Mourning Raga

‘I do not wish, of course, to take your responsibility from you. It was to you that the child was confided, and you best know her mother’s mind. You have told the police all that you can, and now you will consider, I know, what more you must do. But if you have anything to ask of me, at any time, I am here. We have a telephone, write down the number, and call me whenever you will.’

By that time he knew where they were to be found in Delhi, and all about them, even to the one thing they had not told the police. He sat mildly smiling, or even more mildly grave, and they told him things they had hardly realised they were thinking.

‘But that’s too fanciful,’ Tossa said doubtfully. ‘Dominic is musical, but I can’t believe he could simply recognise Raga Aheer Bhairab when he heard it… not after a single hearing.’

‘But that’s the whole point,’ Dominic objected warmly. ‘I never claimed I recognised Raga Aheer Bhairab, what I recognised was a straightforward folktune, a song Ashok himself said had to reach everybody at first hearing. And the more I think about it, the more I’m sure that’s just what it did. I bet somebody who had heard the Brahms Wiegenlied only once would know it again the next time.’

‘However, as you tell me, this film unit is now in Benares. And this man, the director…?’

‘Mr Felder,’ said Dominic.

‘He is, you say, an old friend of the girl’s mother, the friend to whom she turned when she wished someone to meet you on arrival. You would say that he has her confidence?’

‘Yes, I’m sure he has.’

‘In the absence of both parents, he might, perhaps, be the best adviser? But you will consider what you ought to do, and do it, and it is not for me to meddle. If I can provide any helpful information, I shall get in touch with you. And if you receive news of the child, I beg you will let me hear it, too.’

They thanked him and promised.

‘Girish will drive you back to your hotel.’

Dominic sat beside the taciturn chauffeur on the journey back to Keen’s, and studied the profile beside him curiously out of the corner of his eye. A hawk-like Punjabi profile, high-nosed, clear of line, with a proud, full, imperious mouth, and cheeks hollow beneath bold, jutting bones. When he smiled all his features flashed into brightness; but he smiled only once, when Tossa asked diffidently exactly what the Swami was, monk, priest, Brahmin or what.

‘The Swami is himself, what else can one say? He does not conform to any prescribed order, and he does not recognise caste. He does not do what is expected of him, or even what is required of him – he is too busy doing what he wants to do and what has to be done. I doubt if any group would dare to claim him – or care to own him,’ he added, more surprisingly.

‘And what does this Agricultural Mission of his do?’

‘Whatever it can to improve stock – but that’s an uphill struggle! – or bring in better methods of farming and cultivating. Through village co-operatives, small voluntary irrigation works, improved seed, local dairying schemes, new cropping methods – anything, wherever we can find the right material for the work. We try to make such village cooperatives self-supporting, and even self-reproducing. To be clear of debt is to attract envy. To show a profit is to stimulate imitation. We have some foundling farms, too, where the children who are left to fend for themselves by begging can do a small share of the work and get a fair share of the food. Even a seven- year-old is useful for some jobs.’

‘Seven…!’ Tossa drew breath incredulously. ‘But surely such young children… You mean you get them as young as that? Just drifting in, on their own?’

‘On their own,’ he agreed. The ancient Rolls turned majestically into the drive of Keen’s Hotel. ‘In our country, too,’ said Girish levelly, staring ahead between the high hedges, ‘there are neglected and forsaken children.’

They argued it out between them over a lunch for which neither of them had any appetite, and came to a decision. Even if they had not been gently prompted by the Swami they would probably have come to the same conclusion.

‘Even with the police in on it,’ said Dominic, summing up, ‘we’ve still got to face our own responsibility. We simply have to let someone know what’s happened. Kumar’s out of reach, and Dorette – let’s face it, what good would it be telephoning Dorette? All we’d get – all Anjli would get – would be hysterics. Dorette wouldn’t come out here to take charge herself, not with a film half-finished, and that’s the sober truth. And even if she did, she’d be no use at all. But there’s Felder. She turned to him when she needed somebody here, in a way he’s a sort of representative of Dorette. And he’s sensible, and knows his way about here. If he says we must call Dorette, then we’ll do it. But let’s at least consult him first.’

So he telephoned Clark’s hotel at Benares, and by luck the unit happened to be in for lunch. The sound of Felder’s vigorous voice over the line was cheering, and the promptness of his decisions bracing.

‘Now look, you hold it right there, and I’ll be with you as soon as I can. We haven’t finished shooting, but this is an emergency, and they’ll just have to get along without me. There’s an afternoon flight, if I can get a seat on it. Don’t worry, the airlines office is right here in the hotel. You stay close to home, in case there are any messages, and I’ll come straight to you there.’

‘Messages?’ Dominic repeated, thinking hopefully of the police calling to tell him Anjli was already traced, and as good as found.

‘Well, they can’t get at him, if no one knows where he is, can they? And you’re the nearest available channel to Dorrie, aren’t you?’

Air travel comes into its own in India, where you can transport yourself at very reasonable cost from Calcutta to Gauhati, or Trivandrum to Madras, or even from Delhi to Srinagar across a minor range of the Himalayas, in roughly the time it takes to go from Birmingham to London by train. Thus it happened that Ernest Felder, having bluffed and persuaded his way into the last available seat on the afternoon plane from Benares, was in Keen’s Hotel by seven in the evening, his grey hair on end, his lined, easygoing face for once desperately grave. Over dinner, which by that time they all needed, he got them to tell him the whole story all over again, in detail, and with as much detachment as was possible in the circumstances. He didn’t exclaim, he didn’t swear, he simply listened with every nerve, helped out with a question here and there, and soothed them by the very fact of his large, zestful, intent presence and the degree of his concentration. If sheer compact energy could recover Anjli, she was as good as saved.

‘Now, let’s not get tangled with non-essentials. The facts are, someone went to a lot of trouble to get Dorrie’s