The In-Between World of Vikram Lall by M. G. Vassanji

Mother, and Mahesh Uncle were grilled, our house was partly searched, the backyards and gardens were combed. Finally about ten of the servants were taken away, the main suspect among them, our Amini, with a beseeching look toward Mother.
    You should go and vouch for him, Mother said to Papa. Yes you should, Mahesh Uncle added. Why should I?—snarled Papa. To become a collaborator with murderers? Only he could have stolen it. Who else would know where to search, who else could go in and come out with the gun in such a short time?
    We never saw Amini again. We often wondered what happened to him. He had been a young man, not over twenty,light-skinned and short, who always wore white collarless shirts of drill cotton of the coastal variety. None of us, not even Papa, was really convinced that he was guilty, even though the police said he was half-Kikuyu and a likely suspect. But if Amini didn’t steal the gun, who did? Both my parents were troubled by the question. Papa was fined seventy-five pounds for losing the weapon plus ammunition, and received a reprimand even from the Nakuru Times , which once again questioned the wisdom of letting the Indians carry guns.

    That blinded African was never spoken of again. But he has continued to haunt me from the frightening backdrop of my childhood memories. Although I did not see him this way, I have always imagined him in the middle of a road, against the glare of headlights, a tortured, eyeless Frankenstein in a tweed jacket and trousers too short for him, moving slowly and stiffly in the night, his arms extended to help his steps. What could happen to such a man? Perhaps he became lucky and ended up in the care of an institution for the blind, making mats for the tourist trade to while away his time…
    Far away, in the dim glow that hangs suspended across the lake and above the earth, must be a light (I tell myself) that comes from Deepa. Her name too evokes light. She is the only one who knows virtually all about my life, with whom I’ve shared almost every private thought. The reverse is not true; it needn’t be, she is a woman.
    Who is this librarian I hear about? she asks me when I telephone.
    Seema Chatterjee—a Bengali—she is our happy discovery. I was going to tell you about her. She is rather fond of Joseph…in a big-sister sort of way. She’s good for him, she talks to him. What else has he been telling you?
    You are quiet and brood a lot.
    Really. And I thought I was quite chatty with him. I talkto him about the past, what I’m writing, and sometimes his presence even jogs my memory a bit. We plan to drive around to look at the towns in this area. It’s called Northumberland County.
    You could go to Toronto and meet people there.
    No, I couldn’t handle all the bustle. This is my quiet period, my retreat. But Seema went to Toronto and she brought some kulfi for us.
    Any good?
    Yes, though not as good as—
    Those from Bombay Sweets of Nakuru! I know! For you nothing could surpass the kulfi from there, Bhaiya!
    Yes, they were the best. Deepa—do you remember Amini?
    She is quiet, draws a breath. Then: Yes, I do…It doesn’t pay to dwell too much on the past, Bhaiya.
    I know. But we must remember, sometimes. Not too much, but a little. They are a part of us, aren’t they…those we knew?
    Yes, brother.
    Laudate dominum omnes gentes , Deepa, I want to say to her, can you recall that also, laudate dominum…
    Earlier this week I went into town and purchased a CD of children’s choir music, and I have several times now subjected poor Joseph’s ears to that song. Perhaps he’s already told her about this.
    Amen…amen…amen…

 

    SEVEN.

    Diwali is the day when Lord Rama returned victorious to Ayodhya, an enchanted place in far-off India, having defeated the ten-headed demon Ravana, way south on the island of Lanka. Rama was the pink god on the table in Mother’s puja corner, and on the calendar of Lakshmi Sweets, on which he appeared with his wife Sita