Shueli's Star

Novel
Anna Sujatha Mathai

Previous Chapters

CHAPTER 17
The femme fatale at a Delhi School
 
That was when Shueli got a green signal, which seemed to open up what was otherwise an obscured way out, to the world beyond. It sprang from one of these strange quirks of fate,  that occur only very occasionally. Her Aunt Rahel, who Shueli used to go and stay with, in the little cottage on the beach, had suddenly appeared in Delhi, much to their delight. Was this sudden arrival in Delhi, at all connected with Shueli’s   memory of a mysterious stranger, who swam with powerful strokes beside her Aunt, in that moonlit Karwar ocean?  She could remember the rock jutting out into the sea, with the beams from the lighthouse circling insistently on that remote coast, lighting up the two ghostly night swimmers, and the little girl sitting alone on the sandy beach. Shueli and Gaya only knew vaguely, through stray snatches of conversation, reconstructed and put together by them later, that there had been some kind of scandal, which involved a hurt wife, and daughters with tears in their eyes;  There had been a man (the night swimmer?)  who had come and threatened Appachan and the others with a gun in his hand,
claiming: “She belongs to me.” 
It had become imperative for the family to “get Rahel out of there.”
Papa had found a job for his sister, teaching in one of the old schools in Delhi. The headmistress was a ‘pious’ woman, who dripped with sheer venom. When she wasn’t detailing her “Christian duty as the head of a Christian institution” , she was working out ways to cramp the students, and crush the staff of meek, obedient women. But Aunt Rahel wasn’t a meek, obedient woman. She was a femme fatale in missionary garb. She knew the secret joys of night-swimming. She put up with the drabness of the school for a year or so. They noticed how beautiful she had become, “wearing a red silk sari, with an embroidered gold border, like the Parsi ladies.”  More than ever, she looked like the Sistine Madonna. And all that beauty wasted in that harsh environment! Lining up with the girls for the prayers at School Assembly; taking them out in groups for outings to Museums and Parks; correcting their endless Test Papers. The girls of the school loved her, calling her “Miss, Miss” and bringing her flowers and cakes “baked by my Mum.” One of the girls was a Princess from a neighbouring State. As there were so many of these princes and princesses, born of the late Maharajah’s many wives, consorts, and stray relationships, ways had to be devised of dealing with this multitude of royal off-spring!  One of these was Princess Twinkle, who was Aunt Rahel’s student. Princess Dahlia was Shueli’s friend in college some years later. She used to envy Shueli her compact little family circle. “You’re so lucky!” she said passionately, one day.
“Why on earth do you say that?” Shueli was really surprised.
“Well, we never had a Mum waiting with a nice tea for us, after school. In fact, I’m not sure which of the Ranis was my Mum! We had a Governess from England, called Dandy. Don’t remember what that was short for. She was real strict with all of us. ‘Sit properly, Dahlia. Hold your shoulders back. Hold your fork and spoon correctly, Diamond. Don’t speak with your mouth full, Twinkle.’  She would insist on the lights being put off early. ‘Early to bed, and early to rise, / Makes a girl healthy, happy and wise’ she would trill. I tell you, Shueli, it was Hell in those huge, high-ceilinged rooms at night. I could see crouching figures, hideous ghosts, everything I feared, coming to life in the dark. I would gladly have given up being a Princess, if only I could have my own Mum hum me a little song, and tell me a story to put me to sleep.”
Shueli had heard that the old Maharajah used to give an order, if he took a fancy to any girl, that she should be delivered to his Palace. It was even rumoured that, the more obdurate and recalcitrant ones were hung up by their long hair, or might even vanish completely. The children born of these liaisons were lonely, afraid, hungry for affection. No wonder that Twinkle Kumari just latched on to Miss Rahel for affection. It was one of those schoolgirl crushes which can become a burden for the object of that devotion. Twinkle would outdo all the others in bringing  flowers or sweets for “my Miss.”  Insisting on walking very close to her when they were out on their Nature Study Ramble on the Ridge, and even touching Aunt Rahel’s hair or face, saying “My! How sweet you look today, Miss.” Or “How lovely your hair is, Miss!” Aunt Rahel didn’t quite know how to deal with this unsolicited admiration. Perhaps she even basked in it a little bit. Certainly, she never expected such an unpleasant denouement. Aunt Rahel’s birthday was coming up. Ammy said “Let’s do something special for Rahel. Poor girl, she’s far from home, and so lonely…” Ammy had baked a cake, and Papa had bought his sister a sari. But, when Rahel got out of the school bus, there were tears in her eyes. She broke down when Ammy and Papa began to question her. “It’s all the jealous nature of that woman –“ 
“Who?” they asked, Ammy stroking Rahel’s back.
“That Miss Devadas, the Principal. She can’t do it herself, so she sets up that awful, hideous Miss Dhanda  -  to spy on all of us.  Even parcels which come from home, are confiscated by Dhanda. Then Miss Devadas says in her prim, sanctimonious way, mouth all pursed up, glasses quivering righteously on the tip of her nose, ‘We mustn’t be selfish, must we? It’s our Christian duty to share what the Lord gives us, with our sisters.’ Well, early this morning, the girls came to the verandah outside my room. They sang ‘Happy Birthday, dear Miss Rahel’ and gave me flowers and sweets. I was so touched. It made the whole business of being a teacher seem worthwhile. At least that’s the way I saw it. In the Class Break, between Biology and Maths classes, Twinkle came up to me , in her adoring way, and wished me, saying ‘Miss! I’ve got a surprise for you!’  She had brought a huge cake, with chocolate icing, and my name on it. Happy Birthday, Dearest Miss  Rahel , it said. She’d brought a nice table-cloth, and we placed the cake on that, under the big neem tree in the Playground. The girls sang, and cut slices for everyone, and we were really having a happy time. We were sitting on that old stone slab, under the tree. Twinkle was sitting near me. Poor child, she’s so attached to me. She told me once she felt I might look like her mother, who she’s never seen. She leaned her head against me, and we were sitting like that, when Dhanda and Devadas suddenly appeared. All the girls jumped up, including Twinkle.  Miss Devadas said, in a stern voice, ‘Girls, you may go now.’ After they left, she attacked me.” Here, Aunt Rahel began to sob. The girls comforted her, while Ammy said, with her mouth clenched in fury, “That hypocrite! She must have been jealous!”
Rahel Aunty continued: “Miss Devadas said ‘Miss Dhanda has been bringing to my notice how you have been breaking all the rules. You know that any presents brought, have to be shared with the Staff. To add to it, it seems you have been encouraging Twinkle Kumari in her, -‘ and here, she paused, like a snake getting ready to strike, - ‘hm, - infatuation – for you. Twinkle is young, and may not realize how you are manipulating her for your own advantage. You have become a danger to the students. Immorality cannot be tolerated in our Christian Institutions. You may pack your things, and hand in your resignation by tomorrow’   Imagine my state, Amaal, Piloo! What shall I do now, without even a job?” and she wept again. Papa said he would take up the matter with some people influential in Christian educational spheres., but Rahel pleaded that he let the matter drop. “Let it be. They have all the power. And they will say all sorts of dirty things to justify their action. Better to leave it. But where will I get another job now? I’m nearly thirty-nine, and I wont even get a recommendation from these people., for all the hard work I put in. Was it wrong for me to care for the girls, and was it my fault that they loved me?”
“No, of course not.”
“ That poor child, Twinkle. All she wanted was a bit of mothering … Anyway, they won’t be nasty to her, because it may boomerang against them. Their false piety may be exposed.  That vile creature, Dhanda, rejoicing in my downfall, while pretending to be very holy!”
  Papa went with his sister the next day to collect her baggage, and asked to see Miss Devadas. Her office peon came out, and said “Be writing name in note-book.”  He returned shortly thereafter, saying: “Principal Mem Sahib not well. Not able to see. Coming tomorrow.”  Papa knew that however many tomorrows he came there, the answer would be the same. For the present, at least, he thought it best to use his time and energy more usefully, in helping his sister get a job. And that was how Rahel Aunty found herself, a complete stranger, going alone in a train to Karachi. The train passed through Lahore, where the Philipose family had lived and Gaya had been born. Here, her young brother had breathed his last, and lay mouldering in some unknown grave. “How I wish I could have saved him” she thought, wiping the tears from her eyes, remembering the last time she had travelled to Lahore had been to try and find where he was buried. We are just dry leaves swept along by the wind, she thought. From Honavar, to Bombay, to Karwar, to Delhi, to Karachi.What if she, too, died in that unknown city, far from the comforting presence of loved ones? Would one of them come and search for her grave, as she had searched, in vain, for the spot where her dear young brother lay? She cheered up a bit, though, when she was met at Karachi by a kindly looking, elderly woman. “I am Mrs. Qureshi” the elderly lady introduced herself. “I hope you had a comfortable journey, though you must be very tired.”  The very next day, Rahel Aunty started her duties as the Secretary of the Y.W.C.A.  It was certainly much better than the dingy school in Delhi, and no one was as tiresomely pious as Miss Deva Das, or her evil henchwoman, Dhanda.
 
 
CHAPTER 18
Karachi
 
Struggling with her work, the unfamiliar city, and the inevitable loneliness, Rahel wrote letters pungent with home-sickness. She kept much of the deepest sadness to herself, however, as she knew they would feel helpless, and someone might come to rescue her and take her back.  She had to make the best of this new experience, and on her own. Perhaps that was why she was reticent about her meeting with Salman Haroun, though she did drop a few hints and vague references to “this unusual, handsome, brilliant Doctor.” The family never quite found out whether he was a Muslim or a Christian. And they discovered only later that he had been married before, and had two children, a family he had abandoned in the West Indies, where he had started life. A great self-disciplinarian, he had driven himself to get the highest academic qualifications in his field, and was a wealthy and important Medical Specialist when Aunt Rahel dawned on his horizon. The way she told the story later, it was a fairy tale romance. There she was, living her lonely life in a women’s Hostel, cut off from the warmth of her own family, and trying to deal with a strange, almost foreign culture, far from home. Approaching the age of forty, the lonely princess in the Tower had been rescued by a “tall, dark, handsome knight in armour.” The family at home had to keep their objections to themselves. She had gone beyond their reach. A year later she had a son, and Salman said she had become for him, who was a “wanderer upon the face of this earth, his only anchor”.  Shueli, when Aunt Rahel told her this story later, thought it was what any woman might dream about.. Uncle Salman had certainly had a most extraordinary life and background, but it was only later that Shueli heard that story from Aunt Rahel. By that time, the country had split disastrously into two. Karachi was now in Pakistan. Aunty Rahel felt cut off, not only from her family, but also from her country. Suddenly, she was “on the other side.” Maybe that was why she wrote asking Shueli to “come and spend Christmas in Karachi.”  “You haven’t yet seen little Saleem, or met your Uncle Salman” she wrote.  Saleem, her young son, had been born in her fortieth year. Ammy, who thought Shueli had become awfully morose lately, agreed reluctantly, after long consultations with Papa. There were, of course, a lot of admonitions, and much advice. Shueli was going alone, because Gaya had to attend a Student Camp at the time. Ammy gave Shueli a list of some of their friends, who now lived in Pakistan, to visit.
“And don’t forget Sakina and Sharifa and their families. We haven’t heard from them for so long. Do hope there’s nothing wrong. Wonder what Arif Azeez is doing now? Of course he’s a brilliant student, and the family is sure to send him abroad for studies.”
Shueli tried to look casual as she answered “Naturally. How could I forget any of them?” She packed the presents Ammy was sending for Fatima Lateef, Salima Ahmed, Mrs. Qureshi, the Azeezes, and the Baigs. For Arif, Shueli chose a small leather bound copy of the Metaphysical Poets, and hoped he didn’t already have one. With a feeling of panic, she admitted she hardly knew the Arif of today. He was almost a stranger. The twenty, almost twenty-one year old Arif might not be a bit like the 14 year old Arif she remembered, and kept alive in her heart. Suppose, when they met, there wasn’t a thing to say? With horror, she visualised them both sitting in tongue-tied silence, in some ornate Pakistani drawing room! She also had to carry messages from Appachan (now called Dharwar Appachan, as he had left Honavar and moved to Dharwar, which was where his wife died). They all longed to see the lost daughter, lost in an alien country. They feared they might never see her again. It was almost like another planet. She had come once to visit them, with her husband, but no one had dared to make the journey there yet. Shueli couldn’t believe she was actually going.. Papa was going to put her onto a ship in Bombay, which would make a call at Karachi Harbour, where Aunty and unknown Uncle would be waiting.. At Karachi an overjoyed Aunt Rahel hugged her young niece, as if she were embracing her lost past, indeed, the entire sub-continent!! They had a large, airy home in one of the smart new Residential Colonies. The furniture seemed over-modern, and there was too much of  it, crowding the rooms.  Apparently, that was Uncle’s taste. He saw the house as an extension of his Clinic, where people sat stiffly, in rows, staring at each other, or trying to avoid each other’s eyes. He took them to the Club that evening, and Shueli was struck by how Westernised and modern the women here appeared to be. Unlike India, where, after Independence, women had excitedly rediscovered traditional patterns, ancient weaves, and lost designs. They prided themselves on ‘looking very Indian.’
 Shueli thought it best not to ask about the Baigs and the Azeezes till she could do it casually, without giving herself away..
  She spent the next couple of days playing with little Saleem, and chatting vociferously with Aunt Rahel. There was so much for Rahel to catch up with. She was happy in her new home with her husband and young son. Her life was reasonably full. And yet, she felt a deep home-sickness, like a wound that wouldn’t heal. Lying on the bed one afternoon, she started to tell her niece about Salman. It was as if she still couldn’t believe that “such a wonderful man fell so much in love with me!”
“Well you’re pretty wonderful yourself. Not bad at all!” teased Rahel, both giggling happily together. “You were going to tell me about Uncle Salman..”
“Well, it’s such a story – you’ll never believe it. Years and years ago, in a South Indian village, a very young girl in a Brahmin family became a widow. The family, furious that she had proved ‘inauspicious’ for their son and for the family, cursed her,  beat her, and threw her out of the house. Poor young  girl. She had nowhere to go, no money. No one would even give her a job in the village, being a bringer of bad luck. They had not bothered to shave her hair, or break her bangles, though they had divested her of most of her jewellery.  As she was sitting in a broken-down tea shop,  wondering what she should do, and where she could possibly go, a man came up to her, started speaking to her, saying he had heard about her misfortune. Would she like to get a job?
“Yes. Anything. I’ll work hard..”
“Well, are you willing to travel?”
“Travel? Where to?”
“To a far country. In a big ship. You will be travelling with a whole lot of other jobless people. Isn’t it worth it – to go to a fine country, where you’ll have a job waiting for you. That is assured. – .”
“Yes, yes.. you’ll be saving my life if you help me to get this job…”
  The man was a contractor, who had rounded up a big gang of poor, jobless people from that village. He took them by train to Bombay, where they had to board a cargo ship. They were nearly all illiterate people, labourers, desperate for work. They didn’t even know what their destination was. Only that the ship would take them across great oceans, to some remote land. ‘Are there white or black people there? –‘  ‘Don’t know!’
In Bombay, they were herded into the ship, - men, women, and even some children. It was hot and sweltering, just before the monsoon had broken. They were made to sleep on the decks, or anywhere they could find a bit of space. It was no better than a cattle truck.  That poor young Brahmin woman, girl actually, - I think her name was Maitreyi, - had only a thin bed-roll, the torn sari she was wearing, and a few odds and ends tied in a paper bag with string. The ship was tossed and thrown about for days by wild waves and storms. There were no stabilizers, as there are on ships today. Poor woman, she kept vomiting, couldn’t keep down a morsel of food. She really thought she would die on that hellish boat. Many of the other passengers actually did die, and their bodies were thrown into the sea. Maitreyi’s feet had got swollen badly, in that searing heat. Imagine, Shueli, what she must have felt! Not a soul in the world to call her own. Aboard a cargo boat. on a savage sea, surrounded by strangers, taking her to an unknown shore. She, who had never been outside her little Tamil Nadu village before. There was very little food to go round. She felt weak and drained of life. It was then that she heard a man’s voice. “Sister, you are in a very bad state.”  He had a little native medicine rolled up in a hanky. “I got this from the Hakim before I left. Swallow a little of this. Here, cup your hands, and take it with a little water. Now, try and sleep.” When she woke the stranger was still sitting by her.  A bit embarrassed, she asked in a weak voice “Who are you?” Actually, in her mind’s eye, she saw him as one of the angels of God. - - Here, Rahel Aunty paused a bit, reconsidering her imagined version of what might have happened.
“Well, after all, she was a Brahmin, not a Christian. So maybe she saw him not as an angel of god – a Farishta, but as an avatar of Krishna., or maybe the Lord Shiva himself!” It was clear that Rahel Aunty’s romantic imagination had taken over.
“Anyway, I don’t know how love was born on that boat speeding to death. The man told her he was a Muslim, a poor indentured labourer. He had nothing but his strength to offer her. He said to Maitreyi: ‘You and I are both outcasts, trash, rejected by society. We have no families. Mine died in a small-pox epidemic, in which I was the only survivor. My wife, two children, my mother, all died in that epidemic. You have no family – or you wouldn’t be here. I know how Hindus treat widows. They have condemned you to death. Our Gods – or rather, my God, and all your Gods – (here, he smiled mischievously) seem to have brought us together. You need someone to protect you, and work for you.’  (Jamaal, the man, flexed his muscle for her benefit!) – and I need a family, and someone to care for me and look after me. Both of us will benefit if we get married.’  He was a Muslim from the coastal region of Kerala and Mangalore, so he knew a bit of Tamil. That’s how they managed to communicate with each other. What a comfort he must have been for that poor, sick girl. I don’t know what rites were observed, or how it was done. As far as I know, two other passengers on that ship, were their only witnesses. The man had no gold. So he took a bit of thread, and said ‘Imagine that this thread is sacred. I tie this mangal sutra round your neck, and ask for the blessings of Allah -  and all Maitreyi’s Gods and Goddesses.’ In that crowded boat, they hardly had a little space to be alone together, but apparently they did manage it. (Rahel Aunty smiled her soft, compassionate smile.) I’m not too sure, but I think Uncle Salman was conceived on that boat! The Brahmin woman was thankful for the care she received, and most thankful that she would not arrive alone in that strange, and, to her, fearful land. They hoped for the dignity of being able to work and earn a living.. They were in for a terrible shock. You won’t believe, Shueli, that when they finally disembarked at Port of Spain, in Trinidad, the horrifying journey appeared like a good dream compared to what they had to face. They were rounded up like cattle by overseers who came to meet the ship. They were treated roughly, though not beaten or kicked. Maitreyi, young widow, mother-to-be, new young wife of Muslim Jamaal, clung to her husband for protection. Luckily, they were not separated. They were taken by the British overseer to a market place, where they were auctioned off as indentured labourers..”
“Do you mean they were sold as slaves?” asked a horrified Shueli.
“Well, yes. More or less. They were taken to the large sugar plantations owned by      British farmers, and ordered to work. They worked long hours, for almost no wages. The contractor in India had promised they would earn high wages. ‘If you work very hard, you can come back with so much gold. And you can build houses here, and live in comfort.’  Well, it was a completely false promise. True, they got reasonable food, and some clothing. But, as far as wages went, - they got just a little pocket money. There was also no question of their trying to escape. Where could they go to?  Their overseers had huge sticks, and guns, and even dogs, to prevent them from escaping. Maitreyi worked almost till the time of her delivery in those West Indian sugar plantations. Her child, your Uncle Salman, was born into slavery!”
Shueli couldn’t believe it. It was a terrible story. Uncle Salman – rich and successful, - born as a slave? No. It just couldn’t be. “But how on earth did he become a doctor, and all the rest of it?”
“Well, that’s an equally amazing story…” Rahel Aunty was enjoying being able to share this story with Shueli. She hadn’t dared mention a word of it to the family at home, at least not in a letter. And, there were parts of the story that would just have to be kept from her father. He could never have imagined his daughter marrying a man with such a history. Though he was, perhaps, more pragmatic and tolerant than she gave him credit for. In the years to come, he would accept it. Many years later, he visited Karachi. Unfortunately, that was the time just before the two countries were at war with each other. “I had to report regularly to the police, and was treated as an alien. That too, in my own daughter’s home.”
Shueli begged Aunt Rahel to tell her more of Uncle Salman’s story. Rahel went on: “Well,  Salman grew up on the plantation, watching his father and mother toil endlessly. The British overseer used to give him a bun or a sweet occasionally. He was not too bad a man. He could have been worse. Some of them were… Salman grew up wild and ragged, but didn’t starve. The overseer used to let him sit in the shade of the verandah, and taught him how to add figures, a job he loved. Salman was about ten when, one day, he found the Master struggling with a knotty mathematical problem. ‘Can’t work out the bloody thing. It’s all a goddam mess..’ said the man, almost to himself. Salman edged a bit nearer, saying ‘Boss, Sir, may I try?’  The man laughed. ‘You cheeky devil. Think you can figure it out, when I bloody well can’t? Alright then, you just go ahead and try!’
He could hardly believe his ears, when an hour or so later, Salman came running out, waving the account book. ‘Boss Sir, Boss Sir, I got it! I got it!’  And, yes, he had got it. The stuff the boss just  ‘couldn’t figger out!’  ‘Well, I’ll be darned! The cheeky bugger’s got it. Got some brains hidden in that black thatch, eh?” That is what led to his beginning to take an interest in Uncle Salman, and giving him a bit of education in the small school nearby.. Salman was quick to learn, - oh, he’s such a brilliant man – and soon became top of his class. Salman was very much attached to his mother, Maitreyi. His father, however, had begun to drink and womanise.. When he came home to the shack he often beat up his wife and young son.. Salman swore he would rescue his mother from her miserable life. He never managed that, though, and it was one of his greatest regrets. Even now, he often says ‘Oh, my poor mother. If only I could have saved her.’ But, you see, it wasn’t his fault. Years of suffering had worn her down, and she couldn’t put up a flight against the malaria she contracted.. So, when the Boss decided to send Salman abroad for higher studies, he gladly agreed. With his mother gone, it seemed like a welcome release from bondage. Can you imagine, Shueli, what it must have been like for that boy, born to slaves, to arrive in England, a free man, with a future?”
“Just too much!  What a story! But when did all this happen?”
“Oh, it must have been some time in the 1920s, when Uncle first went there. He had had most of his schooling in Trinidad. In England he did so well, won scholarships and things, which enabled him to get into Medical School. The old British overseer had continued to take an interest in him, and supported him right until he died. Uncle took jobs in between, and finally went on to do the Fellowship of the Royal College of Physicians. “How unbelievable. To think that you came all the way from a small village like Honavar, and Uncle from Port of Spain, and destiny brought you both together.”
“Well,” Rahel Aunty burst into Shueli’s reflections, “You know, years ago, when Appachan and Ammachy were very young, and only your father and I had been born, - an old sage came to the Honavar house. They fed and rested him, as they did every stranger. Before leaving he turned to Appacha and to Ammachy (who was, as usual, standing partially behind the door. The old sage spoke in a rich, chanting voice, which we both, clinging to Ammachy’s sari, found rather terrifying. He prophesied, “You will be like Abraham, whose offspring became more numerous than all the stars in the heavens. And your descendants shall inherit the earth! Appacha and Ammachy laughed, after he had left, and said ‘Our cup is already full, but what God gives, we shall accept with joy.’  They didn’t know then that they would have eleven children! Or that those children would spread out to different lands and continents.”  Shueli was struck by the mystery of this family history. Looking forward, they would have seen the family spread out – to America, Britain, the Far East, Scandinavia, Africa, New Zealand… And here they were, in Pakistan, talking about this awesome possibility. It was quite a few days before Shueli broached the idea of her meeting the Baigs and Azeezes. Rahel Aunty, full of the joy of sharing her home and her new family with someone familiar, never noticed the round-about way Shueli brought it up.
“Ammy’s given me a long list of people, - her old friends, - to call on. There’s Salima Ahmad, Mrs. Qureshi, the Lateefs, and, oh yes, I almost forgot, - the Baigs and the Azeezes.”
 “Yes. How many friends, and even brothers and sisters, like me, have been separated by these politicians drawing these perfectly arbitrary lines across our countries. All they thought of was their own power. They didn’t care about how it would make so many people suffer, lose all their property, families, their very lives.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Shueli replied, “except for Gandhi, who really cared for the people. He would have given anything to prevent it. And he paid for it with his own life, didn’t he?”
“Well, let’s not talk too much about things that cant be undone. Let’s be happy that there are still some friendships and loves left that don’t care a hoot about any old politician’s lines!”
When Shueli got Mrs. Baig on the phone, there was great excitement. “Child, we have been longing to see you all again. You must be quite a young lady now. Did I get Amaal’s letter? No. I haven’t had one from her for a very long time. Letters take ages to arrive here. How are all our dear friends there? How we miss St. Stephen’s. How are the Suris? And I heard Mr. Kohli had passed away. How is dear Sonu taking his death? And what about the Maitras who helped your Papa to get us out of that terrible danger? I still have nightmares about that   Oh I must call Sakeena and tell her you are here. You must come for dinner, and, if your Aunt can spare you, come and spend the day. I’ll invite Sakina too. She’ll be thrilled to see you again.”
“And Arif?..” The words trembled on Shueli’s lips. She didn’t know the customs here. Perhaps familiarity between young men and women was not tolerated at all here. She had noticed many women in burkhas, when they had driven to the market the day before. But, in the modern, rich homes of the upper classes, there didn’t seem to be any kind of purdah. In fact, the women here seemed to be very Westernised. Of course, ‘you must cover your head, arms and legs, when you go to a public place.’ To Shueli’s question about Arif, Mrs. Baig returned “Arif? Yes, of course. You children were friends in school. He too remembers all of you, I’m sure, with mucb thankfulness. Well, he’s done very well at College, and will soon be leaving to study in England.. I hope you can meet him before he leaves…” Shueli felt a kind of darkness descend over her. Her legs trembled. Her mouth had gone dry. She heard herself saying, in a cool and detached voice “Yes. I do hope so. He probably doesn’t even remember Delhi. It was all so long ago. Nearly seven years…”
  Both Sharifa Bibi and Sakina Azeez hugged and kissed her after they had welcomed her into the rather ornate drawing room.. Victorian furniture, carved sofas, lots of mirrors on the walls, old Persian miniatures, vied with the rich elegance of carpets from Persia and Afghanistan. Both the ladies chatterted non-stop. “Tell us – tell us – all about Amaal and your Papa. Inshaah Allah, we can all meet again soon. By the way, has any marriage been arranged for the Maitra girls? Oh, very good. So Anjali is going to marry an I.A.S. man. Very clever of Mr. Maitra…”  said Sharifa Bibi, laughing, and stuffing an aromatic paan, from a large silver paan-daan, into her very red mouth. She had become very plump, with rolls of flesh disturbing the smooth flow of her silk lahengaas, and the chiffon dupatta covering her. Sakina Azeez, on the other hand, had retained her sensitive, refined look that seemed to Shueli to come straight from one of the Persian miniatures. “Beti” she said affectionately, “ Just wait till Arif comes. He won’t recognise you. You’ve become such a young lady now!”
“No! I don’t believe it.Shueli. You? So grown-up? Such a beautiful young lady?” exclaimed the young man who had just come into the room. Ammyjee, can you believe this is the same little Shueli. Our Shueli, our heroine of the Partition?”
Shueli half rose, heart beating wildly, cheeks flushed, like an idiot with not a word to say. In the general laughter, shrieks and murmurs from the ladies, it seemed quite natural that Arif should rush to Shueli, and hug her tightly.  “Let me see” – holding her at arm’s length – “Let me look at you. I can’t believe you’re here, - and it’s you .”  Shueli had a sudden fleeting thought that she would have preferred the shy and reserved Arif of the past. His enigmatic green eyes were now self-assured and teasing. Or, was all this just a façade to conceal his uneasiness and embarrassment?. She wished they could have met somewhere else, on their own. Perhaps, then, he would have felt more at ease, more free to be his old self.. Or his real self. None of this matters, she thought to herself. All that matters is that I’m in the same room with him again. And, he embraced me.
“Yes. It’s lovely to be here” Shueli managed, with great composure.
 While dinner was about to be served, with the Bearer and Khansaamaa bustling busily around, Arif and Shueli began to talk, excitedly, with much laughter, about the past. They were children again, in the Tent School. “Poor old Ma’am. I was the worst sinner against her. Gave her a real bad time. Hope she’s forgiven me, if she’s looking down from the other world, or wherever!  And where’s Shalini these days? At Oxford? Well, maybe I’ll run into her when I go to England. Tell me about your college, Shueli. So you’ve become quite an actress. Do you plan to take up Theatre seriously?”  Shueli realised he was just trying to get to know her again. She couldn’t share with him her doubts about the future, the weight of tradition and family pressure upon her.
The whole family fussed over her at dinner. Silver dishes filled with the most fragrant biriyani vied with apricots stuffed with meat, kababs on skewers, and roast chicken with saffron and almonds. The Baigs lived very well. The car, driven by the family chauffeur, took Shueli home. Sakina Azeez and Arif had to go a long way in the oppposite direction. Sakina and Shareefa both embraced her, and Arif, taking her hand in his, with affection, promised he’d come over and see her soon. Shareefa said, “Oh, by the way, I almost forgot – let me go and get it….” And vanished into her room, to emerge again, with a blue velvet jewel box.  “I have something for you, Shueli, just to say Thank You for the way you and your family stood by us in those terrible days. Please wear it, when you get married. Inshah Allah, Amaal and Piloo will soon fix an excellent match for you.” She was interrupted by Arif, saying teasingly – “Oh, but Shueli has big dreams. She’s going to become an actress. She won the Best Actress Award of the University last year. Did you know that?”
“Well,” Shareefa Baig went on, quite placidly, obviously unimpressed by this achievement, “ – that’s all very well, but for a girl, the best thing she can have is a good husband and a happy family. A home of her own. That’s much more important than acting, or having a career!”  (How is it, thought Shueli, that all mothers, Indian or Pakistani, Hindu, Christian or Muslim, are united on this one point?!)
Opening the blue velvet case, Mrs. Baig revealed a chain with an exquisite pendant upon it. “This is a very old pendant on this gold chain. Those are rubies, diamonds and small emeralds in the pendant, which we’ve had in our family for years. It’s for you.”  She pressed the case into Shueli’s hands. Shueli was flustered and overwhelmed by this gift, and all the lavish hospitality. But she knew she would gladly exchange it all for an opportunity to be alone with Arif and see a look of love in his green eyes, which seemed an impossible hope. Thanking them all profusely, clutching the precious jewel case, she got into the car which the driver had brought into the porch.
 In the next few days, Shueli visited some of the other old friends of her parents. The Azeezes too invited her for a meal. Sakeena Azeez welcomed her with warmth and affection. Ammy had told Shueli she’d like to know how their friends in Pakistan lived. So Shueli made mental notes everywhere she went! She noticed that Sakina Azeez’s drawing room was more restrained and tasteful, less ornate than her sister’s.  Sakina made Shueli sit next to her, on the peach and silver brocaded sofa, and lavished affection on her. “Shueli – Beti, - come and tell me all about India, - about your parents, and about yourself, pyari bacchi. I’m sorry Arif is not here yet. He called to say he would be a bit late.”  Arif did come in soon after, all in a rush, rather like the Wild West Wind, thought Shueli with amusement. “AmmyJaan, Shueli, sorry I’m late. Oh, I’m thirsty and hungry.”
Sakina’s husband had passed away a few years ago, and the strong bond between mother and son was apparent. Dinner was not the rich Pakistani food served by Shareefa, but consisted of a cheese and mushroom souffle, and chicken fricasee served with a Pillau. The sweet Phirni which followed had a gossamer light topping of silver. Sakina too had a present “for Shueli to take back to her dear Mother” – which she brought out after dinner. “Open it, Ammyjaan. Let Shueli have a look.” Leaning over her, as she sat on the sofa, he opened up the parcel which lay on her lap. It was a most luxurious looking dressing table set, in onyx and silver. Arif held up the mirror, and Shueli saw both their faces reflected there. The old-fashioned frame of the mirror seemed to hold them together, as in some timeless, yet ancient wedding photograph. For that second, her mind went back to the faded photographs of Graany and Graanpaa in the Tiruvella house. And, almost in that same second, it appeared to her that all of time was a trick, played by some master magician or Theatre Director. The scene is the same. Only the faces change. It had struck her earlier, in her musings about Life and God, - Maybe we are all just part of the dream of some great Creator. When he wakes up, we all vanish! The thought only glimmered in her imagination for that fleeting second. Then Arif packed away the mirror, and Shueli produced the present she had brought for Arif. She had found the leather-bound copy of the Metaphysical Poets in an old bookshop in Delhi, and handed it to him with “Do you still love poetry, Arif?”
“Oh, thank you Shueli. What a beautiful Edition. I shall treasure it. Though, I must admit I don’t get much time for poetry these days. I concentrate mainly on Economics, which is what I shall be reading at the L.S.E.  Poetry? Well, of course I do enjoy reading some, now and then, but I do have to concentrate on real life now. Can’t afford to be self-indulgent – as I used to be.”  Sakina just smiled proudly at her handsome, clever son, agreeing with every word. While Shueli thought He’s changed so much. His idea of ‘real life’ seems to exclude all the things we loved before. Maybe he’s just become really practical and grownup. After all, his father is dead, and the entire responsibility of the family falls upon him. After this reflection, she felt slightly reassured about the changes in Arif’s personality. She gave herself a rap for expecting  him to stay a romantic young school boy. He’s a man now! She remembered how tender and protective he had been to his mother during those nightmare days in Delhi. And she continued to uphold the image of Arif which had ruled so long in her heart. She was roused out of her reverie by Arif’s voice. He had been flicking through the book of poems Shueli had just given him. “Please, Shueli, read something for AmmyJaan and me. You have such a lovely voice, and, you know AmmyJaan – she’s one of the best readers of poetry. Why not something by John Donne? He’s the best.”
After some hesitation, Shueli opened the book, and read in her clear and moving voice, Donne’s lines:
If yet I have not all thy love,
Deare,  I shall never have it all,
I cannot breathe one other sigh, to move;
Nor can intreat one other tear to fall.
And all my treasure, which should purchase thee,
Sighs, tears, and oaths, and letters I have spent.
Yet no more can be due to me,
Than at the bargain made was meant,
If then thy gift of love were partial,
That some to me, some should to others fall,
Dear, I shall never have Thee All.
Shueli had chosen the lines at random. She never thought they would be prophetic.
   Rahel Aunty and Uncle Salman were out when Arif dropped in the next day. So Shueli found herself alone with him at long last. Brimming over with spontaneous and genuine affection, Arif started to tell Shueli, the friend of his lost childhood, about himself and his future plans… Carried away by the feeling of affection and closeness, Shueli dropped her usual reserve to say “Arif, I thought about you so much, all these years.”
“Well, so did I. You’ll always be so dear to me, and to my mother.” Taking her hand, and looking directly into her eyes, Arif told her “Ammy Jaan wants me to be engaged before I leave for England. I’m not too sure myself, what I should do…Anyway, she seems to have set her heart on a certain girl - - “
“Who?” asked Shueli, her heart beating uncontrollably.
“Her name is Rabiya Jamshed. I never met her myself. She was away at school in England, and is at University there now.. Our families have been friends for generations. Ammy Jaan wants me to meet her, either here, in Karachi, before I leave. Or in England, after I get there. I would like to make Ammy happy. It’s no great sacrifice to agree to meet someone.”
Shueli found not a word to say. She felt turned to stone. She  heard the sound of glass shattering all around her. A very old voice deep inside her told her to keep her dignity. She assumed a mask of propriety, and wished him well. Looking back on it, she wondered if the whole outcome might not have been different, if she had revealed her true feelings. Maybe if she had, they would have melted into one another, and he would never have been able to leave her for an unknown woman! On the other hand, the voice reminded her, how low she would have fallen, if he had politely rejected her.
When she got back home, she threw herself on the floor and wept tempestuously. She felt as if a blow had been struck at her very youth. The love of her girlhood was lost to her for ever. She wished that she could have been bolder and freer. “I must shake off Queen Victoria, and the Syrian Christian prudishness perched on my shoulder.”  But another voice, perhaps that hidden voice, or Ammy’s, praised her for her ‘restraint and dignity.’
None of which was any help to her, as she lay utterly distraught, in her little cabin. Words from a loved novel came back to haunt her:  “There are the lover and the beloved, but the two come from different countries.”  Different countries, - different families, - different religions, castes, colours, - there were always the cruel, dividing lines that kept people apart.

Anna Sujatha Mathai grew up in St. Stephen's College Delhi, where her father was Head of the English Department. It was an idyllic childhood, reading wonderful books, hearing poetry, seeing plays. She and her sister spent many sunny days exploring The Ridge, unimaginable now! Sujatha started writing Short Stories and Essays for The TREASURE CHEST, an All-India Children's Magazine edited by an American Editor, and translated into many Indian languages. At 14 she was chosen by Treasure Chest to be their youngest Special Correspondent! 
 What she loved most was the Theatre. She was selected, at age 14,  by the Shakespeare Society of St. Stephen's College, to be Viola in Shakespeare's Twelfth Night. Later, doing her B.A.{Honours} in English Literature at Miranda College, she won the College Drama Prize, and later, the Best Actress Award of the University of Delhi.
  Getting married at age 20, to a young surgeon, changed her life completely. In Edinburgh, she joined the University for a Post Graduate Course in Social Studies. She worked in that field for several years, in York, Sheffield, London. Leaving it all behind, coming back to small-town India, was traumatic for her. She used to write on scraps of paper, and throw them away. Her sister, in Bangalore, sent her a cutting in which American professor, Howard McCord of the Univ. of Seattle asked for poems by "avant-garde young Indian poets" for his Anthology. Her sister wrote "At the most, you'll lose a few stamps!" Prof McCord's warm response to her poems, made her start taking her writing more seriously! Her first poems were published in P. Lal's MODERN INDIAN POETRY IN ENGLISH. She continued to write, and, later, moving to Bangalore her dream of theatre was somewhat realised. She had roles in plays by Shaeffer, Ibsen, Sartre, Pinter, Tennessee Williams, Lorca and others. She was a co-founder,with friend Snehalata Reddy, of THE ABHINAYA POETRY/THEATRE GROUP.
Her poems have been published in The Commonwealth Journal; Indian Literature; The Little Magazine; The Times of India; Dialogue India; Chelsea (New York); The London Magazine; The Poetry Review (London), Two Plus Two (Switzerland.), Contemporary Asian Poetry Ed. Agnes Lam, Hong Kong/Singapore: Post-Independence Poetry in English ed. by Arundhathi Subramaniam She was among 4 poets "show-cased" on the 50th Anniversary of the Sahitya Akademi. She was an Associate Editor of the prestigious Literary Journal, Two Plus Two,based in Lausanne, Switzerland. She has 5 collections of Poetry in English, and her poems have been translated into several Indian and European languages.
She now lives in Delhi. ​​​​​

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