Page 142 of The Secrets of the Tea Garden
‘But I should have.’
He grasped her by the shoulders and frowned. ‘My God, woman! How am I supposed to keep you safe if you keep rushing straight towards trouble?’
‘But what about that poor woman?’
‘She’s being looked after,’ said Ghulam.
‘Was she his wife?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said distractedly. ‘She was Hindu like him, so probably.’
‘So was it a Muslim gang who did this?’
He gave her a bleak look. ‘It could have been a quarrel between neighbours – but whether it was or not, the Hindus will seek revenge.’
‘Oh, Ghulam!’ she cried, holding on to him.
‘That’s why I came straight here to make sure you and Fatima were safe.’
‘But your sister isn’t home yet,’ Libby gasped. ‘What if she gets caught up ...?’
Ghulam looked around him, for the first time seeming to notice that his sister was not there.
‘I must go and look for her,’ he said at once, dropping his hold and turning for the door.
‘Then I’m coming with you,’ Libby insisted.
‘Certainly not!’ he ordered. ‘You’ll stay here and keep the door bolted.’
‘Ghulam, please—’
He rounded on her in exasperation, his expression grim. ‘Stay out of this, Libby. It’s not your fight and I’ve got enough to worry about.’
She recoiled from his words and the hard look in his eyes. She watched him go.
‘Lock the door behind me.’ Those were the last words he said to her before he disappeared back into the dark stairwell and clattered away out of sight.
Libby, heart hammering, retreated into the flat and did as he said.
The waiting was interminable. Sitara appeared and Libby gestured for the old widow to stay and sit with her. The clock on the desk ticked on into the evening and no one came. Libby’s mind was filled with everyhorror she could imagine: Fatima had been caught up in the fracas, dragged off into a dark side alley and violated; or Ghulam had been ambushed by vengeful Hindus and was now lying mutilated and dying, his blood seeping into the gutter ...
Libby was nauseated by her thoughts. She couldn’t sit still and kept pacing to the door and back. Sitara tried to calm her with soothing words that she didn’t understand and pressed her to drink tea.
‘I know you’re trying to be kind,’ said Libby, knowing that the woman probably didn’t understand her either, ‘and you must be as worried as I am – but I’m going out of my mind. What’s happened to them? Why hasn’t Ghulam returned by now?’
She thought of going up on to the roof to try and see if she could spot them returning, or find out what was happening below. But that would mean leaving the door unlocked and Sitara vulnerable. Ghulam would be furious with her for disobeying him.
‘Oh, Ghulam! Where are you?’ she cried aloud.
Then doubts beset her. The words he’d flung at her came back to taunt her.Stay out of this, Libby. It’s not your fight. How it wounded her to be told that despite all she had been through in the past couple of days, Ghulam still did not see her as one of his kind. This was a matter for real Indians not the Indian-born British like her. She was already an irrelevance in this land.
Not only that, she was a burden to the Khans. To them, the violence in Calcutta was a real and ever-present danger. They were Muslims – albeit non-practising ones – who would be in a vulnerable minority should the city be parcelled off to West Bengal and India after Independence. It struck Libby how brave they were, carrying on their work amid the ferment of a divided city, as well as volunteering to help refugees from the opposing community. Not that either Ghulam or Fatima saw the fleeing East Bengali Hindus as their opponents. They were simply fellow Indians in extremis who needed their help.
Libby sat down and buried her face in her hands. In contrast, she had done so little for ordinary Indians since returning to the land of her birth. For all her talk about freedom for India and anti-colonialism, what had she done that had been of any practical use? At best she had dabbled in playing the bountiful memsahib – a couple of days volunteering in a canteen and doling out blankets. Her Aunt Helena had done far more in her role as a Girl Guide leader and yet Libby had been scornful of her aunt, not prepared to see beyond the bossy memsahib exterior.
Libby dug her nails into her palms as she was beset with self-criticism. What was she doing here? Her obsession with Ghulam had controlled her every thought and action. She had pursued him for her own gratification, not stopping to think what effect it might have on his life. She wanted him so much that she didn’t care if it was short-term, that she might soon be leaving for England, never to see him again. She felt a stab of pain at the thought. But that was the reality. She had her family in Newcastle waiting for her to join them; the future might look dull and colourless after India but it would be safe and secure.
Whereas Ghulam faced a future fraught with danger and uncertainty. As a Muslim, would he keep his job after Independence? Would he stay in Calcutta or be forced to flee to East Bengal, where the new East Pakistan was being created? What about Rafi and the rest of the Khan family cut off in the part of the Punjab that was shortly to become West Pakistan? Would they be safe and would Ghulam ever see them again?
