A Book In A Month - Chapter 23

PART 2

In India.

Once they had found their Delhi hotel, the little group hit the ground running. It was a magnificently noisy, smelly, dusty and hot city. Clara marveled at the combination of grandeur and grinding poverty as they took one tuk tuk after another in their quest for Vidas' death certificate. Clara decided the heat was what made the officials demand one form of identification after another, one payment after another. It was their way of working slowly. Once all the documentation had been presented by Clara, she knew the person behind the grubby glass screen would have to get up and interrogate the archives, which she was sure hid in the basement; ranks of cobweb covered files. Who would want to go to all that trouble, if they could persuade a poor European run back and forth to their hotel room on one fools errand after another? And that was nothing when compared to the amount of money they had to part with. Every stage had a fee. These jobs were sought after, often, John had said, they were purchased, such was their value. One simply had to pay up, consider it a tax, not an imposition. Besides, John had also assured them, when compared with British money, these were tiny amounts and would not affect their budget in the slightest. Clara wiped the sweat from around her eyes and under her nose, and fumed, as she looked at the dirt that had come away on her tissue. “This country is filthy,” she muttered crossly. She and the others were hot and tired after three full days of battling with the Indian bureaucracy. They regrouped in the cool, marbled lobby of their hotel. The death certificate would be ready to collect the next day at three in the afternoon. There would be an inevitable fee, for the copy of the certificate and administrative charges. Clara shrugged and slurped her ice cold lassi, “I think we might be getting somewhere; at last.”

The next day they headed out to do some sight seeing. Finding the family home, somewhere in the vastness of this city would have to wait. One task at a time was their modusperandi. By the time they walked, dripping with sweat, into the records office, it was two forty five, almost time to take possession of this heavily anticipated document. They had seen India gate and had eaten lunch in a large, public park. They were praying that eating street food would not lay them low, but they knew it was a serious risk. “This certificate had better be ready for us today, because we may all be exploding tomorrow. We'll probably feel like death on a stick.” A very red, English abroad, Jane panted as she dabbed her neck with a large white handkerchief. She looked at the lethargic fans as they drew lazy circles above her head, “Mind you, I can't say I feel that well now.”

The other two looked at her in horror. “Not now, Jane. Oh please, don't get sick on us now.” Keith pleaded as he hooked his hand under her elbow and walked her to the nearest seat. “Clara, how about you get yourself in the queue. We'll be fine over there. I'll keep you posted on Janes condition,” He looked over his shoulder and winked at Clara as they made there way through the throng to the other side of the vast hall.

Over two hours later, Clara appeared before her two calm, relatively cool, friends who were sitting very still amidst a sea of people. She was hot, frustrated, and ecstatic and waving a large piece of paper from her copiously sweating hand. She had remained standing for the entire time, standing in a tight line, breathing in the sweat of her co-sufferers. Clara flopped down next to Jane and Keith. “I can't believe you guys waited for so long. I'm so sorry. Jane are you OK?”

“Yeh, I'm fine. I think I was overheating. I managed to drink all my water and Keiths. Now I feel better, apart from the headache that's coming on.” She gave a wan smile and waved a hand in front of her face. “What does it say?” Jane Pointed at Claras hand. “The death certificate. Who was right? When did you nan pass away?”

“Don't ask. She died in 1960. That's twelve years before I was born. I don't get it. How could my dad get it wrong. The only reason my parents came here at that time, was so that I would be born with my gand mother present. The only reason.” Clara looked at them both. “What's it all about? My dad's either senile, or a liar. Both scare me.”

“I think it's best we head back to the hotel and gather our strength. It's been a hell of a day.” Keith suggested mildly.

The following day the little group took what felt like their millionth tuk tuk to the address in Claras note book. Clara had already spoken to her father about the information on the death certificate. He had promised her that he would make an appointment to go to the doctors. He was concerned about his brain. Was he developing senile dementia? He said the idea made him fearful, He did not want to end his days as a mindless wreck, sitting on a plastic coated high seat, in a careless nursing home. Clara wept as he spoke and reassured him it could not be any such thing as he had not shown any other sign of the condition as far as she could tell. She let her father know that she was planning to take a ride to the family pile and that she would take a photo for him and email it. Dylis would help him open his email and download the image. John had no idea what Clara had just said. She laughed, “I'll call Dylis once I've done it and she'll show you. It'll be fun.”

When they get to the house, it turns out to be a bungalow. Clara is thrilled. A real Indian bungalow; white, steps, veranda, perfection. The owner was a pleasant elderly Indian man who offers an open welcome. They drank tea as they discussed Claras mission.

“It is not every day an English girl washes up and claims to have been born in your house,” Claimed the house holder. He felt honoured that such a lovely young lady should have been born in his home. He described her as gracious. Clara was flattered and agreed to take his advice and talk to his neighbour, an elderly gentleman. He had been born in his house and had never left it. There was no doubt that he would remember her family. Unfortunately he was away, staying at his sons house, but would be back in a couple of weeks. They carefully draft a letter as they enjoy a coke in a local cafe. Before they leave the district they handed the brief letter to the elderly neighbours' daughter in law, stating their business and saying they'll be back in three weeks.

The group had done well. They had allowed a mere six days for this leg f the journey and they had needed it. Even with all the queuing and toing and froing, they had managed some sightseeing too. But now it was time to leave. They had to make their flight form Delhi to Dhaka. Leg two of their journey was about to begin. They were all hoping that they would learn a lot about Keiths family and that it would be cooler. Naturally, Keith pointed out that it would not. Dhaka was south of Delhi. Logic had it that it would be hotter.

*

The group made it to Dhaka. They booked into the hotel that Simon had used and asked the receptionist about Simon as they checked in. The manager came out of the back office to discuss Claras questions. As he walked into reception, the manager is a bit taken aback. He is an older man, and has been an employee at the hotel since he was nine years old. He does not want to show the group the old hotel registers, but eventually, after a tip, produces produces them. They cover the time in question. They take the registers to Clara and Janes room to study, after the obligatory fee.

They could not sleep. There was something compelling about the records. Simon appeared again and again. Always a double room. Always with Mrs Simpson – M Simpson. Dirty old sod, says Clara. “He was having an affair. Look how often he stayed with her. I can hardly believe it. He was so blatant. There was never an M Simpson.”

They decide that need to set about trying to trace M. Simpson. It wasn't much to go on. They are put in touch with older members of staff, who still, creakily work at the hotel. Both old workers greeted Clara warmly, saying she must be one of Marys family. Clara says that she has no relatives called Mary. But both of the old retainers recognised her instantly. 'She' was called Mary and was an Anglo Indian. They could tell they weren't married. She was always so nervous. Always looking over her shoulder.

Clara found the incident unsettling. There was something odd going on here. Keith laughed and said that she was making too much of it. The next day, after less than four hours sleep, they crawled out of their beds. They had arranged to rush off in a taxi to go to tea at one of Keiths Aunts house.