I imagined an impeccably suited Romesh with a young shy wife, sari-clad, invited to the British bosses’ club, a wide verandah with white-painted cane furniture, over looking a tropical garden, Indian waiters with neat white turbans, carrying trays of iced drinks, condensation already forming on the glasses. The British wives, rather tall and bony, all legs and high heels, careful hairdos. Romesh full of charm and wit, making sure the conversation never flagged, never subservient but always respectful of the views of his bosses in their white suits. My clichéd idea of the Raj.
‘I had a very lovely, happy family. My mother was well educated, relatively rare in her time. It was just me and my brother, we lacked nothing. The house was well run by the servants under the light supervision that was all that was needed from my mother. My mother’s presence filled all the big rooms in our house with calm. My father was often at home. My parents were comfortable and secure in the Calcutta of their time.’
‘A good life.’
‘And with my job for many years it continued. I didn’t have great responsibilities, facilitating the English bosses’ decisions, ensuring an agreeable life for all of us in Calcutta.’
Romesh’s voice, he spoke with that accent of educated Indians, slightly pedantic sounding to our ears, was deep. Had he sung, it would have been a baritone.
‘My marriage was a break with tradition. Some of my young friends lived the high life, dated girls, visited clubs. That wasn’t for me. But when I mentioned marriage to my father, and he made contact with a girl’s family, and the two families met, I couldn’t go ahead with it. What worried me was that I was the centre of our meeting. It was hard for me to identify the girl destined to be my bride—when I did, it was only accidentally. I could see she had no standing in the negotiation, and I couldn’t go ahead in that way.’
Romesh was still attractive and in his young days must have been really something. For the first time in years I thought back to Gerard’s and my courtship, when I had firstly arrived in Australia, for a ten pound holiday. We were at a gallery opening in Melbourne where some girlfriend had taken me. I knew nothing about art—my privileged background hadn’t included art—probably because my parents were so much in their garden. So when I met Gerard I was a raw, naïve girl, and Gerard seemed to me to be so experienced and knowledgeable. We soon loved one another—I don’t remember either of us consulting our parents about our marriage. We just passed the news on to them, in our unthinking way, and they accepted and trusted us. Parents do this.
‘I told my parents it wouldn’t work for me, this Indian system,’ Romesh went on. ‘They thought the next time would be better, one false start was nothing out of the norm. Eventually I made them understand I wouldn’t marry in the traditional way. This caused a barrier to the openness we had enjoyed before. I found my wife, but our families found it hard to accept our independent decision.’
For a tall man Romesh had small fine hands, with tapering fingers. His nails were pink, perfectly clean and manicured impeccably. When he talked he used his hands to illustrate what he was saying, with fan-like movements and then to make a point, he presented the pink palms of his hands, as if to put the information before me.
‘We were happy, especially in the early years. We had two daughters. All was fine so long as ICC was in British hands.’
A tall, extremely thin man, whose age was impossible to gauge, who wore only a dhoti, approached us across the parched ‘lawn’ as we sat on the verandah. The man held himself upright, wearing his matted dreadlocks like a crown. He extended his hand to us, ‘Baksheesh, sahib,’ he murmured. Without hesitation Romesh rose and went to his room. He put his alms in the thin man’s hand, with a gentle ‘Chalo, chalo.’ The man bowed, hands together, and went on his way.
‘When the company became the Indian Cotton Corporation,’ Romesh went on, ‘the need for generalists like me was less. No need to help the British feel good about themselves. The profit imperative and the bottom line had never been big concerns of mine. The company apartments were sold, along with the garages to house the fleet of Ambassadors, and the cars themselves. Although my salary was untouched so to speak, no adjustment was made for the house and transport that I had to find. My wife went back to work—after years away she didn’t earn much as a secretary. Without their mother’s supervision my children went a little wild, better now I believe. You have experienced Calcutta as it is now. Not easy.’
Not easy. The numbers of people competing for a life in that city, and we had lived in luxury, and found it hard.
‘My wife’s job has improved. We have a small flat she bought, still paying it off. I left ICC and now I have work from time to time, not a lot. Small jobs. I do voluntary work for the Film Society.’
Romesh and I were on our third whisky.
‘In the old days my family came here every year. Now I am the only one to keep up the tradition. At this very hotel, although it was a better place in those days, very run down now. The owners of the hotel have changed several times so no one is remembering me from the old days. Just as well.’
Martin and Gerard returned from their walk. I told them they would have to drink hard to catch up. Ursula emerged. We all walked a few blocks to have dinner together. I persuaded Romesh to join us. He was careful to give Gerard what he owed for his portion of the bill. Afterwards we played scrabble. Gerard was tired and went off to our hotel. Romesh played an excellent game, using up all seven letters three times, and the words he put down were somehow witty. He said he hadn’t played for many years, but that it had all come back to him. He won.
He and Martin both said they would walk me back to my hotel, but I thought Martin should stay with Ursie, and accepted Romesh’s offer. On our walk we spoke about Martin. I told Romesh what a perfect son he was, how we lived for one another ever since he was born.
‘We are close,’ I said.
I told Romesh how I had helped Martin with his studies, from the earliest kindergarten, right through to architecture at university. Driving him to soccer practice and tennis clinics. How I had bought him a double bed when the time came, so he could bring his girlfriends home. (I didn’t stop to think that this detail might have shocked Romesh, our cultural habits being so different.) How Martin and I loved and discussed the same books, how I’d helped him with suggestions about entering competitions with his architectural work, typing up the written parts, as I always had—and sometimes to good effect, when he was shortlisted, came close to winning. Sitting with Martin in his study, discussing details together, just with the desk light illuminating our two heads, our knees almost touching. Martin often helped me out at my shop, especially when I did stock taking, such a demanding job, made easier when we worked together. We’d stop to eat a pizza amongst the long rolls of fabrics, their many colours and textures, and the slightly chemical smell they had from dyes and the dressing used in commercial weaving, combined with the cheesy aroma of the pizza. We washed it down with a glass of beer.
‘I’m spoiled,’ I said, ‘we’ve never been separated. And with only the one, I’ve been so lucky. We’ve hardly ever been apart for so much as a day—just school camps, some holidays. Now he’s married, things will change.’
Romesh told me his girls were good girls, not so close to him as he judged Martin was to me.
We all found Romesh a delightful companion. It was wonderful to have someone who could talk as easily about Tagore as about the current political situation. He enjoyed our company. We became inseparable.
Later Gerard told me what Romesh had told him about the end of ICC, after many years of service. Actually the firm had become known as ICC at Romesh’s suggestion. But that’s by the by. The big Indian money makers had taken over. His daughters detested the new cramped