The Covenant of Water

1935, Madras

Through the church window, Digby has a view of the adjacent cemetery. Claude, how many souls have you sent here? The man was back at “work” the next day as if nothing had happened. Digby shudders now as an inner voice warns him: Tread softly, Digby. No surgeon is infallible.

The service had to be moved from Perambur to a larger venue in Vepery. The entire Anglo-Indian community has turned out, the women in hats and black veils. He can barely glimpse the altar through wreaths stacked near the coffin. A framed photograph of a strikingly handsome Jeb leaning on a hockey stick reminds Digby of Rudolph Valentino. The church is hot, the service long, the air thick with the cloying scent of gardenia.

When Jeb’s teammates, a phalanx of men in blue blazers and white slacks, carry the coffin down the aisle, a woman’s wail shatters the silence, and sobbing sounds fill the church.

Outside, Digby hears his name called. Owen grasps Digby’s hand. He looks sleepless, hunched over. “Doc, we know what happened in the operating theater. We do. I know you tried to prevent it.”

Digby hasn’t said a word to anyone outside the hospital.

“I want you to know,” Owen says, straightening up, “we saw the hospital superintendent. Shifty bugger! All he cared about was trying to protect Arnold. The big boss himself at the Railways petitioned the governor on the family’s behalf. The governor called up the director of the Indian Medical Service. He’s promised an inquiry. We won’t let this go, Digby.” He searches Digby’s face. “I know he’s your boss and all. But Doc, don’t protect the bastard.”

“Owen, I’ll tell the truth if asked,” Digby says simply.

Owen nods. He says, “Jeb was no saint. He needed more time to finish sowing his wild oats. But he didn’t deserve this.”

Digby asks a question that has troubled him: “Owen, why didn’t Jeb go to the Railway Hospital?”

The reason, it turns out, was his new flame, Rose. “Rose is the hospital superintendent’s bloody daughter. Jeb was a bit of a Romeo, you know. Anyway, Rose went all jealous-jalebi when she found he was putting applications with other girls here and there. And her father got into it. Worst part is the bugger lives opposite us. He came home and made a scene and then his son started yapping about how our family is like this and like that, and next thing, big bloody gumbaloda Govinda, with hockey sticks, stones, bones, and all. Even my mother gave a few kicks. So you see, Doc. That’s why no Railway Hospital for Jeb.”

To the Editor, The Mail:

The death of Jeb Pellingham, Olympic hockey hopeful, is a national tragedy. But the way his family is being treated is a national disgrace. Mr. Pellingham died because of the negligence of a surgeon at Longmere Hospital, but despite the promises by the Governor to hold an investigation, two months have passed and no hearing date has been set. Meanwhile, the family and delegates of the Anglo-Indian community are unable to get a copy of the coroner’s report.

Mr. Pellingham’s bad luck was to be in the hands of a surgeon whose reputation is so poor that he was sent away from Government General Hospital. No Europeans seek his care. Still, he stays on at Longmere, paid well to do little, and what little he does is dangerous. The curious citizen must ask: Is it because one of his brothers is the Chief Secretary to the Viceroy, and the other a Governor of a northern presidency? Why else is this murderous man being shielded?

Once upon a time we Anglo-Indians were the proud sons and daughters of British men, with all the privileges of citizenship. No longer. If self-rule for India becomes real, no doubt we will be further disenfranchised. Yet the country relies on us for the smooth functioning of its machinery. It is time for the Anglo-Indian community to reconsider its unstinting support of the government, going back to the 1857 mutiny when the boys of La Martinière College in Lucknow held on, or to Brendish and Pilkington in the Delhi telegraph office who held on at great peril to signal the British that the mutineers had entered the city. In the Great World War, three-quarters of the eligible Anglo-Indian population served with distinction. We can hold on no longer.

India has lost a good man in Jeb Pellingham, and perhaps its best chance for another hockey gold. The indifference to his death and the absence of an inquiry is a blow to the heart of the Anglo-Indian Community. We will not let this rest.

Sincerely,

Veritas

Celeste lets The Mail fall to the table. Suddenly, she’s in a glass house with all of Madras looking in. The Letters section of The Mail is more popular than the front page. In the previous month, readers were mesmerized by a debate around the hiring of qualified Indians to the Indian Civil Service. This rule change was meant to appease Indians, but the old-guard British ICS officers were livid about the dilution of their ranks by natives. “India without the ‘Steel Frame’ of a British ICS will collapse,” said one letter, while another argued that “it is well known that Brahmins fail when admitted to the highest rank.” There were so many letters from ICS officers (who signed with only one initial) that it was spoken of as the “White Mutiny,” much to the viceroy’s displeasure.

The letter from “Veritas” carries the stamp of truth even as it accuses her husband of little less than murder. A man who can be indifferent to his wife’s pleas and who rips young children from her bosom must carry that cruel indifference into his work. The secret of the care of the patient, she once read, is in caring for the patient, and if that is true, Claude couldn’t help but fail. He too was born in India, but to a military family. For the longest time she thought his wound came from being sent away to England when he was so young, torn from his ayah’s arms. But so were Claude’s brothers, and they grew to be caring, generous, and successful. Claude had the same promise when they first met; she was swept away by his looks, his confidence, and his determination to have her. It took time to realize that something was missing in him; this missing piece cost him a happy marriage and his professional advancement.

That evening, she’s in the living room when Claude comes home in his tennis whites. His eyes fall on the Mail on the table before her. He doesn’t look at her. At the drinks tray, he pours a small one.

“The lawn looks very dry. Would you speak to the maali, dear?” he says in a bright, business-as-usual voice. He heads to his study with his glass, doing a poor job of concealing with his body the whisky decanter he slipped off the tray.

The next morning at breakfast, Claude is more bleary-eyed than usual. He stops abruptly while uncapping his soft-boiled egg, then he leaves. She thinks something in the New India next to his plate upset him. But no, it’s the telegram beneath the paper.

VERITAS LETTER PUBLISHED BOMBAY CHRONICLE STOP TOBY CONSULTED STOP DO NOT REPEAT DO NOT CONTACT TOBY OR ME AT OUR OFFICES STOP

It’s from Claude’s brother, Everett, the governor of Bombay Presidency. Toby, the other brother mentioned in the telegram, is chief secretary to the viceroy.

Over the subsequent days, the Letters section in the Mail keeps alive the issue of Jeb’s death. Claude is not mentioned, but the viceroy, his chief secretary, and the governor of Bombay Presidency are, and that cannot please them.

Two weeks later, the viceroy comes to Madras for a planned visit that he will wish was not on his books. As his special carriage slides into Central Station, the partially dressed viceroy is appalled when he pulls aside the curtains in his bed-suite and sees a phalanx of hockey players in uniform, wearing black ribbons and standing silently at attention. Behind them, a crowd of nearly a hundred people hold placards bearing Jeb’s name, and the words RELEASE AUTOPSY ­REPORT! They are as silent as ghosts.

The viceroy closes the curtain, livid. He’d been fearful of precisely this and had ordered that his carriage be decoupled at the shed, well before the platform. The locomotive driver mysteriously failed to receive that message, and miraculously during the night never encountered a red signal, thanks to every Anglo-Indian stationmaster along the way. As a result, the train arrives at six in the morning instead of at eight. The police brigade to escort the viceroy is nowhere to be seen, and in any case, they’d be waiting at the wrong place.

The crowd includes reporters and photographers from every Indian newspaper. Eventually, the red-faced viceroy, shaving cream still on the tip of one ear, appears at the carriage door, stooping so his head emerges, but not stepping out. He receives the petition from Jeb’s mother graciously. He clears his throat to make a speech, but when he utters the word “hearing,” a voice at the back bellows: “Chaa! Heard that one already, haven’t we, boys?” A woman shouts, “SHAME, SHAME, SHAME,” and the crowd picks up the chant. Flashbulbs pop and the viceroy ducks back inside, only to be subjected to the humiliation of hockey sticks hammering on the carriage, deafening the occupants within. The papers describe the scene in avid detail and with crisp photographs.

That night, the chief secretary to the viceroy comes home, catching Celeste unaware. Toby has the best features of the three brothers but is shorter than Claude. He ignores Claude and kisses Celeste, handing her a wrapped gift tied with a ribbon. She opens it at once. He says, “It’s an ancient ivory jewel box. I picked it up in Jaipur and I knew at once I’d give it to my favorite sister-in-law.”

“Your only sister-in-law, Toby. Oh, my word, this—”

“Celeste,” Claude interrupts, “have the boy bring the drinks tray. We’ll go to the study—”

“What is your hurry, Claude?” Toby says, annoyed. “And forget the drinks tray.” Claude’s smile is stuck on his face like egg yolk, but he’s silent. When the siblings gather, they allow Claude to play older brother. She wonders now if that is from pity at having so exceeded him.

Toby doesn’t let go of her hand. “Celeste? Give my love to Janaki, would you?”

Toby apparently has no wish to enter the study, because when she reaches the top of the stairs, she hears him speak in a tone so different than when he addressed her. “Of all the asinine things to do, Claude! Did you really think the viceroy wanted to hear your side of the story? Could you really not see how it would further embarrass him? And me?” Claude’s response is inaudible. “No, you listen,” Toby says. “No! Just the opposite. I came to tell you that by the viceroy’s order there will be a hearing. Our hands are tied.” She cannot hear Claude’s mumbled reply, but Toby interrupts him. “Stop! Not another word. I want to be able to swear that I came to see Celeste and I never discussed the case with you. Neither the viceroy nor your brothers will interfere. Do not send cables or call. Get it into your head, Claude. This isn’t a formality. The viceroy wants the truth.” There is a long silence. Then, she hears him say more gently: “I’m sorry, Claude. This will throw a spotlight on you. The past will come up. Take a hard look at yourself. For God’s sake, stay away from the drinks tray till this is over.”

Toby glances back at the door and sees her frozen on the landing. His face is painfully sad.

The papers report that the viceroy authorized a hardship payment for the Pellingham family, and named a commission chaired by a former governor, two stalwarts of the Anglo-Indian community, the head of the Indian Medical Service, and two distinguished surgical professors from the Bombay and Calcutta Medical Colleges. The date is set two months hence. The commission can call witnesses; its conclusion will be binding.

For the next few days, they go about their separate lives. If Celeste feels on edge, she can only imagine how Claude feels. He spends long hours at the club despite being the subject of gossip there. Perhaps staying home and facing her feels worse; at the club he finds refuge in some dark nook, either alone or with drinking mates too anesthetized to judge him harshly.

At the end of that week when she returns home in the late afternoon, she’s surprised to see Claude there. He comes to his feet graciously. Before she can pull off her bonnet, he sends for her tea. He is well into the gin.

“Darling,” Claude says, “this hearing is coming up soon.” She says nothing, her hands very still in her lap. “It’s political, you know. Bad things happen in surgery, after all. I’m hopeful I’ll prevail. I have a plan.” He smiles brightly. One must have faith. One must never give up.

There are bags under his eyes that are new. The fine arbor of capillaries on his cheeks and nose are more prominent. She might pity him if he showed remorse, or didn’t try so hard to conceal his fear.

“The thing is, darling, this could go badly. That is, if your friend Digby decides to malign me.”

“He’s your colleague, Claude,” she says, annoyed. “I took him once to Mahabalipuram ages ago and told you I was doing so.”

“Well, who do you think wrote that letter? Veritas? Had to be him.”

Her eyes widen. “You’re mad. Why would he pretend to be an Anglo-Indian?” This is the first they’ve spoken of his troubles. Perhaps for that reason she feels her anger bubbling up.

“Ah, well there it is, darling. Jealousy, what else? He wants my position. He just happened to be poking his nose in the theater when this . . . when there was a complication? Then, he misinterprets what he sees and the rumor mill starts spreading a false tale. That’s what I’m up against. If he sticks to his story, it could sink our ship.”

He waits. Celeste looks ready to laugh in his face. His courteous veneer is cracking.

“For God’s sake, Celeste, how do you think I’ll keep all this afloat? You have lived in comfort all these years. But the well might be shallower than you think . . .” Celeste sees the faces of her boys; she imagines them returning from England because Claude cannot pay their fees. It’s a happy thought, and not what Claude intended. “If I’m dismissed from the Indian Medical Service, if I lose my ­pension—damn it, Celeste, it would be the end.”

And once my children are back, I would have absolutely no reason to stay with you, Claude.

“The thing is, darling, I need to be certain that young Digby doesn’t testify falsely.”

“What do you want, Claude?” she says very quietly. “For God’s sake, just say it.”

“Nothing! I . . . don’t want anything from you, poor darling. But I must tell you . . . I’ll be getting word to Digby that I shall name him as co-respondent in divorce proceedings.”

At first, the words make no sense. But then she understands.

“Claude, how dare you use me like that? As currency in your sordid little scheme!”

“But listen, it won’t come to that, dear! Digby will change his tune. It’s just to remind him of his place. Who’d trust the word of someone who’d stoop to going to bed with a superior’s wife?”

“Going to bed with . . . with me?” She’s surprised at her own composure. His words are so contemptible that screaming at him would be far too generous a response. Instead she stares at him for a long time, watches him squirm. She smiles, which in his present state stings him more than if she had slapped him. “Claude, I’ve put up with so much from you over the years. Now you want to save your hide with a lie that makes me into an adulteress? Is that the best you can do? Forget about Digby for a moment; do you care so little about slandering me? Or being a cuckold? Or dragging my sons through this muck? Is there really no honor, no decency in you once you scratch the surface? It’s the missing piece. Your brothers have it and it has made all the difference for them, don’t you see?”

To hold his brothers up as a standard is to incite him. It’s a measure of his pathetic state that he doesn’t react, doesn’t flinch, but instead looks pleadingly at her.

“But I assure you, it won’t come to that, Celeste. It’s just a ploy,” he says piteously. “Damn it all, Celeste, can you think of a better way? It’s the children’s future I have in mind. Our future . . .”

She regards him with disgust. “Last time you threatened to divorce me was also ‘for the children.’ Fool that I was, I let you bully me into taking them away. Never again.”

She stands and turns to leave. He grabs her wrist. She yanks her hand away and whirls around to face him. He recoils.

In Digby’s quarters, early on a Saturday evening, a wide-eyed Muthu appears in the doorway to the bedroom. Digby is propped up, reading. He has spent the afternoon painting listlessly and taking a long nap.

“Saar, visitor! Missy, Saar,” Muthu says, and hurries away.

Which Missy? A puzzled Digby washes up and puts on a fresh shirt over his trousers. He sees a woman’s bicycle outside on the verandah.

In the living room, when he recognizes who it is, he wishes he’d changed his paint-flecked trousers. He feels a rush of adrenaline, every little sound amplified, from the clink of dishes in the kitchen to the chirp of a bulbul outside. She has her back to him. What did she make of his décor, he wonders, the cavalry of terracotta horses on the verandah when she walked in? He’d seen giant versions of these when riding Esmeralda through villages: offerings to Aiyanar, protector from famine and pestilence. On his living room floor is a hand-loomed grass-silk mat from Pattamadai. But of course, her gaze is on the one wall that cries for windows. Instead, from floor to ceiling it is covered with kalighat paintings in crude wooden frames, each one no bigger than a postcard. A village of kalighats stares back at her. Her hands are on her chest, frozen in that first moment of surprise.

After a long while, she turns to him.

His breath catches. She’s even lovelier than in memory. The orange glow of the setting sun lights the left side of her face like a figure in one of Vermeer’s paintings. He remembers her goodbye in the car so many months ago, so definitive.

He speaks first, to relieve her of that burden. “I bought them in Calcutta.” He walks up to stand beside her. “I was deputed to accompany the governor of Bengal’s wife, who took ill here. I spent just one night there, but I went to the Kali temple on—”

“On the banks of the river,” she whispers. “I grew up close by.”

“The vendors were hawking these to the pilgrims. I was a pilgrim myself.” I wanted to visit the house in which you grew up, your old school, visit your parents’ graves . . .

She nods, her hands wringing her embroidered handkerchief.

To be in her presence, to smell her attar, is intoxicating. “I visited the artists’ workshops,” he continues. “Their repertoire goes beyond religious images. Like that one.” He points. “A notorious crime involving a British soldier and his Indian lover. Or this theater-­of-life series. See the curtains of a Western playhouse? But with Shiva dancing. Occident and Orient in a few brush strokes.”

They’ve come to that threshold beyond which words lose their utility. Standing so close to her, in his own house . . . there are no more words he wants to say except her name. He has sounded it in the dark, bounced it off the ceiling and walls. Celeste. Celeste. Its last syllable lingers in the corners like a trapped whisper. He wants to say it aloud now. His hand moves, as though of its own volition, reaches for hers. He cannot know that hours before, her husband reached for her wrist and she yanked it away. “Celeste,” he says, dragging out her name. “Celeste, there’s more paintings you must see.” Her fingers find refuge in his.

Hand in hand, she lets him lead her to the next room, his “studio”—formerly the dining room. The paintings, finished and unfinished, are the modest size of the kalighats, but the subject is unvarying: the same woman. She comes into being with an economy of line and color: chestnut eyes; the mass of brown hair; the sweep of the long neck; the slight overbite whose proof is in the pouting upper lip, which Digby thinks is the most beautiful thing on earth. Celeste had seen the template when he sketched her in the shadow of the great rock in Mahabalipuram. The artist sees in the model a grander beauty than she sees in herself.

Her hand quickens in his. He leads her to his bedroom.

In a land where parrots with clipped wings predict the future from a deck of cards, where marriages are determined by horoscopes, Celeste’s foreknowledge of where this will lead—not just in the next few minutes, but in the days and weeks to come—makes her try to disengage her hand, but it is too late. He reels her in, draws her close, and with a sigh she lets herself fall into his body.

Neither of them knows that every time they seek each other out, furtively, in the heat of late afternoon, they will begin as they did today, in front of the wall of village portraits, the framed figures each sounding out a note, a raga that is all theirs. His tongue will run down from her lips, her chin, down the midline past her thyroid, her cricoid, to the little hollow above her sternum. Once he undresses her, he’ll step back and move her like a dancer, posing her, spinning her as though on a revolving pedestal. He will take in the tall, lean figure; the small breasts; the gentle swell below her navel; the flare of her pelvic bones that are like wings hovering over the long, gazelle-like legs; the fragile instep; and finally the toes, the clever gap between the big toe and the second. He will take it all in, memorizing every detail . . .

Celeste has had one husband and one lover, the latter like her, a wayfarer in the wasteland of an unhappy marriage, and the affair didn’t help either of them find their bearings. She succumbs to Digby’s lack of irony or self-consciousness, an innocence and purity that gives him authority, like the bold lines he sketches. His passion for her singes her skin, enlivens her. Who would not want to be loved that way?

At this moment she can no longer bring up the purpose of her visit. She came not to ask for his silence, which is what Claude must have wanted, but to warn him of a perfidious and utterly false accusation that he would soon hear: that they are lovers.

If she doesn’t tell him, if they don’t stop . . . then the accusation will no longer be false. Why doesn’t she speak? Why doesn’t he ask?

She must tell him. She must.