THE BURDEN OF A PRIEST

If you have been to Delhi by train, you must have visited Paharganj. In all probability you would have arrived at the noisy and dusty Paharganj railway station. You would have exited the station and almost certainly headed left towards Connaught Place, bypassing the crowded market with the cut-price guest houses and cheap prostitutes for tourists. But if you had gone right, past the Mother Dairy and J. J. Women’s Hospital, you would have seen a red building, with a large white cross. That is the Church of St Mary. That is where I was born eighteen years ago on Christmas Day. Or, to be more precise, that is where I was left on the cold winter night of 25 December. Dumped in the large bin the sisters had put out for old clothes. Who left me there and why, I do not know to this day. The finger of suspicion has always pointed towards the maternity ward of J. J. Hospital. Perhaps I was born there and my mother, for reasons known only to her, was forced to abandon me.

In my mind’s eye I have often visualized that scene. A tall and graceful young woman, wearing a white sari, leaves the hospital after midnight with a baby in her arms. The wind is howling. Her long black hair blows across her face, obscuring her features. Leaves rustle near her feet. Dust scatters. Lightning flashes. She walks with heavy footsteps towards the church, clutching the baby to her bosom. She reaches the door of the church and uses the metal ring knocker. But the wind is so strong, it drowns out the sound of the knock. Her time is limited. With tears streaming from her eyes, she smothers the baby’s face with kisses. Then she places him in the bin, arranging the old clothes to make him comfortable. She takes one final look at the baby, averts her eyes and then, running away from the camera, disappears into the night . . .

The sisters of St Mary ran an orphanage and an adoption agency, and I was put up for adoption, together with a clutch of other orphan babies. All the other babies were collected, but no one came for me. A prospective mother and father would see me and exchange glances with each other. There would be an imperceptible shake of the head, and then they would move on to the next cradle. I do not know why. Perhaps I was too dark. Too ugly. Too colicky. Perhaps I didn’t have a cherubic smile, or I gurgled too much. So I remained at the orphanage for two years. Oddly enough, the sisters never got round to giving me a name. I was just called Baby – the baby that no one wanted.

I was finally adopted by Mrs Philomena Thomas and her husband Dominic Thomas. Originally from Nagercoil in Tamil Nadu, they now lived in Delhi. Mrs Thomas worked as a cleaner in St Joseph’s Church and her husband as the gardener. Because they were in their forties without any children of their own, Father Timothy Francis, the parish priest, had been urging them to consider adopting to fill the void in their life. He even directed them to St Mary’s Orphanage. Mr Thomas must have taken one look at me and immediately passed on to the next baby, but Mrs Philomena Thomas selected me the moment she saw me. I was a perfect match for her dark skin!

The Thomases spent two months completing the paperwork for my adoption, but within three days of taking me home and even before I could be christened, Mr Thomas discovered that the void in his wife’s life had already been filled. Not by me, but by a Muslim gentleman by the name of Mastan Sheikh, who was the local ladies’ tailor, specializing in short skirts. Mrs Philomena Thomas ditched her old husband and newly adopted baby and ran off with the tailor, reportedly to Bhopal. Her whereabouts are not known to this day.

On discovering this, Mr Thomas went into a rage. He dragged me in my cradle to the priest’s house and dumped me there. ‘Father, this baby is the root cause of all the trouble in my life. You forced me to adopt him, so now you decide what to do with him.’ And before Father Timothy could even say ‘Amen’, Dominic Thomas walked out of the church. He was last seen buying a train ticket for Bhopal with a shotgun in his hands. So willy-nilly I became Father Timothy’s responsibility. He gave me food, he gave me shelter and he gave me a name: Joseph Michael Thomas. There was no baptism ceremony. No priest dipped my head into a font. No holy water was sprinkled. No white shawl was draped over me. No candle was lit. But I became Joseph Michael Thomas. For six days.

On the seventh day, two men came to meet Father Timothy. A fat man wearing white kurta pyjamas, and a thin, bearded man wearing a sherwani.

‘We are from the All Faith Committee,’ the fat man said. ‘I am Mr Jagdish Sharma. This is Mr Inayat Hidayatullah. Our third board member, Mr Harvinder Singh, representing the Sikh faith, was also to come, but he is unfortunately held up at the Gurudwara. We will come straight to the point. We are told, Father, that you have given shelter to a little orphan boy.’

‘Yes, the poor boy’s adoptive parents have disappeared, leaving him in my care,’ said Father Timothy, still unable to figure out the reason for this unexpected visit.

‘What name have you given this boy?’

‘Joseph Michael Thomas.’

‘Isn’t that a Christian name?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘How do you know that he was born to Christian parents?’

‘Well, I don’t.’

‘Then why have you given him a Christian name?’

‘Well, I had to call him something. What’s wrong with Joseph Michael Thomas?’

‘Everything. Don’t you know, Father, how strong the movement is against conversion in these parts? Several churches have been set fire to by irate mobs, who were led to believe that mass conversions to Christianity were taking place there.’

‘But this is no conversion.’

‘Look, Father, we know you did not have any ulterior motive. But word has got around that you have converted a Hindu boy.’

‘But how do you know he is Hindu?’

‘It won’t matter to the lumpen elements who are planning to ransack your church tomorrow. That is why we have come to help you. To cool things down.’

‘What do you suggest I do?’

‘I suggest you change the boy’s name.’

‘To what?’

‘Well . . . giving him a Hindu name might do the trick. Why not name him Ram, after one of our favourite gods?’ said Mr Sharma.

Mr Hidayatullah coughed gently. ‘Excuse me, Mr Sharma, but aren’t we replacing one evil with another? I mean, what is the proof that the boy was a Hindu at birth? He might have been Muslim, you know. Why can’t he be called Mohammad?’

Mr Sharma and Mr Hidayatullah debated the respective merits of Ram and Mohammad for the next thirty minutes. Finally, Father Timothy gave up. ‘Look, if it takes a name change to get the mob off my back, I will do it. How about if I accept both your suggestions and change the boy’s name to Ram Mohammad Thomas? That should satisfy everyone.’

Luckily for me that Mr Singh did not come that day.

Father Timothy was tall, white and comfortably middle aged. He had a huge house in the church compound with a sprawling garden full of fruit trees. For the next six years, he became my father, mother, master, teacher and priest, all rolled into one. If there has been anything approximating happiness in my life, it was in the time I spent with him.

Father Timothy was from the north of England, a place called York, but had been settled in India for very many years. It was thanks to him that I learnt to read and speak the Queen’s English. He taught me Mother Goose Tales and nursery rhymes. I would sing ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ and ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’ in my horribly off-key voice, providing, I suppose, an amusing diversion for Father Timothy from his priestly duties.

Living in the church compound, I felt part of a much larger family. Apart from Father Timothy, his faithful manservant Joseph stayed in the house and Mrs Gonzalves, the maid, also lived close by. And then there was a whole bunch of street kids belonging to the plumbers, cobblers, sweepers and washermen, who lived practically next door and did not hesitate to use the church grounds for their cricket and football games. Father Timothy taught me about the life of Jesus, and Adam and Eve, and this extended family instructed me on the rudiments of other religions. I came to know about the Mahabharata and the Holy Koran. I learnt about the Prophet’s flight from Mecca to Medina and of the burning down of Lanka. Bethlehem and Ayodhya, St Peter and the Hajj all became part of my growing-up.

This is not to suggest, though, that I was a particularly religious child. I was like any other child, with three main preoccupations: eating, sleeping and playing. I spent many an afternoon with the neighbourhood kids of my age, catching butterflies and frightening birds in Father Timothy’s garden. While Joseph, the old retainer, dusted curios in the drawing room, I would sneak out and try to pluck ripe mangoes, under the watchful eye of the gardener. If caught, I would give him generous abuse in Hindi. I would dance with abandon in the monsoon rain, try to catch little fish in the small muddy pools of rain water and end up coughing and sneezing, much to the consternation of Father Timothy. I would play football with the street kids, come back battered and bruised, and then cry the entire night.

Father Timothy lived an active life. He would go for a walk every morning, play golf, volleyball and tennis, read voraciously and take vacations three times a year to meet his aged mother in England. He was also an expert violinist. Most evenings he would sit out in the moonlit garden and play the most soulful melodies you can imagine. And when it rained at night during the monsoon season, I would think of the sky as weeping from hearing his sad tunes.

I enjoyed going into the church. It was an old building built in 1878, with stained-glass windows and a spectacular roof made of timber. The altar was beautifully carved. Above it was a large crucifix of Christ and the letters INRI. There were sculptures of the Virgin and Child enthroned and of many saints. The pews were made of teak wood, but they were full only on Sundays. Father Timothy would give a long sermon from the pulpit, during which I would doze off, to wake only when he gave everyone the wafer and wine. I also enjoyed hearing the organ and the choir. I fell in love with Easter eggs and Christmas trees, which unfortunately came only once a year, and church weddings, which were held in all seasons. I would wait for Father Timothy to say, ‘And you may now kiss the bride.’ I would always be the first to throw the confetti.

My relationship with Father Timothy was never precisely defined. It was never made clear to me whether I was servant or son, parasite or pet. So for the first few years of my life, I lived under the happy illusion that Father Timothy was my real father. But gradually I began to realize something was amiss. For one, all those who came to Mass on Sunday mornings would call him Father, and it intrigued me that he was the father of so many people, and that I had so many brothers and sisters, all much bigger than me. I was also perplexed by the fact that he was white and I was not. So one day I asked him, and he shattered the fantasy world in which I had lived till then. In the gentlest possible way, he explained to me that I was an orphan child left behind by my mother in the clothes bin of St Mary’s Orphanage, and that was why he was white and I was not. It was then, for the first time, that I understood the distinction between father and Father. And that night, for the first time, my tears had nothing to do with physical pain.

Once the realization sank in that I did not have a biological connection with Father Timothy and was living in the church only due to his generosity, I became determined to repay, at least in part, the debt I owed him. I began doing little chores for him, like taking the clothes from the laundry basket to the washing machine. Sitting in front of the machine, watching the drum spin round and round and wondering how the clothes came out so magically clean. Once putting some dusty books inside the washing machine as well. Doing the dishes in the kitchen sink. Breaking fine china. Slicing vegetables. On occasion almost chopping off my finger.

Father Timothy introduced me to many of his parishioners. I met old Mrs Benedict, who came religiously to Mass every day, come hail or rain, till she slipped on the pavement one day and died of pneumonia. I attended the wedding of Jessica, who cried so much her father had a heart attack. I was taken once to high tea at the house of Colonel Waugh, who was the Australian Defence Attaché in Delhi and who seemed to speak to Father Timothy in a completely foreign language. I went on a fishing trip with Mr Lawrence, who caught nothing, then purchased a large trout from the fish market to deceive his wife.

All the people I met had nothing but praise for Father Timothy. They said he was the best priest this diocese had ever had. I saw him comfort the bereaved, attend to the sick, lend money to the needy and share a meal even with lepers. He had a smile on his face for every member of the parish, a cure for every problem and a quotation from the Bible for every occasion – birth, Baptism, Confirmation, First Communion, marriage or death.

It is Sunday and the church is full of people gathered for the Mass. But today Father Timothy is not standing alone behind the altar. He has another man with him, also wearing a cassock and a white band at his neck. He looks more like a boxer than a priest. Father Timothy is introducing him. ‘. . .  And it is a great pleasure for us to welcome Father John Little, who has joined the Church of St Joseph as Associate Priest. Father John, as you can see, is much younger than me, and even though he was ordained only three years ago, is vastly experienced. I am sure he will be able to relate much more effectively to our younger worshippers, who, I am well aware, have been referring to me behind my back as “that old fogy”.’ The congregation titters.

That evening, Father Timothy invites Father John for dinner. Joseph is supposed to serve them, but in my enthusiasm to impress Father Timothy, I pick up the heavy bowl of soup from the kitchen and walk with unsteady steps towards the dining table. As is to be expected from an ill-trained seven-year-old, instead of depositing the soup bowl on the table, I spill it all on Father John. He gets up in a hurry, and the first words that appear on his lips are ‘Bloody Hell!’ Father Timothy raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything.

Three days later, Father Timothy goes away to England on holiday, leaving the church, and me, in the hands of Father John. I meet him two days later coming down the steps of the church.

‘Good evening, Father,’ I say politely.

Father John looks at me with disdain. ‘You’re that idiot orphan boy who spilled soup on me the other day! You’d better behave yourself in Father Timothy’s absence. I’ll be watching you very carefully.’

Joseph has sent me with a glass of milk to Father John’s room. He is watching a movie on the TV. He invites me in. ‘Come in, Thomas. Do you want to watch this film with me?’ I look at the TV. It is an English film – about priests, I think, because I see a priest in a black cassock talking to another priest in a white cassock. I am relieved Father John is fond of watching good, religious films. But the very next scene sends a chill down my spine, because it shows a young girl, about my age, sitting on a bed. She does not appear to be a normal girl, because she has a funny expression on her face and her eyes are going all over the place. The priest in the black cassock enters her room with a cross in his hand. He points it at her, and she starts speaking the most filthy language I have ever heard, and that too in the hoarse voice of a grown-up man. I put my fingers in my ears, because Father Timothy has instructed me not to listen to such dirty words. Suddenly she stops speaking. She starts laughing, like a mad girl. Then she opens her mouth and horrible, gooey green stuff spews out of it like a jet of water from a garden pipe and lands on the priest. I feel like vomiting. I cannot watch any longer and run down to my room. I hear Father John squealing with laughter. ‘Come back, you idiot orphan boy, it’s just a film,’ he calls out.

I get bad dreams that night.

Three days later I am out shopping with Joseph. We purchase meat and eggs and vegetables and flour. As we are returning to the church late in the evening, I hear the sound of a motorcycle behind me. Before I can look back, the motorcycle rider is upon us. He slaps me on the head and screams away, raising a plume of dust. I catch sight only of his back. He seems like a heavy-set man wearing a leather jacket and tight black trousers, with another similarly dressed man riding pillion. I wonder who the rider is and why he rapped me on the head. It doesn’t occur to me that it could be Father John. After all, I am only an idiot orphan boy.

A week later, I have to deliver some mail to Father John, but he is taking a bath. ‘Leave the post on the table,’ he shouts from the bathroom. I am about to leave the room when I catch sight of something peeping out from underneath his mattress. I look closely. It is a magazine. I pull it out. And then I find a whole bunch of them under the mattress. They are not very thick but they have nice glossy covers. They have strange titles like Gay Parade and Out and Gay Power. But the men on their covers do not seem very happy and gay. They are all hairy and naked. I hastily put the magazines back under the mattress. I am about to go out when Father John emerges from the bathroom. He has a towel around his waist. But his chest is covered in strange patterns made in black ink and there are snakes painted on his arms. ‘What are you doing here?’ he admonishes me. ‘Bugger off!’

Why Father John has all these strange designs on his body and keeps those strange magazines under his bed, I don’t know. I am just an idiot orphan boy.

I often see strange-looking young men entering the church at night and going to Father John’s room. Visitors used to come to meet Father Timothy as well, sometimes at odd hours of the night, but they never came by motorcycle wearing leather jackets and thick metal chains around their necks. I decide to follow one of these visitors to Father John’s room. He knocks and enters and Father John closes the door. I peer through the little keyhole. I know I am doing a very bad thing, but my curiosity is killing me. Through the keyhole I see Father John and the young leather-clad man sitting on the bed. Father John opens his drawer and takes out a plastic packet, which has some white powder in it. He spreads the powder in a thin line on the back of his left hand. Then he does the same to the left hand of his friend. They both bend their faces to the powder and inhale deeply. The white powder seems to disappear into their noses. Brother John laughs, like that mad girl in the film. His friend says, ‘This is good stuff, man! Way too good for a priest. How did you get into this Church shit in the first place?’

Father John laughs again. ‘I liked the dress,’ he says, and gets up from the bed. ‘Come,’ he tells his friend and puts out his hand. I hastily retreat.

Why Father John puts talcum powder into his nose I don’t know. But then I am just an idiot orphan boy.

Father Timothy finally returns from his holiday in England and I am delighted to see him again. I am pretty sure he has heard lots of complaints about Father John, because within just two days of his return there is a big argument between them in the study. Father John rushes out of the room in a huff.

Easter is over. All my Easter eggs have been eaten. And Mrs Gonzalves, the house maid, is sniggering.

‘What’s the matter, Mrs Gonzalves?’ I ask her.

‘Don’t you know?’ she whispers confidentially. ‘Joseph caught Father John in the church with another man. But don’t tell anyone, and don’t whisper a word to Father Timothy, otherwise there’ll be hell to pay.’

I don’t understand. What’s wrong if Father John was with another man in the church? Father Timothy is with other men all the time in the church. Like when he listens to confessions.

Today, for the first time, I am in the confession box.

‘Yes, my son, what have you come to tell me?’ asks Father Timothy.

‘It is me, Father.’

Father Timothy almost jumps out of his chair. ‘What are you doing here, Thomas? Haven’t I told you this is not a joking matter?’

‘I have come to confess, Father. I have sinned.’

‘Really?’ Father Timothy softens. ‘What wrong have you done?’

‘I peeped inside Father John’s room through the keyhole. And I looked at some of his things without his permission.’

‘That’s quite all right, my son. I don’t think I want to hear about that.’

‘No, you must, Father,’ I say, and proceed to tell him about the magazines under the mattress, the designs on the body, the leather-clad visitors at night, and the snorting of the talcum powder.

That evening there is the mother of all showdowns in the study between the two priests. I listen at the door. There is a lot of shouting. Father Timothy ends the discussion by threatening to report Father John to the Bishop. ‘I am a priest,’ he says. ‘And to be a priest, you have to carry a heavy burden. If you can’t do this, then return to the seminary.’

An English backpacker passing through Delhi came to church this morning and Father Timothy found out that he is also from York. So he brought him home and is allowing him to stay for a few days. He introduces him to me. ‘Ian, meet Thomas, who lives with us here. Thomas, this is Ian. Do you know he is also from York? You are always asking me about my mother’s city; now you can ask him.’

I like Ian. He is fifteen or sixteen years old. He has fair skin, blue eyes and golden hair. He shows me pictures of York. I see a large cathedral. ‘It’s called York Minster,’ he says. He shows me pictures of lovely gardens and museums and parks.

‘Have you met Father Timothy’s mother? She also lives in York,’ I ask him.

‘No, but I will meet her after I return, now that I have her address.’

‘What about your own mother? Does she also live in York?’

‘She used to. But she died ten years ago. A motorcycle rider crashed into her.’ He takes out a picture of his mother from his wallet and shows it to me. She had fair skin, blue eyes and golden hair.

‘So why have you come to India?’ I ask him.

‘To meet my dad.’

‘What does your father do?’

Ian hesitates. ‘He teaches at a Catholic school in Dehradun.’

‘Why don’t you also live in Dehradun?’

‘Because I am studying in York.’

‘Then why doesn’t your dad live with you in York?’

‘There are reasons. But he comes to visit me three times a year. This time I decided to meet him in India.’

‘Do you love your dad?’

‘Yes, very much.’

‘Do you wish your dad could stay with you for ever?’

‘Yes. What about your dad? What does he do?’

‘I don’t have a dad. I am an idiot orphan boy.’

Three evenings later, Father Timothy invites Father John to dinner with Ian. They eat and talk late into the night and Father Timothy even plays his violin. Father John leaves some time after midnight, but Father Timothy and Ian continue chatting. I lie in bed listening to the sound of laughter drifting from the open window. I have trouble sleeping.

It is a moonlit night and a strong wind is blowing. The eucalyptus trees in the compound are swaying, their leaves making a rustling noise. I feel like going to the lavatory and get up. As I am walking towards the bathroom, I see a light inside Father John’s room. I also hear sounds. I tiptoe to the door. It is closed, so I peer through the keyhole. What I see inside is frightening. Ian is stooped over the table and Father John is bending over him. His pyjamas have fallen down to his feet. I am totally confused. I may be an idiot orphan boy, but I know something is wrong. I rush to Father Timothy, who is fast asleep. ‘Wake up, Father! Father John is doing something bad to Ian!’ I shout.

‘To whom? To Ian?’ Father Timothy is immediately alert. Both of us rush to Father John’s room and Father Timothy bursts inside. He sees what I have just seen. His face goes so pale, I think he is about to faint. He grips the door to keep himself from collapsing. Then his face becomes red with anger. He almost starts frothing at the mouth. I am scared. I have never seen him this angry before. ‘Ian, go to your room,’ he thunders. ‘And you too, Thomas.’

I do as I am told, even more confused than before.

I am woken early next morning by the sound of two bangs, coming from the direction of the church. I sense immediately that something is wrong. I rush to the church and witness a scene which shakes me to my core. Father Timothy is lying in a pool of blood near the altar, just below the statue of Jesus Christ on the cross. He is wearing his cassock and looks to be kneeling in prayer. Ten steps away from him lies the body of Father John, splattered with blood. His head appears to have been shattered and little pieces of his brain stick to the pews. He is dressed in leather. There are images of dark serpents on his arms. A shotgun lies clenched in his right hand.

I see this scene, and I feel the breath being choked out of my lungs. I scream. It is a piercing cry, which shatters the stillness of the morning like a bullet. It frightens away the crows sitting on the eucalyptus trees. It causes Joseph, dusting ornaments in the drawing room, to pause and listen. It impels Mrs Gonzalves to finish her shower quickly. And it wakes up Ian, who comes running into the church.

I am bent over Father Timothy, wailing like an eight-year-old wails when he has lost everything in his life. Ian comes and sits beside me. He looks at the lifeless body of Father Timothy and begins crying too. We hold hands and cry together for almost three hours, even after the police jeep with the flashing red light comes, even after the doctor in a white coat arrives with an ambulance, even after they cover the bodies with white cloth, even after they cart away the corpses in the ambulance, even after Joseph and Mrs Gonzalves take us away to the house and try their best to comfort us.

Later, much later, Ian asks me, ‘Why did you cry so much, Thomas?’

‘Because today I have really become an orphan,’ I reply. ‘He was my father. Just as he was Father to all those who came to this church. But why were you crying? Is it because of what you did with Father John?’

‘No, I was crying because I have lost everything too. I have become an orphan like you.’

‘But your father is alive. He is in Dehradun,’ I cry.

‘No, that was a lie.’ He begins sobbing again. ‘Now I can tell you the truth. Timothy Francis may have been your Father, but he was my dad.’

Smita has a sad expression on her face. ‘What a tragic story,’ she says. ‘I now understand what Father Timothy must have meant when he spoke of the burden of a priest. It is amazing how he lived a double life all those years, as a priest who was also secretly a married man and a father. So what happened to Ian, finally?’

‘I don’t know. He went back to England. To some uncle, I think.’

‘And you?’

‘I got sent to a Juvenile Home.’

‘I see. Now tell me about the second question,’ says Smita and presses ‘Play’ on the remote.

We are still in the commercial break.

Prem Kumar leans forward and whispers to me, ‘Let me tell you what the next question is going to be. I will ask you what FBI stands for. You have heard of this organization, haven’t you?’

‘No.’ I shake my head.

He grimaces. ‘I knew it. Look, we would like you to win at least a little more money. I can change the question for something else. Tell me quickly, are there any abbreviations you are familiar with?’

I think for a while before replying. ‘I don’t know about FBI, but I know INRI.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s what’s written on top of a cross.’

‘Oh! OK, let me check my data bank.’

The commercial break ends. The signature tune comes on.

Prem Kumar turns to me. ‘I am curious, Mr Ram Mohammad Thomas, as to your religion. You seem to have all the religions in your name. Tell me, where do you go to pray?’

‘Does one have to go to a temple or a church or a mosque to pray? I believe in what Kabir says. Hari is in the East, Allah is in the West. Look within your heart, and there you will find both Ram and Karim.’

‘Very well said, Mr Thomas. It looks like you are an expert on all religions. And if that is the case, the next question should be fairly easy for you. OK, here it comes, question number two for two thousand rupees. What is the sequence of letters normally inscribed on a cross? Is it a) IRNI, b) INRI, c) RINI or d) NIRI? Is the question clear, Mr Thomas?’

‘Yes,’ I reply.

‘OK. Then let’s hear your reply.’

‘The answer is B. INRI.’

‘Are you absolutely, one hundred per cent sure?’

‘Yes.’

There is a crescendo of drums. The correct answer flashes.

‘Absolutely, one hundred per cent correct! You have just won two thousand rupees.’

‘Amen,’ I say.