat of To the Manor Born To the Manor Born or or Yes, Minister, Yes, Minister, featuring gentlemen with faces like moist, contented hams. With Budhoo on the roof fiddling with the aerial, the sisters shouted to him out of the window, "Right, left, no, back," as he swayed, poor fellow, amid the tree branches and moths, the outfall of messy Kalimpong weather. featuring gentlemen with faces like moist, contented hams. With Budhoo on the roof fiddling with the aerial, the sisters shouted to him out of the window, "Right, left, no, back," as he swayed, poor fellow, amid the tree branches and moths, the outfall of messy Kalimpong weather.

At intervals through the night Budhoo also marched about Mon Ami, banging a stick and blowing a whistle so Lola and Noni could hear him and feel safe until the mountains once again s.h.i.+mmered in pure 24k and they woke to the powdery mist burning off in the sun.

But they had trusted Budhoo for no reason whatsoever. He might murder them in their nighties- "But if we dismiss him," said Noni, "then he'll be angry and twice as likely to do something."

"I tell you, these Neps can't be trusted. And they don't just rob. They think absolutely nothing of murdering, as well."

"Well," sighed Lola, "it was bound to happen, really. Been brewing a long time. When has this been a peaceful area? When we moved to Mon Ami, the whole of Kalimpong was upside down, remember? n.o.body knew who was a spy and who wasn't. Beijing had just named Kalimpong a hotbed of anti-Chinese activity...."

Monks had streamed through the forests, garnet lines of fire pouring down the mountains, as they escaped from Tibet along the salt and wool trade routes. Aristocrats had arrived, too, Lhasa beauties dancing waltzes at the Gymkhana Ball, amazing the locals with their cosmopolitan style.

But for a long while there had been severe food shortages, as there always were when political trouble arrived on the hillside.

"We had better run to the market, Noni. It will empty out. And our library books! We must change them."

"I won't last the month," said Lola. "Almost through," she thumped A Bend in the River, " A Bend in the River, " uphill task-" uphill task-"

"Superb writer," said Noni. "First-cla.s.s. One of the best books I've ever read."

"Oh, I don't know," Lola said, "I think he's strange. Stuck in the past.... He has not progressed. Colonial neurosis, he's never freed himself from it. Quite a different thing now. In fact," she said, "chicken tikka masala has replaced fish and chips as the number one take-out dinner in Britain. It was just reported in the Indian Express. Indian Express.

"Tikka masala," she repeated. "Can you believe it?" She imagined the English countryside, castles, hedgerows, hedgehogs, etc., and tikka masala whizzing by on buses, bicycles, Rolls-Royces. Then she imagined a scene in To the Manor Born: To the Manor Born: "Oh Audrey. How perfectly lovely! Chicken tikka masala! Yes, and I got us some basmati as well. I do think it's the best rice, don't you?" "Oh Audrey. How perfectly lovely! Chicken tikka masala! Yes, and I got us some basmati as well. I do think it's the best rice, don't you?"

"Well, I don't like to agree with you, but maybe you have a point," Noni conceded. "After all, why isn't he writing of where he lives now? Why isn't he taking up, say, race riots in Manchester?"

"Also the new England, Noni. A completely cosmopolitan society. Pixie, for example, doesn't have a chip on her shoulder."

Pixie, Lola's daughter, was a BBC reporter, and now and then Lola visited her and came back making everyone sick, refusing to shut up: "Super play, and oh, the strawberries and cream.... And ah, the strawberries and cream...."

"My! What strawberries and cream, my dear, and out in the most lovely most lovely garden," Noni mimicked her sister. "As if you can't get strawberries and cream in Kalimpong!"she said, then. "And you can eat without having to mince your words and behave like a pig on high heels." garden," Noni mimicked her sister. "As if you can't get strawberries and cream in Kalimpong!"she said, then. "And you can eat without having to mince your words and behave like a pig on high heels."

"Dreadful legs those English girls have," said Uncle Potty, who had been present at the altercation. "Big pasty things. Good thing they've started wearing pants now."

But Lola was too dizzy to listen. Her suitcases were stuffed with Marmite, Oxo bouillon cubes, Knorr soup packets, After Eights, daffodil bulbs, and renewed supplies of Boots cuc.u.mber lotion and Marks and Spencer underwear-the essence, quintessence, of Englishness as she understood it. Surely the queen donned this superior hosiery:

She was solid.

It was solid.

She was plain It was plain.

She was strong.

It was strong.

She was no-nonsense.

It was no-nonsense.

They prevailed.

It was Pixie who inspired the nightly ritual of listening to the radio.

"Budhoo?"

"Huzoor."

"Good evening... this is Piyali Bannerji with the BBC news."

All over India, people hearing the Indian name announced in pucca British accent laughed and laughed so hard their stomachs hurt.

Disease. War. Famine. Noni exclaimed and was outraged, but Lola purred with pride and heard nothing but the sanitized elegance of her daughter's voice, triumphant over any horrors the world might thrust upon others. "Better leave sooner rather than later," she had advised Pixie long ago, "India is a sinking s.h.i.+p. Don't want to be pushy, darling, sweetie, thinking of your happiness only, but the doors won't stay open forever...." the doors won't stay open forever...."

Ten.

Biju had started his second year in America at Pinocchio's Italian Restaurant, stirring vats of spluttering Bolognese, as over a speaker an opera singer sang of love and murder, revenge and heartbreak. in America at Pinocchio's Italian Restaurant, stirring vats of spluttering Bolognese, as over a speaker an opera singer sang of love and murder, revenge and heartbreak.

"He smells," said the owner's wife. "I think I'm allergic to his hair oil." She had hoped for men from the poorer parts of Europe-Bulgarians perhaps, or Czechoslovakians. At least they might have something in common with them like religion and skin color, grandfathers who ate cured sausages and looked like them, too, but they weren't coming in numbers great enough or they weren't coming desperate enough, she wasn't sure....

The owner bought soap and toothpaste, toothbrush, shampoo plus conditioner, Q-tips, nail clippers, and most important of all, deodorant, and told Biju he'd picked up some things he might need.

They stood there embarra.s.sed by the intimacy of the products that lay between them.

He tried another tactic: "What do they think of the pope in India?"

By showing his respect for Biju's mind he would raise Biju's self-respect, for the boy was clearly lacking in that department.

"You've tried," his wife said, comforting him a few days later when they couldn't detect any difference in Biju. "You even bought bought the soap," she said. the soap," she said.

Biju approached Tom & Tomoko's-"No jobs."

McSweeney's Pub-"Not hiring."

Freddy's Wok-"Can you ride a bicycle?"

Yes, he could.