The Passions of Dr. Darcy

  George tensed, muscles twitching in his jaw and eyes blinking rapidly. He wanted to scream at her for giving up, curse her for not loving Kshitij enough to fight, rail at her for the ridiculous religious beliefs she clung to, shout his promises to heal so that Kshitij would have many more years to practice and teach his knowledge.

  He did none of those things. He couldn’t. He knew she was not giving up but merely accepting the inevitable. Her love for her husband was absolute. Their beliefs, although opposed to his Christian ones, were important to them and George respected this. Lastly, George could not promise what was impossible to deliver. Once again death would claim a person he loved and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Bitterness and anger welled. It was all he could do not to hurl the small cup of cinchona against the wall. Blackness so consumed him that his vision dimmed and his head pounded with the desire to yell. Every muscle coiled with the urgency to inflict violence. Rationality teetered on an edge no wider than a blade of grass. It was a time no longer than a handful of heartbeats, yet George would remember it as one of the darkest, most agonizing periods of his life. What he might have done he could never say, although he was positive it would not have been remotely proper.

  One touch changed everything.

  “Mitra.” Jharna breathed the endearment, her tone as dulcet and tender as the palm she laid over his left cheek. “Look at me.”

  He did, as if compelled by a force stronger than a gale wind. Tears flowed from her eyes that George had once poetically told her resembled the glossy shell of a ripe English oak acorn rimmed with the deep brown of a Pemberley thoroughbred’s coat. He had meant it—even if the point had been to make her laugh at his nonsense—and now it forcibly struck him again. The memory of his tease linked with the sensation of home as he gazed into her compassionate, grieved eyes dispelled the anger as if a vapor.

  She said no more. She did not need to. George understood all that was in her eyes. He nodded, closing his eyes briefly before planting a glancing kiss to her palm. Bending over Kshitij’s unresponsive body, George cradled his beloved mentor’s face, tears falling in a wave as he kissed his forehead. “Travel safe, my friend. I shall meet you anon, somehow. Thank you for… everything.”

  ***

  In the weeks surrounding the death of Kshitij Ullas, the house was overrun by family and friends. Hindu funeral rites are a lengthy process, as George knew, and widely diverse among the varied cultures, but always sacred. There were the post-mortem rites of shraddha to prepare the body, followed by the funeral ceremony, or antyesti samskara, when the body was cremated with due pomp, allowing for the five elements of prakrit, or nature, to be properly returned to their source. Purification rituals were ongoing, both for the deceased and his immediate family, in the days leading up to the cremation and for thirteen days afterward. Each person played an integral part in assuring Kshitij’s soul was released to move on rather than being lost in between. Outward lamentation was controlled and balanced so as not to create too strong an emotional tie, thus preventing the departed one’s journey into the next world. The prime purpose of aiding the loved one to reach pitr-loka, that realm where the benefic ancient progenitors of mankind as well as the deceased relatives of the living known as pitrs dwell, was dependent upon following rigidly dictated procedures.

  Through it all, George maintained a quiet presence. Partly this was due to needing to express his grief in the privacy of his quarters, where he could mourn in the manner of a Christian. Partly it was due to his minimal understanding of the numerous Hindu customs surrounding death. Most of the rituals were spiritual in nature and deeply personal to the family, and despite George’s love for Kshitij and close relationship, he was neither family nor Hindu. It wasn’t that he was unwelcome. In fact, when he did appear, a kind relative took him by the hand with the intent to include him. George simply wasn’t keen on that option. Therefore, he chose to maintain a distance so they could indulge in their religious beliefs without fretting over his presence.

  The only time he spoke up, vehemently, was when accidentally overhearing a cluster of elders discussing the merits of sati with the clear plan to prevail upon Jharna to perform the ancient ritual.

  “Absolutely not!” he thundered. Silence fell as all eyes swiveled to his. In his shock, he had shouted in English, but the furiously disgusted expression on his face, not to mention the tone, left no doubt what he meant. George charged closer until towering over the shorter Indians, switching to Hindi but speaking as forcefully. “Jharna will absolutely not commit suicide! I will never allow that, and if I have to kidnap her to prevent it, I will. Sati is a barbaric custom, one that is against all reason and should be outlawed, by God! If any of you so much as breathe of this to Jharna, I swear I will—”

  “George! Mitra!”

  He pivoted to the door where Jharna, drawn by the shouting commotion, was rushing toward him. “Jharna, do not listen to these fools! Kshitij would not want this, and you know it.”

  “I know. Have no fear, dear George. Be calm and trust me. I could never do that to Nimesh and Sasi, you know this. Now let go of my arm please.”

  George looked down at his fingers where they were digging into the flesh of her forearm. Still too frightened and angry to feel embarrassed, he did loosen his grip, though not letting go entirely. “I will trust you,” he grated, tossing a venomous challenge to the elders, “but I will also be watching. Just in case.”

  And he did, all through the funeral ceremony. Unable to stand beside Jharna and the boys, George was near enough that if necessary he could leap to her if the stupidity of an idea overcame her reason. Fortunately, that did not occur, and Kshitij Ullas was sent on his way alone.

  The immediate period of ritualistic mourning and cleansing ended, the days turning into weeks until eventually a month had passed since Kshitij’s death. George remained in the Ullas house in the quarters given to him years ago upon his first visit, resumed his work at the hospital, and spent his free time with Jharna and the boys. Most of Jharna’s family returned to their homes, leaving the four of them with a couple of cousins and Jharna’s aged grandmother for company, not counting the servants. It was almost as if nothing had changed, but of course there was a glaring hole in what had become their unique family. It was painful and strange. Kshitij’s absence was notable every moment, yet at the same time the normal routines carried on woodenly, as if they were going through the motions of life without truly living it.

  Under the surface was denial that with Kshitij dead, the changes were huge. Facing that would not be easy.

  It began one night toward the end of July, when George and Jharna sat alone in the parlor, a chessboard between them. She was winning, naturally, and after a clever play that left him with few options to avoid checkmate, she made a jest about his pathetic chess skills, to which George had to retaliate that she could only win if cheating. The playful teasing led to laughter, genuine and free, both of them caught up in the sweetness of it, until in the same breath, the reality of the situation crashed over them.

  “This is awkward, isn’t it?”

  Jharna stared into his eyes, her warm smile intact as she shook her head. “No, George. This is how it should be. This is how Kshitij would wish for us to be, for me and for you to live without his ghost haunting us. For Nimesh and Sasi to celebrate that their father is in pitr-loka with our ancestors and remember him with joy. Death is a beginning, not just an end.”

  “I have lost too many people who are dear to me, Jharna. One would think it easy by now, but it is the opposite.” He tapped his king against the edge of the board, his smile grim and eyes dark.

  “You feel deeply, George. This is an asset and not to be shunned. Losing one who is loved should never be easy or then the love was not real. Embrace your love for Kshitij, feel the grief as I do because it signifies the glory of experiencing the love. But do not let it cripple you. Do not re
fuse to live, my friend. Be braver than that.”

  George stood and walked to the window, his back to Jharna as he stared out into the moonlit darkness.

  “George?” she asked tentatively. Then he heard the scrape of her chair. “Oh, George! Mitra, please cry no further! I should not have lectured—”

  “No, it is fine Jharna. I am not crying. I am laughing.” He faced her so she could see, his laughter growing at the surprised expression on her lovely face. “I am sorry. It is just—” He pressed the back of his hand to his lips to stay the threatening chuckles. “Your words are precise repeats of what I told my nephew when my father died. I passed on my wisdom of carrying on and embracing grief as a proof of one’s love. I pray he took my wisdom to heart better than I obviously have.”

  “Do not be so harsh upon yourself, George. It is always easier to speak of wise choices and controlled emotions than to employ them. I am a perfect example.” She shrugged one delicate shoulder, the silk of her sari swaying as she bent her head in embarrassment and gracefully sat on the window bench. “I advise with phrases carefully selected from the Vedas, yet I feel little but my pain. I miss him, sorely, and the boys cry each night although they try to hide it from me.”

  “It has barely been over a month, Jharna. You cannot expect otherwise.”

  “Yes, this is true. Mourning must be respected and proceed at its pace.”

  “More quotes from the Vedas?”

  She glanced up with a faint smile at his tease. “Not verbatim, no, but close. See how easy it is, George? To inject humor and laugh? These are small steps that must be made as we deal with the sadness.”

  “So what are you suggesting? I am skilled at playing the court jester.”

  “I am suggesting nothing specific other than that you be the George we love. The George Kshitij loved.” Jharna patted the cushion beside her, waiting until George sat before she continued. “Our comfort is in your effervescent, affectionate presence. It is selfish, but we need that George now, especially the boys.”

  “It isn’t selfish, Jharna. I need the three of you as much. You are my family.” He stared at his clasped hands and muttered the last, feeling a bit pathetic in admitting he had no one else.

  Jharna, as he suspected, read his thoughts. “There is no shame in this, mitra. How could it be otherwise? Sasi and Nimesh have known you most of their lives, Sasi for all of his memories. You are their chacha-jee. After Kshitij, you are their closest male influence and now more than ever they will turn to you. I am happy for this. Nevertheless, Kshitij would not wish for you to settle for this alone and stagnate here.”

  “I am not settling or stagnating!”

  “Perhaps not yet but you will eventually. And don’t pretend that you are not aware of the turmoil brewing in Poona. I doubt either you or Kshitij would be here right now with all that is afoot. For certain you would have accepted the request from Vinayak Phadnavis in Khardi.”

  “How did you—?”

  “Silly man! It is my house so I know everything.” She laughed when George’s eyes narrowed. “Very well. Learn this lesson: Don’t tell Sasi a secret you wish to keep. The boy has no self-control.”

  George leaned against the wall and grunted. “I should have known. They saw me reading the message and asked. I could not lie, nor did I want them to think I was leaving. Was Sasi upset? I tried to reassure him and thought I had done so.”

  “He was,” she admitted, “until Nimesh reminded him that you are an important man like their pita-jee, who was needed to help the unfortunate. Honestly, I sensed that he was somewhat disappointed. Not in your choice,” she amended when George’s mouth opened in dismay, “but rather because he yearns to follow in Kshitij’s footsteps.”

  “He already is. I assign him the most heinous chores at the hospital and he completes them without complaint. He will be a fine physician. In a couple more years, I will take him with me on one of my journeys with your permission, of course.”

  “I can imagine no better doctor to train with.” She cocked her head, wearing a warm smile that was faintly smug. “And now you are committed to resuming your travels. The cycle of teacher and student, Darcy and Ullas, will continue. As it should.”

  “I do believe you have tricked me, Mrs. Ullas. Sneaky!”

  “Whatever it takes. Now, shall we resume our game of chess, so you cannot claim my victory was by default?”

  “I have no intention of defaulting,” he declared, jumping up and offering his arm. “All this has been a distraction whilst I plot my next moves. Fell for it, didn’t you?”

  Jharna took his arm, laughing at his wiggling brows and sly grin. Leaving the serious talk behind, they renewed their contest with the usual mixture of intense strategy and banter, George somehow managing to pull it together and win.

  It was the beginning of a gradual process. Life goes on, George repeated to himself. Platitudes, Vedic proverbs, adages, and other truisms were also repeated, out loud and within the silences of his mind, offering solace in varying degrees. Yet more than anything, it was not in his nature to be depressed for long. Even in the worst of situations, George was ready with a witty quip or whimsical gesture to diffuse the tension. Years ago, he had accepted that as a vital aspect of his character, as well as being critical to not only deal with the stresses of his profession but also to aid healing in his patients.

  The revelation came early in his surgical studies when two of his instructors had summoned him into their office and for thirty minutes lectured him on the importance of maintaining a stern demeanor at all times, especially when interacting with patients. The young George had returned to his rented rooms near the college, heart heavy and mind confused but determined to listen to the words uttered by his wiser leaders. Until he opened his Bible for his evening devotion and quite by accident, or perhaps Divine intervention, the pages parted and his eyes fell on Proverbs 17:22.

  “A merry heart doeth good like a medicine: but a broken spirit drieth the bones.”

  Cross-referencing led him to Proverbs 15:13, “A merry heart maketh a cheerful countenance: but by sorrow of the heart the spirit is broken,” and then 16:24, “Pleasant words are as a honeycomb, sweet to the soul, and health to the bones.” Several scriptures spoke in the same vein and combined to inspire an epiphany and resolve. Moreover, he would eventually witness the truth of God’s words innumerable times in his own soul and in the impact cheerfulness and humor had upon the ill and on those who grieve.

  Before the year was over, the shift in how the odd family of Indian and Englishman interacted together was established. Certain patterns already present in their relationship tightened and cemented. Other patterns would develop as a result of the profound changes. Nimesh and Sasi sought their mother for loving consolation when childish tears overwhelmed them, but the boys on the cusp of adolescence instinctively turned to their chacha for masculine security.

  George resumed his arduous hours at the hospital in Thana, visited the homes of the ill whenever he was called, and traveled four times to villages in the region for short missions. Twice Nimesh accompanied him, the fourteen-year-old learning about medicine as he was put to work as an assistant to Dr. Darcy. Sasi decided that he wanted to learn how to whittle, so George bought him a set of basic knives and it became a common sight for the petite boy to be curled on the cushion beside his tall uncle, both of them with a hunk of wood in their hands. Nimesh lounged with them, his nose pressed into a book. Usually George filled the silence with his resonant voice either recounting a highly embellished tale from his youth or travels with their father, or teaching them English. The tutors Jharna hired taught them of Indian history, mathematics, and science. George passed on the practical knowledge of a man who embodied English culture even in his appreciation for Indian ways. Jharna could not recall the last time she had seen him wear an English garment and sincerely doubted he owned a pair of breeches or a neckcloth, yet
despite his browned skin and fluency in Hindi, there was a quality to his bearing uniquely English. He was a strange juxtaposition of both races and cultures. In the climate of the new century, with the rise of the British Empire’s influence in India, George proved to be a beneficial addition in more ways than any of them imagined.

  ***

  A week before Christmas of 1801, George knocked on the door leading to Jharna’s studio and then entered without waiting for a response. As he suspected, Jharna was not working on one of her painting projects or other artistic crafts that she excelled at. Rather she was on her knees before a case, carefully wrapping the fragile pottery with paper, straw, and cloth and placing it into sturdy crates edged with additional cushioning materials. It was a painstaking process that she insisted on completing herself.

  She glanced up as he breezed in, smiling as she sat back on her heels. “Are you leaving soon?”

  “In an hour or so. I promised Sasi I would wait until he returned from his music lesson. I am all packed, though, and the tanga is loaded. You need any help?” He reached for a plate and strip of cloth as he asked, winding the cloth around the intricately painted plate until well padded.

  “I will accept your assistance, if you are sure you have no one else to see before leaving?”

  “Who?” He asked vaguely.

  “Mrs. Ganesvoort,” she replied in a similar tone, playing along with his false innocence.

  “We dined together three nights ago and said our farewells. She understands that I will not be coming back to the area, at least not any time soon.”