The Unmentionable War

There is a word for what I felt the day I found your letter. This word can’t be found in my language. But it can be in yours. I close my eyes and I picture your lips shaping that word. I try to ignore the rest of you but I can’t. I see you behind my eyelids. The rest of the world falls away and there you are. Trying your best to suppress your laughter. Your eyes can’t quite hide your grin and I find my own lips begin to twitch. Your hand slips into mine. Large but warm. Gentle and kind. You pull me into your chest and I find my home again. I look up and touch your face and my memories overtake me. One last time, I’m transported to another time and place.

v  

December 1943

Southern Railway Platform, London

“It’s really horrible and altogether unforgivable that she forgot our blanket”. I glance at my older sister Neha cradling herself on the platform bench. She has two sweaters, one shawl and a thick overcoat on making her look like an overblown chipmunk. “I really don’t think you could get any warmer Ayah.” I smilingly reply without really thinking. 

Oh shit.

“Do. Not. Call. Me. Ayah.” she bites out. I lose my smile immediately and suppress a much deserved eye roll. I open my mouth to wonder aloud for the hundredth time when father will get here. But noticing Neha’s still fuming face I promptly close it. Her nostrils flare with such passion that I realize I’ll be hearing about the funny and benign nickname the entire ride home. Great. Maybe I should have just stuck to Elizabeth like she and father keep introducing her as.

I’m immediately pulled out of my angry thoughts the moment I notice you. You look away, whistling a tune all the while, but not quickly enough. You were watching me. Had been watching me for some time now, I realize. You’re a very tall man with broad shoulders. And you would have been handsome but your features are too rough for a classic look. I suspect you don’t care. Your back is straight with the discipline of a soldier, but you stance speaks of tranquility. It’s self-assuredness. I can’t help but look at you now. I wonder what you are doing at the train station on a Saturday morning. You seem to be waiting for someone just like us. But my piquing interest is brought to a standstill the moment I remember myself. I start to wonder if you stare at me because of my dark skin. Neha is more passable as one of you than I am. She has our English father’s looks while I have our Indian mother’s coloring. My sister is every bit the English gentlewoman with her bleached hair and bleached skin. For just a moment I wish I would have just tried to fit in like she does.

I look away from you. The air becomes more chilly against my bare arms and I hug myself for some warmth. I close my eyes and envision myself in warm Calcutta surrounded by the smell of my mom’s cooking. Home. I get lost in my thoughts and only open my eyes again when I hear father’s commanding voice close by. I turn to look for him. But instead of finding him, I find you. 

v  

There you stand laughing right next to him. Throwing your head back and fully committing to the look. And he’s grinning from ear to ear. I don’t think I’ve seen father smile since we came back to England. I have this desire to go to you right now and join the laughter. But I hold myself back feeling as if I don’t belong. No matter how much I know father loves me, whenever we are in England he always holds me at a distance. My body tenses at my uncomfortable stance. I start to turn away but without meaning to I catch your eyes. And I can’t look away. Your eyes are somehow so familiar. I’m surprised by how young you are. You can’t be more than a couple years older than me. But your eyes seem much older. You keep holding my eyes and nod your head at me as a way of greeting from such a distance. At your glance, father turns and looks at us and starts motioning us towards him. Part of me wants to disobey, but the larger part of me wants to obey. 

Neha still hasn’t noticed father so I tap her shoulder and we start to make our way across the platform. “Luc these are my two daughters Catherine and Elizabeth”. I cringe at those names. They are not our names. “Catherine and Elizabeth this is Luc Martin” father glances at you proudly. “Luc is the son of Jacqueline. Remember all the stories I told you? We fought together in Aisne during the first Great War. I would not have survived where it not for Jacqueline”. 

I do remember father’s stories. There are two pictures father has always kept with him. One of mother. And one of Jacqueline Martin, his French brother from the war. 

I look into your eyes and I can see your father in them. The naked vulnerability and compassion within the deep hue of your iris. The kindness in your smile.  

“My name is actually Naina” I reply making sure to keep little emotion on my face. All the while I deflect father’s warning look and tighten my crossed arms against my chest. I look back at you and my tensed face relaxes. I try out your name in my mind. Luc. It fits you I think. Your eyes dance as you watch me tilt my head back to see you more clearly. I smile when I see you laugh at our height discrepancy. “Very nice to meet you Naina” you quietly say with a smile. “If I may ask what does your name mean?” I’m look at you with surprise “It means—“

“It means ‘eyes’ in her mother’s native tongue” father responds tightly cutting me off. “However, her mother and I agreed that while in England she would be called Catherine so it would be easier for everyone”. 

You glance down at me with a smile “Easier for who? I think Naina is a beautiful name”. 

At this, father chuckles dryly. He glances at me and then at Neha who has suddenly developed a keen interest in the lining of her coat. “Well we should start heading home. Never know when the Germans will start bombing again.” Father turns to you “Luc please join us for lunch. I will be having a few guests over and I know some of them would love to meet Jacqueline’s son.” I try very hard not to look at you and fail. Doesn’t matter. You were watching me anyways. 

v  

Hale House, London

I sit on the countertop in the kitchen. Ayah is busy planning the meal. Neha is in our room upstairs and you and father sit in the living space discussing the war. I wish to join the discussion and hear all about it. But father has made it perfectly clear in the past that those discussions are not meant for my ears. “You know she still hates being called Ayah” I say with half an apple in my mouth. Ayah glances up from the stovetop and lets out a small chuckle. “Why do you always insist on inciting your sister?” I kick my legs back and forth contemplatively “she loved being my Ayah before. Whenever you went back home to India she would dress me and try her hardest to cook me your recipes”. I crinkle my nose “of course those recipes didn’t exactly pan out the way she thought they would”. Ayah laughs at that. “I bet you learned quite a few tricks to throw your meal away when she wasn’t looking”. I smile. That I did. 

I lose my smile thinking about Neha again. “Why does she care what people in this country think about her? She was fine with me calling her Ayah up until that friend laughed at us”. Ayah glances at me with a pained expression “you know why”. She sighs and starts to clean her pots and pans with fervor. Ayah finally stops and looks at me “you know people like me do not belong here at all”. I look at her and then look away. I ponder her words for a moment and look back and reply very quietly “I don’t think I belong here either”.  

v  

Father’s guests start arriving around noon. Most of them are businessmen with ties to India. Some of them are soldiers who fought in the first Great War with him. All them greet Neha and I with formal politeness all the while keeping us at a distance. Of course Ayah remains in the kitchen. 

I observe you shaking hands with all the guests and avidly remarking at how you remember so and so and how so and so was great friends with your father. You’re a charming person adept at making everyone like you. If it weren’t for the genuineness in your eyes I would have thought it all for show. Every now and then I catch you looking at me. But I’m only able to catch you because I keep looking at you as well. Father introduces all of us and we start to make our way over to the large dining table. Somehow even with so many guests you and I end up right across from each other. We smile at each other politely but our eyes keep meeting without meaning to. 

The conversations around me begin with polite talk. Everyone seems very careful to avoid discussions of the war but eventually we make our way into discussing it. It starts with father’s loudest friend, George Boyle who doesn’t seem to be able to read social cues very well. “Can you believe what the Indians are doing at a time like this? They have absolutely no respect for institutions and that Indian politician Bose went and created an army out of Indian prisoners of war to fight against Great Britain!” His mustache twitches with every word he spits out. I glance your way curious to see what you think of it. It is well known that India’s desire for independence from Great Britain was unmentionable at dinner parties such as ours. It was the unmentionable war. Mr. Boyle decides to continue even though everyone else has fallen silent “In a time like this with that raging lunatic Hitler, India should be supporting us. Not waging their own war like selfish mongrels. Should our soldiers fight the blood thirsty Nazis or the uncivilized Indians!?” I open my mouth to say something but then I look at father and promptly close my mouth again. I close my eyes concentrating with every breath to calm myself down. 

With my eyes closed, I hear you clear your throat and with a contained tone you say “Why is it wrong for India to fight for its independence? How is it any different than the Nazi occupied states fighting against the Germans?” I open my eyes and stare into yours. They are brilliant with anger but contained with an immortal calm. Mr. Boyle stares at you like you’ve grown a second head and responds “Hitler simply invaded Poland without any due process whereas we went and colonized India for its betterment!” He smashes his fist into the table shaking the dishes and continues “We gave those uncivilized cretins education, language, culture, and religion! What Germany is doing is pure madness. Madness!!” 

I can’t help it anymore so I chime in “India had all those things before the English invaded”. Everyone grows absolutely silent at my audacity to speak and I dare not look at father. Instead I continue looking directly at Mr. Boyle “and with all due respect madness is not madness if it is deemed acceptable in one’s culture. Britain managed to justify its madness to the whole world with colonization, whereas Germany failed to justify conquest. Would there be a war if Germany was as good at manipulating the rest of the world as the English have been?  Who knows.” I shrug nonchalantly. I look into your eyes and find the deep place from within to gather my courage to continue speaking “Germany does have Hitler, but he has focused all his manipulation on his people and that was his greatest mistake. Propaganda must be utilized within the country but also distributed all across the world. The English knew this and so did the Americans and thus the ‘white man’s burden’ was born. I bet you that even in half a century, the United States will still have retained control in the Philippines Islands, and most people would never know it was through invasion. In fact, I bet they’ll wipe away the history completely”. I take a deep breath.

“Only victors get to tell tales” you say absent-mindedly. I glance at you sharply and in your eyes I can recognize the feeling of camaraderie. You understand. Amongst a group full of people who are starting to splutter at my impassioned soliloquy, you understand. My father remains quiet and seemingly unaffected by my speech. If it weren’t for his strained posture, I wouldn’t even think he thought anything at all.

v  

The guests leave promptly after my small speech at the table. I sit alone in my room combing my long hair not wanting to think about father’s large footsteps making their way up the creaky stairs. He enters my room a moment later and sits down at my desk in silence. It is so rare that I know what he is thinking but I’m beginning to suspect his thoughts this time. He looks up at me and in his eyes all I can find is disappointment. “You will not be returning to India this year” he speaks softly while looking at me. I set my comb on my bed. I don’t know what to say right now —too scared that any word from me will just solidify his resolve. Father glances at the framed picture of mother on my desk and continues “It is for many reasons including the fact that there is indeed too much violence and unrest there currently. It is also because I have decided you require more schooling within England”. He gets up to go but turns back “One day you will realize that the world is not so black and white. You may hate me now but soon you will know I have only wanted what is best for you”. My fingers grab onto the bed frame as tight as possible. I rest my head against the wall…thinking and planning. 

You are hugging my father one last time and bidding him goodbye. I watch through the sliver of light I have within your trunk. You ask about me but father shakes his head and you look disappointed. You tighten your overcoat and start making your way to your car. I close the trunk lid softly listening to the large hum of your engine starting. I can barely contain all my emotions. Fear, sadness, and excitement. I’m going home. 

v  

The Present

I pull myself out of my thoughts still clenching your letter between my fingers. Thinking of that dinner party, I laugh softly at my naïveté. Even then, I had no idea what you would come to mean to me. And I to you. I think of all the adventures you and I had. All the long discussions about philosophy, politics and religion. All our countless escapades as we made our way through war torn Europe into India. I think of all the ways you changed me. And all the ways I changed you. 

Pulling myself back to the present, I look down at your letter. I read the words you have carefully chosen with a code for your location. With my resolve built I get off the sidewalk. I’m going to find you.