April
Libby hung on to the telephone, anxiously twisting the cord around her fingers. It had taken all morning to get through to Belgooree but Clarrie Robson had sounded pleased that Libby had called.
‘It will cheer your father to know you’ve called.’
‘So can I speak to Dad?’ Libby had asked.
‘I think he’s sleeping.’
‘Please, Clarrie.’
‘Of course. Let me go and fetch him.’
It seemed an age before Clarrie returned. Libby heard a crackle at the other end and then Clarrie’s warm reassuring voice was speaking again.
‘Libby, sweetheart, your father’s only just woken up. He’s been sleeping so badly. He’s rather groggy. Can I get him to ring you tomorrow or the day after?’
Libby felt a spasm of anger: despite several attempts to get through on the telephone she still hadn’t managed to speak to her dad. ‘Is he really so weak that he can’t come to the phone to speak to me?’
‘It’s a long walk from the house to the factory,’ Clarrie reminded her.
Libby felt a guilty pang; was she being unreasonable? ‘What’s wrong with him? You told me it was nothing serious.’
There was a hesitation then Clarrie said, ‘The doctor thinks he’s worn out – complete exhaustion. Something seems to be troubling him but he won’t talk about it. Perhaps he will to you.’
‘Not if he won’t even drag himself to the phone for two minutes,’ Libby said in frustration.
‘It’s not that he doesn’t want to,’ said Clarrie, ‘it’s just that he’s finding it hard to say anything at the moment.’
Libby was suspicious. ‘So he is capable of coming to the phone, he just doesn’t want to. He’s avoiding me.’
‘It’s not like that . . .’
‘Well, that’s what it feels like,’ Libby said, her eyes smarting with tears. ‘I’ve been longing to see him.’
‘I know you have,’ Clarrie sympathised. ‘And you know you are welcome here any time. Perhaps your uncle could travel with you as far as Shillong.’
‘I don’t need my uncle as a chaperone,’ Libby said.
‘Your father doesn’t want you and Flowers travelling alone,’ said Clarrie. ‘I think he’s being overcautious but things are growing unsettled in the countryside. People are on the move.’
Libby felt a moment of anxiety. Was the violence in the Punjab finally beginning to seep across the northern plain?
‘I don’t like to ask Uncle Johnny any more favours,’ said Libby. ‘He’s been so kind to me as it is.’
‘Let’s see how James is in a few days’ time,’ said Clarrie. ‘He might get his energy back and decide to travel to Calcutta after all. Why don’t we speak at the weekend?’
Libby swallowed her disappointment. ‘Give him my love, won’t you?’
‘Of course I will. Goodbye, Libby, sweetheart.’
Libby hung up. She sat on the chair by the telephone in the hallway feeling numb and knowing that her aunt had heard every word through the open drawing-room door. Helena appeared.
‘It’s too bad,’ said her aunt. ‘Do you think he’s having some sort of mental breakdown, poor man? Muriel thinks so. The planters worked so damn hard during the War to keep out the Japs and help the troops. Men your father’s age deserve to retire.’
Libby knew her aunt, in her own brusque way, was trying to be kind. But her words distressed Libby. When she finally got to see her father, would she find a broken husk of a man? Was it too late for them to recapture their special bond? She realised how much she was relying on her father to be the same strong, protective figure that she remembered from childhood. It frightened her to think of him as weak and debilitated, worn out by years of war and a lifetime of working in the unforgiving tropics. She was clinging on to the belief that her father would be the one to reunite the family; that once they were all together again her mother would rediscover her love for James and for India – and for Libby.
The thought startled Libby. Perhaps she did care what Tilly thought of her after all.
‘Would you like to come with me to bridge at the Percy-Barratts’ later, dear?’ Helena asked. ‘You look like you need cheering up.’
This galvanised Libby, who stood up. ‘Thanks Auntie, but I’ve got plans.’
‘Seeing any more of George Brewis?’
‘Maybe later,’ Libby said vaguely.
‘They’re such fun, the Strachan’s men, aren’t they?’ Helena said. ‘In my day, one rather looked down on box-wallahs as marriage material, but perhaps we were the fools. They’re the ones with the money and a future here. It’s we army types who will have to go.’
Libby scrutinised her aunt. Something in her tone belied the flippant words.
‘Auntie, are you worried about what will happen?’ Libby asked.
Helena glanced out at the veranda where her father sat snoozing. ‘Yes, I worry. I can’t imagine ever leaving – I think it would kill Papa – but it will never be the same again. So many of our friends are talking seriously now of going home – people who have been here a lifetime. It’s so unsettling.’
Libby reached out and put a hand on Helena’s shoulder. ‘I know, it doesn’t seem fair, does it, when you’ve lived here all your life.’
‘That’s it,’ Helena said, her voice wavering. ‘It’s all so unfair.’
‘But then that’s how the Indians have felt about us being here,’ Libby said as gently as she could. ‘British rule has been unfair to them for too long.’
Helena gave her a sharp look. ‘I suppose that’s what your friend Mr Khan says, is it? That the Indians have been put upon? But does he ever stop to think what we British – generations of British – have given to India?’
‘He would argue that we have taken a lot more than we’ve given,’ said Libby. ‘And I think he would be right.’
Helena stiffened. Libby dropped her hand.
‘Well, I must get ready for bridge.’ Helena stalked off.
Libby felt bad about upsetting her aunt but she had only spoken the truth.
After an afternoon of aimless wandering around the Maidan, making half-hearted sketches, Libby found herself outside Amelia Buildings as the sun was going down. Perhaps deep-down she had always intended coming here, hoping to bump into Ghulam. Her stomach knotted with nerves. What would she say to him? What if he should rebuff her and send her away? She screwed up her courage; if she didn’t act now, she would never know what Ghulam really thought of her. She entered the building. If the Khans were out, she would leave a note inviting them to have tea in town – perhaps at the Kwality Café or Firpo’s.
Sitara answered the door with a welcoming smile. Fatima was making ready to go out. There was no sign of Ghulam.
‘You’ve just caught me,’ said the doctor. ‘I’m sorry – I wish I’d known you were coming . . .’
‘No, it’s me who’s sorry,’ said Libby. ‘I know I should have sent a note but I was just passing. I’ve been sketching on the Maidan.’
‘Alone?’ Fatima gave her a look of concern.
‘Yes.’
‘You must take care,’ Fatima warned. ‘Do your aunt and uncle know where you are?’
‘Not exactly. They’ll assume I’m with George or Flowers.’ Libby smothered an impatient sigh. ‘But I can look after myself.’
Fatima gave her a long look and then nodded. ‘Of course you can. So you’ve delayed going to Assam? How is your father?’
‘Needing more rest,’ said Libby. ‘I’m at a bit of a loose end until I know what he wants me to do.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Fatima. ‘Would you like to talk about it?’
‘Thanks, but I mustn’t make you late. Perhaps I could call another evening?’
‘Well, if you’re sure?’
‘Where are you going?’ Libby asked.
‘To a meeting in Bowbazar – Ghulam is hoping to speak.’
Libby’s heart lurched. ‘What kind of meeting?’
‘A discussion about what should happen to Bengal – and Calcutta – once the British go.’
‘Can I come?’
Fatima looked worried. ‘It might get rowdy.’
‘But you’re going to risk it,’ Libby pointed out. ‘Please let me go with you, Fatima? I’ll just keep quiet at the back; people won’t know I’m there.’
Fatima gave her a dry smile that reminded Libby of Ghulam. ‘From what my brother’s told me about you, I find it hard to believe you’ll sit like a mouse through a political meeting.’
Libby blushed. ‘Ghulam’s spoken about me then?’
Fatima nodded. ‘I think – against all his expectations – you’ve impressed him. And it takes a lot to impress Ghulam.’
Libby grinned. ‘Good. He impressed me too. I’ve never known a man quite like him with so much passion and single-mindedness to a cause.’
Fatima pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose and studied her.
‘My brother is very single-minded. I love him dearly but I accept that he puts his campaigns and beliefs before anything or anyone else. He’s always been like that and he won’t ever change.’
‘I admire that in him,’ said Libby.
‘But it has turned him into a man who doesn’t allow others to get close to him.’
Libby felt herself go hot. ‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘May I be frank, Libby?’
‘Of course.’
‘I have seen you with my brother and I think perhaps you have grown a little fond of him?’
Libby swallowed. ‘Is it so obvious?’
‘To me, yes. And I also know that he likes you – perhaps in other circumstances would allow a friendship to develop – but these are difficult and uncertain times. If you come with me to the meeting it must be as my friend and not because you want to see Ghulam. Don’t fall in love with him, Libby; you will only get your heart broken.’
Libby put her hands to her burning cheeks. She was mortified that Fatima had guessed her feelings for Ghulam so easily. Had the brother and sister also discussed Libby’s growing infatuation? She had to know.
‘Have you talked about me in this way with Ghulam?’
‘No,’ said Fatima, ‘I am just advising you in confidence – as one woman to another.’
Libby felt wretched. But Fatima only confirmed her own fears: that the time and place would never be right for her and Ghulam. He was not the kind of man to put his own feelings or desires before his politics, and that was part of why she was attracted to him. He had spent his whole life fighting for a free and socialist India. Affairs of the heart would always be secondary. Fatima was being frank to save Libby a lot of heartache, although she couldn’t help but wish she might be the one to change Ghulam.
‘Has Ghulam ever been close to another woman?’ Libby asked.
Fatima hesitated. ‘Once, yes. He has had many casual friendships with women over the years – mostly comrades in the party – but this woman was different.’
Libby swallowed. ‘In what way? Did he love her?’
‘Yes, very much. But they argued badly – she became a fighter with the Indian National Army and accused Ghulam of betraying India. You can imagine how much that hurt him.’
‘How cruel of her,’ Libby said indignantly.
Fatima gave her a pitying look. ‘Yes, but he still keeps her photograph.’
Libby felt a stab of jealousy. ‘Where is she now?’
Fatima shrugged. ‘Probably back in Delhi where she came from. That’s if she survived the War. Ghulam never talks about her.’
Libby’s heart clenched for Ghulam and also for herself – for her hopeless love.
Fatima touched her arm gently. ‘I’m sorry but it’s best you know. I will understand if you don’t now wish to come to the meeting.’
Libby dug her nails into her palms; she would show no emotion. ‘Of course I still want to come. My interest in what happens to this country isn’t any less because of what you’ve just told me. I hope you don’t think I’m that shallow.’
Fatima smiled. ‘I don’t think you are at all shallow, Libby. You are a remarkable young woman. If only there had been more British like you, we would have got independence a generation ago.’
Libby felt a wave of gratitude for the generous words. ‘Thank you.’
‘Do you speak Bengali?’ Fatima asked.
‘Very little,’ Libby admitted.
‘You may not understand everything that is said,’ said Fatima, ‘but I’ll try and explain what’s going on. Ghulam will probably speak in English so everyone will understand him. Come on, let’s not be late.’
Despite the whirring of ceiling fans, the hall was hot and stuffy and packed with people, mostly men. The meeting was already underway and a man dressed in the white clothing and cap of a Congress party member was speaking in English to the crowd, exhorting them to remain united.
‘I think he’s one of the leaders from Delhi,’ whispered Fatima.
With nowhere to sit, Fatima and Libby stood at the back next to a handful of other young women. Libby, ignoring the curious looks of those around her, craned for a view of Ghulam. Her heart lurched as she spotted him behind the speaker. As the man finished, a handful of men rose to clap him but others began to shout their opposition. The clamour grew and the exchanges sounded ill-tempered, though Libby couldn’t understand much of it.
Ghulam stepped forward and held up his hands for calm.
‘Comrades!’ he bellowed. ‘There is a saying in our country that if you have one Calcuttan you have a poet; if you have two, you have a political party; and if you have three – you have two political parties.’
There was a ripple of laughter and the noise began to subside.
‘These are exciting times for our nation and some of us have different visions of what that nation should be. But what binds us all is our desire for freedom and the right to decide our own destiny. Don’t let brother fall out with brother – this is not the time for disunity.’
‘It’s too late,’ a man shouted, jumping to his feet. ‘The Muslims are butchering our brothers in the Punjab. It’s a matter of time before it happens in Calcutta again – just like last year.’
‘The violence was on both sides,’ said Ghulam. ‘As a journalist I witnessed atrocities against Muslims in our city too.’
‘Hindus only acted in self-defence!’ the man protested.
‘No,’ Ghulam contradicted him, ‘the violence was organised – the Hindu militants had been preparing for weeks, collecting weapons and teaching impressionable youths that Muslims were their enemy. But it’s the rich Hindu landowners who are to blame – inflaming the lowest castes to fight, all so that they can have the rich spoils of West Bengal to themselves. The ordinary people don’t benefit from partition – far from it: they are the ones who will be uprooted and lose their homes and livelihoods. The winners will be the rich Marwari merchants who want to push out their rivals – they are the ones who finance the violence in our city.’
‘That’s a lie!’ someone else shouted.
‘Not your city, Khan!’ the first protester said, jabbing an accusing finger. ‘You’re a Punjabi.’
‘And a Muslim,’ another called out.
Libby’s chest tightened in fear for Ghulam; she felt the sudden tension in the room.
‘I’m an Indian,’ Ghulam cried, his expression passionate. ‘We all are! That is why we must hold fast together,’ he urged. ‘Don’t let the British tactics of divide and rule live on in our new India. There is no place for a separate Bengal – or for a divided one.’
‘We don’t agree,’ said a Congress worker standing near to Ghulam. ‘The Bengal Congress Party has come to the conclusion that dividing the state is the only way of guaranteeing the safety of all.’
‘Whose safety?’ Ghulam challenged. ‘The up-country migrants from East Bengal who struggle to make a living in Calcutta?’
‘The Muslim Bengalis will be better off going back to East Bengal – that’s what they want too.’
‘And what about the Hindu minority in East Bengal?’ Ghulam said heatedly. ‘Are you saying that they must leave the only home they’ve ever known? Did Gandhi waste his time there this last winter and starve himself half to death for nothing?’
‘Gandhi is out of touch! Non-violence means nothing to Jinnah’s League or his half-caste lackey Suhrawardy who runs our city for the benefit of his own kind and not ours.’
‘It shouldn’t matter whether we’re Muslim or Hindu,’ Ghulam said in exasperation. ‘We all want the best for Bengal and India.’
‘We’re not all the same,’ his original opponent shouted. ‘We have an enemy within – and that’s the Muslim living among us pretending to be our friend while plotting to kill us.’
‘That’s ridiculous!’ Ghulam retorted.
Libby’s heart began to pound. The atmosphere simmered with hostility. She admired Ghulam for standing his ground yet was anxious on his behalf.
The Congress supporter standing beside him put a hand on his arm. ‘We don’t all believe that, Comrade, but sadly too many do. The only way to stem the bloodshed is to agree to some measure of partition. Give the League their Pakistan and let us get on with forging a new India. Don’t waste your energy fighting your fellow Indians when there are other battles to be won – such as taking power and wealth from the maharajahs.’
‘Yes,’ agreed the man in the crowd. ‘We want our own state for West Bengalis.’
‘Jai Hind! Victory to India!’
Then someone countered with a defiant chant: ‘Pakistan Zindabad! Long live Pakistan!’
The room erupted in shouts and argument. Libby saw the frustration on Ghulam’s face. He searched the room for support – perhaps looking for Fatima – and for an instant their eyes locked. His mouth fell open in astonishment. The exhortation that he was about to make died on his lips. People began to look round and stare at the women. Some started to mutter and ask questions but Libby didn’t understand. Moments later Ghulam was being manhandled from the platform as the meeting broke up in chaos.
Fatima gipped Libby’s arm. ‘We need to get out of here,’ she gasped. ‘It’s not safe.’
Her face was so worried that Libby did not argue. But as they tried to move towards the door, they were blocked by the press of people around them as others attempted to leave. The mood was volatile; some arguing, some anxious to be gone. Libby heard the word Britisher being hissed. Fatima squeezed her way through, hanging on to Libby’s arm. Then someone pushed between them in their eagerness to get out and the two women became separated.
Fatima looked on helplessly as she was carried on a sea of people towards the entrance while Libby was jostled and shoved in the opposite direction.
‘Go!’ Libby called. ‘I’ll see you outside!’
As Fatima disappeared from sight, the belligerent man in the black hat appeared beside her and pressed himself against her. He snarled at her with teeth stained red with paan.
‘Get out, Britisher spy!’
‘I’m no one’s spy!’ Libby glared back, trying to push him away. ‘I’m India born and bred – I’ve every right to be here.’
He spat in her face. ‘Quit India, Britisher whore.’
Libby recoiled, closing her eyes and wiping at her cheek. Her assailant cried out in fury. She opened her eyes to see him being grabbed from behind by a taller man, who shoved him out of the way. Libby gasped to see it was Ghulam. Without a word, Ghulam seized her hand and barged his way through the throng of agitated people. He cut a way to the door, pulling her behind him. Men shouted threateningly. Heart slamming against her chest in fright, Libby clung on, fearful of being separated.
Minutes later they were out on the street. They looked around in vain for Fatima. The sun had now set. Oil lamps flickered in stalls and shadows loomed. He hurried her behind an old colonnade and its sheltering darkness.
Suddenly he rounded on her. ‘What on earth are you doing here with Fatima?’ he demanded.
‘I wanted to hear the debate,’ Libby panted. ‘I called round to your flat and Fatima was just on her way out.’
‘She had no right to bring you,’ he answered angrily.
‘Don’t blame your sister,’ said Libby, ‘I made her take me. And why shouldn’t I be here?’
‘Do you have any idea how dangerous you made it for her – and for you?’ he blazed. ‘This is no polite debating society – we’re fighting for India and passions are running high.’
‘I realise that—’
‘Yet you expect to swan in and spectate as if it was one of your pig-sticking shows.’
Libby was suddenly aware that he was still gripping her hand. She pulled free.
‘You think I came to lord it over you?’ she asked, impassioned and shaking with adrenaline. ‘Nothing could be further from the truth. At least your sister knows I’m genuinely interested in India’s future – otherwise she wouldn’t have brought me.’
‘I thought you made her take you?’ he retorted.
‘But she agreed with me,’ said Libby. ‘Because we both believe that we women have just as much right to be there as you men – it’s our future too.’
Ghulam leant very close, so that Libby could see the fury flashing in his green eyes.
‘No, Libby,’ he growled, ‘it’s not your future. You British no longer have a say in what happens to India – except the date of when you give us freedom from your Raj. That is the last decision over us Indians you will ever make. It’s time you accepted that.’
His words hurt Libby more deeply than the hostility and spitting she had just endured in the hall.
‘I thought we were on the same side,’ she said, glaring back at him. ‘I agreed with all you said in the meeting. I think partition would be a tragedy too. I’m not asking for a say in India’s future but I’ll fight for my right to live here.’
‘You are a British citizen,’ he pointed out, ‘not an Indian one. You have a choice about where you live – we real Indians don’t.’
She held his look. ‘What’s a real Indian, Ghulam?’ she demanded hotly. ‘Shouldn’t that include all the minorities here? Or don’t you want to think about the inconvenient ones – the Anglo-Indians like Flowers or my cousin Adela – or even the Indian-born Europeans like myself? Are we not pure enough for the new India?’
‘That’s not what I meant—’
‘’Cause if that’s your attitude then you are no better than the Hindu extremists who want to rid India of the Muslims and Sikhs. Because once you start excluding one group then where do you stop?’
They glared at each other. Libby could see the muscles in his jaw clenching in anger. Abruptly he turned from her with a curt reply. ‘I need to find my sister. I’ll fetch you a rickshaw to take you home.’
‘I want to know that Fatima is safe too,’ Libby said. ‘I’m coming with you.’
Ghulam gave a sigh of impatience. ‘Very well.’
They emerged from the shadows and watched the people milling around the entrance. The numbers had already dwindled as people hurried for home, perhaps unnerved by the ill-tempered meeting.
‘There she is!’ Libby cried, catching sight of Fatima on the opposite pavement, standing anxiously at a rickshaw stand.
They hurried across. The women clutched hands in relief.
‘Are you all right?’ Fatima asked. ‘I’m sorry for leaving you.’
‘I’m fine,’ Libby assured her. ‘I’m sorry for putting you at risk.’
‘You didn’t.’
‘Your brother thinks I did,’ said Libby, flicking Ghulam a look.
‘You were both needlessly reckless,’ he said angrily. ‘We must get away from here in case those men have goondas waiting to cause trouble.’
Libby felt queasy with fear again. Ghulam summoned two rickshaws. He helped his sister into one.
‘Go straight home, Fatima,’ he ordered. ‘I’ll see Miss Robson to Alipore.’
The women said a hasty goodbye as Libby scrambled into the second rickshaw, followed by Ghulam.
Libby and Ghulam sat in silence as they were jostled down the road. Libby’s heart hammered with annoyance and upset. Why was he so infuriating and stubborn in his prejudice against her? And yet he had saved her from an ugly situation in the hall – a chivalrous gesture that would probably harden the Hindu militants’ dislike of him. By being there, she had made a bad situation worse. She had been deeply shaken by the anger and hostility in the hall; until then she hadn’t fully grasped how uncertain and dangerous the future was for India – and for men like Ghulam.
On Chowringhee Street, they transferred to a taxi to take them out to Alipore. By the time they neared New House, Libby was feeling wretched.
‘I’m sorry for causing you and Fatima trouble,’ she blurted out. ‘You’re right; I should never have gone to the meeting. I didn’t think. I was just curious. It’s a big fault of mine – nosiness. But if I’d known there was such animosity . . .’ She turned to look at him in the seat beside her. ‘Have I made it very much worse for you?’
He studied her with his intense gaze. ‘No, I don’t suppose consorting with memsahibs will make any difference. The Hindu Mahasabha already hate my guts.’
‘Because you’re a communist or a Muslim?’
He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Both. And for the articles I’ve written against them and their warped version of nationalism.’
Impulsively, Libby reached out and covered his hand with hers. ‘Tell me what I should do. I want to be useful here but I feel so helpless. It’s as if the world is spinning out of control and everyone’s angry or afraid of something. It should be a new dawn – but it doesn’t feel like it.’
The taxi slowed as it turned into the quiet leafy street in Alipore where the Watsons lived and came to a halt. Libby thought Ghulam wasn’t going to say anything, yet he hadn’t pulled his hand away.
‘Do what is in your power to do, Libby,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t have to be anything big or newsworthy.’
‘Such as?’ she asked, searching his face.
‘Go and see your father,’ he answered. ‘He’s ill and he needs you.’
She was taken aback by his suggestion. She wanted to do something grand and noble that would make a difference to people. She hadn’t meant something small-scale and personal.
‘He hasn’t asked for me to go,’ she countered.
‘He might never ask. Are you going to kick your heels around Calcutta because you’re afraid to face him? Because if so, you’re not the brave woman I think you are.’
His challenge jolted Libby. She thought how Ghulam had been cast out from his own family and it surprised her that he should think it important for her to see her father. Perhaps he had guessed that, despite her insistence on wanting to see her father again, she was also nervous at meeting him. Or maybe Ghulam just wanted her gone from the city. As if reading her thoughts, he added, ‘It is perhaps my only regret that I did not see my mother again before she died.’
Libby’s eyes prickled with sudden emotion. He seemed such a strong man – one who would never show any weakness – and yet his words were edged with a bittersweet tenderness. For all that they had argued and the evening had been fraught, Ghulam still had the humanity to think of her relationship with her father – a man whose position of power in the tea gardens he despised. She was only just beginning to grasp the depth of Ghulam’s wisdom and compassion for people – even for his adversaries.
‘Thank you,’ Libby said.
Instinctively, she leant towards him and pressed her mouth against his in a robust kiss. Then she was pushing open the door and clambering out before he had time to react.
They watched each other as the taxi moved off. Ghulam’s handsome face was impassive. Libby felt a fresh wave of remorse – not only for angering Ghulam with her earlier impulsive behaviour and for causing upset between Fatima and her brother – but now for her foolish kiss. It would make things ten times more awkward between her and Ghulam should they meet again. What on earth had taken possession of her?
Libby retreated up the garden path, her cheeks burning with more than just the evening heat. By the time she had reached the house, she had made up her mind. She would contact Flowers in the morning and if her friend still wanted to come with her to Assam, Libby would make arrangements for their travel as soon as possible. If not, she would go anyway.
Only later, lying in bed, going over the events of the evening, did she remember. She had left her jute bag with the sketching pad and pencils at the Khans’ flat in Amelia Buildings. Libby stifled a gasp of embarrassment. What if Ghulam should flick through it and find the cartoon of him portrayed as a caged sulking tiger? Libby lay back with a sigh. She and Ghulam Khan would probably never set eyes on each other again – no doubt that would be what he wished – so what was the use in worrying?
With a deep sigh of regret, Libby forced herself to think of something else. She would go to her father. Soon she would be back in Assam. After all, that’s why she had come all this way, wasn’t it?
Unable to sleep, Ghulam went up to the flat roof of Amelia Buildings to smoke. Something that Libby had said kept nagging at his thoughts: ‘It’s as if the world is spinning out of control and everyone’s angry or afraid of something . . .’
That was how he felt – as if things were slipping out of his control. The meeting had been bad-tempered and seething with hostility. People had already made up their minds that the partition of Bengal was coming whether they wanted it or not, and they talked of the Punjab in the same way. There was a fatalistic belief overtaking the Congress Party that the only way to salvage India was to sever its two arms: Punjab in the west and Bengal in the east.
During the meeting, Ghulam had begun to feel dispirited. He had searched around the room for Fatima; his younger sister’s presence always calmed and reassured him. He had come to rely on her more and more. Whatever happened, Fatima always maintained her quiet optimism that things would work out for the best. Then he had spotted Libby standing with Fatima at the back wall. For a moment he had been speechless with surprise, thinking he must have made a mistake. But the large blue eyes with their challenging look and the expressive mouth that curved in a smile of encouragement as their eyes met could belong to no other.
Ghulam felt his heart begin to thud again at the memory. His instant feeling was one of elation that she had come to hear him, followed immediately by anger that she would put herself and also Fatima in danger by coming openly to the rowdy meeting. Of course as a memsahib she would attract suspicion and resentment.
Ghulam took a deep drag on his cigarette. He should never have told his sister about the meeting in the first place. The atmosphere had been openly hostile towards Muslims. Yet Fatima continued to reassure him that once a political settlement was reached then the anger and fear between the communities would dissipate. He had to believe that.
He leant on the parapet, welcoming the evening breeze that licked his hair and face, and looked south towards Alipore. An indistinct mass of dark trees obscured the housing.
‘Oh, Libby,’ he sighed.
He felt such a clash of emotions towards the young woman: annoyance and resentment, admiration and liking. Seeing her being accosted at the meeting by the odious heckler, Ghulam had been astonished by the surge of protectiveness he had felt towards her as he’d rushed to her aid.
He lit another cigarette. He had to admit that it wasn’t just the world slipping out of control that preoccupied him but his feelings for the Robson girl. How many times had the image of Libby in the green satin evening dress come to mind in recent days? Seeing her on the Watsons’ veranda had taken his breath away: her voluptuous figure and lustrous hair, her hypnotic blue eyes and translucent skin that betrayed her emotions as the blood rushed up from her chest to her cheeks at the slightest compliment. She was beautiful.
Ghulam had gone with reluctance to the birthday party just to please Fatima and had intended staying for as short a time as possible. But he had been unable to stop gazing at Libby or to quell the kick of jealousy he felt at seeing her dancing with her other male friends. He had feigned indifference to her plea to dance with him and yet when he took her in his arms he was flooded with a desire that he had not felt in years.
It was ridiculous to feel this way about a Britisher – and one nearly half his age – and yet he could not help it. He found himself thinking about her when trying to write articles, when he heard a snatch of band music on the radio or when over-tired and sleepless in his bed. Restless, Ghulam could not help wondering about other lovers she might have had.
He knew such surges of desire were fruitless; nothing could come of a relationship with Libby and it would be wrong to give her hope. Besides, Fatima had just told him how she had cautioned Libby against developing feelings for her brother and that he was wedded to his causes. He was grateful for his sister’s frankness towards the British girl.
But what about that moment of intimacy in the taxi earlier that evening? His pulse had throbbed at the touch of her hand on his and then that brief electrifying kiss on the lips. If she had stayed any longer, would he have pulled her into his arms and kissed her properly? Ghulam let out a long sigh. He had been genuine in wanting her to be reunited with her father and realised what an ordeal it would probably be for both of them after such a long separation. He had not suggested it as a means of putting her out of temptation’s way but there was a certain relief in thinking Libby would be leaving for Assam. He could get on with his work without worrying about bumping into her – and perhaps he could rid his thoughts of her more easily.
Ghulam stubbed out his cigarette and went below.