We wondered why Romesh’s wife and daughters did not join him in Puri for the annual holiday. There were things we couldn’t ask. He accompanied us to restaurants only rarely. We understood his pride didn’t allow him to accept our hospitality. When he came with us, it was good, he ordered navrattan vegetable curry and palak paneer, he advised us about dishes and we learnt so much about Indian cooking—he seemed to be quite a chef—and then his presence, his voice, his charm and amusing conversation!
Romesh was most interested in Gerard’s recent retirement and his plans to paint more now that he was free of his obligations to his students.
‘Like my work with the Film Society,’ Romesh said.
Romesh was keen to take Gerard out before sunrise to watch the fishing fleet head out to sea, and after that he arranged to take Gerard and Martin out for a day with the fleet. Romesh believed Gerard would go home to paint these scenes—and Gerard didn’t try to tell him otherwise. Martin and Romesh spent hours together discussing the latest developments in I.T. and India’s increasing part in market share. And with Ursie their common interest was the cinema. He had known Satyajit Ray and loved his films, while Ursie was more conversant with Bollywood, but it didn’t stop them from long discussions and exchange of ideas.
Romesh escorted Ursula and me to the market of Raj Path. When I told him about my shop in Melbourne where I sell remaindered lengths of material to home dressmakers, he said he knew just the place where I might find something of interest. Ursula helped me choose ikat fabrics, some of smooth silk, others rough linens, and Romesh helped with the ‘negotiation’ of the price—very good from my point of view. I was sure some of my clients would be attracted by these handwoven pieces. Romesh then arranged to have a couple of calico parcels made up and with his help we lugged them to the Post Office to be sent home—every available space on the calico was covered in green stamps of a view of the Ganges.
I still have these stamp-covered calico wrappings, I kept them as a memento.
He accepted our offer of dinner after the shopping expedition.
Romesh and I had another long talk on the way home, and continued it seated on a bench outside our ‘palace’, looking over the beach. I told him about growing up in England in a big house, where if I left my shoes outside my bedroom door, I found them polished the next morning. Our acres of garden, and two men to work on it full time.
‘Now, it’s all gone. Mummy and Daddy couldn’t keep two gardeners, parts of the garden were sold off first, then eventually the house. They live very modestly now.’ I knew Romesh would sympathise, not that our experiences were exactly the same, but there were similarities. ‘Now I’m a struggling shopkeeper with an impecunious artist husband,’ I joked.
We were anticipating with some trepidation—we were so comfortable in Puri, thanks to Romesh—a voyage by train up to Varanasi and then to Agra. Romesh advised us to avoid these big cities because of Gerard’s asthma, and devised a different itinerary. He helped us with the train bookings—first class he said, could be uncomfortable, aircon was luxury. He obtained senior citizen tariffs for Gerard. Martin and Ursula booked on the same trains, but wanted to experience second class and save money. We couldn’t thank Romesh enough, the train bookings were a lengthy process even with him, we couldn’t have managed alone.
We persuaded Romesh to dine with us again—our last evening. Romesh entertained us as never before with jokes and anecdotes of the good times. The curries smelt delicious, the head of beer formed on the glasses again and again, and in the warm night we discussed and argued at our leisure.
On parting we agreed to say goodbye late morning the next day before we were to take the bus to the railway station at the next town, and so back to Calcutta and our other connections.
When we arrived to pick up Martin and Ursula the hotel was unusually quiet. Our verandah had two policemen sitting on our chairs close to Romesh’s room, and a piece of red plastic ribbon had been untidily stretched between the verandah posts as a sign to keep out.
We knocked on Martin and Ursula’s door—they ushered us in, unlike them to invite us into their bedroom of unmade beds and backpacks waiting to be stuffed.
‘What is it? What are the police doing?’ I said.
Martin motioned to us to sit down. He said, ‘I’ll just order us some tea.’
‘Don’t worry, we’ve had breakfast,’ I said.
Martin left the room anyway. When he returned with the tea we asked again what had happened?
‘It’s Romesh, he died in the night,’ Martin said. He took Ursula’s hand.
‘But it’s worse than that,’ said Ursula. ‘It seems he committed suicide. Because it’s all so sudden and everything’s up in the air, the police are saying they don’t want us to leave today. They know we were Romesh’s constant companions. They want to interview us after Romesh’s wife comes. She’s on her way.’ She turned her head into Martin’s shoulder. We listened to her quiet sobbing.
We did stay. We probably would have anyway, knowing that Romesh’s wife was coming.
Romesh hadn’t left a note, but Martin heard the police had found an empty bottle of sleeping pills near the bed.
All we could tell the police was that Romesh had been in high spirits the night before.
Mrs Mehta arrived that evening. She had taken the bus from Kolkata and understandably didn’t want to meet anyone till the next day, although the police did not leave her alone, we heard.
Mrs Mehta was overweight, she was wearing a wrinkled salwar-kameez with lotus flower motifs picked out in gold thread, and gold sandals. Her black hair was cut in a bob, which with her glasses and deep frown lines between her eyes gave her a severe expression. We had no way of knowing what she would have looked like under normal circumstances. We wondered why she was not accompanied by her daughters, but didn’t ask.
‘Every year the same, this visit to Puri. He never missed it. He said it was his duty. Duty! I have never been able to understand it, how he kept coming to this dead place—and now he’s no more.’
We told her what we had told the police, that Romesh had seemed happy in the time he’d spent with us.
She didn’t look at us when we were together, but kept her eyes on the ground. Then she put on dark glasses. She kept adjusting her shawl close to her neck, as if she felt cold. I couldn’t see any sign of the woman who had lived in a furnished apartment with car attached, living the high life with the British bosses.
‘Did he mention our daughters’ marriages? Great dowry pressures, and not even marriages arranged by the parents. When Romesh and I married we had no dowry trouble. Romesh didn’t even want a dowry. Who is caring that much about money in those days? We had enough. A different mentality today. A great worry for Romesh, these continuing demands, even though the marriages are done. We have nothing but marriage debts, yet the other families are demanding more and more. But I don’t believe that would make Romesh take his life. He was a good man.’
We didn’t talk long with her. My head was splitting and I went back to the hotel to rest. Gerard told me later about the upsetting accusations Mrs Mehta made to the police that Romesh could have been poisoned, and about the dispute she had with the hotel about Romesh’s bill. Gerard paid the bill, and he persuaded Mrs Mehta to accept a gift of money towards the dowry debts. He cashed travellers cheques—no point in writing a cheque. She accepted this gift. Gerard told her he knew nothing would really help with the loss of Romesh, it was just a gesture.
Gerard