“Who’s where?” was a game. Dolly and Bob used to play. It was rather a peculiar game. Theirs was a big house. It took five minutes to walk the circumference of it. And then there was the nursery, the backyard, the garden, the gravel path, the lakeside, and the mausoleum. It took more than fifteen minutes to go round them once. A vast property indeed! It was good for the game. It was good for the game because the inhabitants were not few. There was a regiment of staff, numbering thirty, from the sweeper to the housekeeper. And the family was of fifteen excluding them. Indeed good for the game!
The game was simple. One of them would call out the name of one of the inhabitants of the house and the other would have to guess where that person is at that moment in time. Then they would go searching for that person to see whether the guess was correct or not. Most of the time they guessed it correctly for everyone in Fisher House did things according to a routine. So to make their game a little difficult they introduced a clause that they would also have to guess whether the person guessed is standing up, lying down, or sitting at that time. But the routine was so rigidly followed in Fisher House that, even after the clause, the probability of guessing correctly was always more than the probability of guessing wrongly. Like at ten ‘O clock in the morning, Granny would be in the drawing room, sitting on the rocking chair beside the window, with a Bible on her lap and at five in the evening Uncle Sam would be in the library, standing near the rack of books with the maid Jenny serving him tea. Various other instances can be had similarly without fail.
Although the routine was followed in Fisher House very strictly, it would be unwise to count the possibility of a wrong guess as negligible. The possibility of guessing incorrectly was always looming large like a specter over all their right guesses. There was enormous potential in the house to break the routine. In many faces there could be seen a liking to take the less trodden path – a potential to go the wrong way. But every effort missed the mark by a stone’s throw. And every failed attempt was just a debilitation of will, burdened by the knowledge of being the pioneering radical. It won’t be correct that the thought of being the pioneer never came into the minds of the residents of Fisher House – it came with as much surety as the rising of the sun but went down as surely as the setting sun. It seemed as if only fate had the power to make someone the paradigm unwittingly.
But, what about the game? Who’s where? The game in which if you win by guessing correctly, there is no prize, but if you lose by guessing wrongly, then there is the gift of surprise – surprise of surprises. Here there is a crack, there a flaw! Surprise of surprises! The routine is being broken in secret – stealthily, as if the culprits are thieves, stealing the rigidity of the routine, feeling guilty, being carried away from the doldrums of homely existence by a storm that can ravish. “Who’s where?” is not just a game.
****
“Why not Bobby? I’ll call you Bobby”, sniped Dolly.
“I have my namesake, you girl, in Bobby Fischer. No, not Bobby – not even after he wins against a computer. No, Bobby I’ll not be. I made a deal with the elders – I’ll be good they call me Bob. What’s wrong with Bob? Call me Bob”, explained Bob.
“O! What a name! It just fills my mouth, plumps my face and refuses to come out. Bob. Bbbob. BOB”, she chivvied.
“It’s an orotund name”, Bob continued.
“Oorotun”, she stammered.
“Yes, wholesome, full and round.”
“Okay, I’ll call you Bob, explanation or no explanation. What’s that?”
“That’s the mausoleum. One of my forefather’s ashes is kept there. The man who built this house.”
“Why ashes? How?” Dolly queried.
“Oh! He was in the army. A colonel. He died in the Sepoy Mutiny in India.”
“The Revolt of 1857”, remarked Dolly.
“What? He died. The Indians burnt him alive. You Indians.”
“I’m no Indian. I’m British.”
“Go, and look at your passport, baby”, Bob teased.
“I am white. Indians are black.” Dolly countered.
“You were born in India, India, India. Anyway, in the sun, you are now more red than white. I’ll call you Red Indian then,” he laughed.
“Red Indian, Bobby”, she fumed.
“Don’t call me Bobby. Bob. Bob. Bob. Bob. Bob.”
“Stop calling me Indian.”
“Okay, deal.”
“Deal.”
“Honor bright.”
“Onner…”
“Jenny is an Indian.”
“No, silly. Anglo-Indian.”
“She is no British, right.”
“No British.”
“Then she is Indian; Anglo or no Anglo.”
****
The two children came close to each other while they were talking about Jenny. They spoke in whispers as if they were conspiring against the maid, whom they judged as an Indian because she was not British. She was Anglo-Indian. Uncle Sam brought her from India when he went to bring back Dolly and her mother. Jenny had been the maidservant in Dolly’s house in India, and when Uncle Sam brought them to England he also brought Jenny along as his personal servant. Uncle Sam’s conduct didn’t please anybody, especially Aunt Eustacia and Granny; except for Dolly, who was pleased and Bob, who was indifferent. But once a thing is done it can’t be undone in such houses for it will be a conduct unbecoming. Jenny stayed.
Jenny was born in India, an Anglo-Indian. His father had her mother in bed for one night (he could do so as he was a member of the Viceroy’s office) and the next morning he woke up in a foreign country. He left India immediately leaving Lord Mountbatten behind, but not before bestowing enough wealth on Jenny’s mother so that she won’t have to lead a miserable life.
“That Englishman, bastard, went back to England to his wife. I say that Jenny is more wronged than her mother. Not directly but indirectly more wronged by an Englishman. That dotard doesn’t even know about the birth of Jenny. And as an Englishman, it is my moral duty to help the poor girl, who has no wealth bestowed on her for the wrong doings of my countryman”, raged Uncle Sam.
That was it. Jenny was brought and she stayed.
****
“Uncle Sam”, called out Dolly.
“Oh! Oh! It’s so easy. Give me a tough one. It’s five; I’ll guess it. Come on, a tough one”, Bob retorted.
“No. I like Uncle Sam, so it will be Uncle Sam”, Dolly maintained.
“Okay. In the library, standing near the bookshelves”, finished Bob.
The children began to tread the gravel path that seemed to merge with the grass on both the sides gradually. There were no demarcations – the grass and the gravel merged like colors. Yet the path was always of equal width – going round the house like an athletic track. The children trudged slowly for they knew that Uncle Sam wouldn’t leave the library for another hour or so. The sun could not be seen on the horizon and it was darkening fast. They loved to walk at twilight among the trees. They could see the lights streaming out of the windows of the huge building. They simply loved the backyard at dusk. They entered the house from the backyard.
Little children are like embers that give warmth in cold lives. So they are liked by all those who inhabit in the cold. The embers should be alive as long as possible. All who feel the cold, tend the embers, give them more air to breathe, allow them to glow – they hinder nothing. Such was the freedom and care that the two children got, especially after Dolly came. Bob no longer remained a loner. They were the only members of the Fisher household who were exempted from following the routine strictly. They took full advantage of it. The game demanded such flexibility.
“Who’s where?” was Dolly’s idea. When she came to the Fisher House, she was baffled, seeing the grand Victorian architecture. The immense magnitude of the mansion made her remark, “How am I ever gonna know who’s where?” It didn’t take many days when Bob and Dolly realized that they have invented a game – “Who’s where?” was a game.
As they entered the house, Joseph, the butler, greeted them. Close behind him, “Good evening, Master Bob, Miss Dolly”, cried Maria, the housekeeper. They hadn’t even gone further than ten steps when Clementine, the cook, presented himself before them with a broad smile. They smiled back and were duly gifted with a croissant each.
“Eat it here, sirs”, he requested.
Clementine used to call Bob “sir”, but since Dolly came and as both Bob and Dolly were always found together, he just added an “s” and began to call them “sirs”. He thought a single “s” would make the word plural along with adding a touch of femininity to it. No one ever stopped to notice what he said, nor anyone was a die-hard feminist in Fisher House; so he got away with his grammatical innovation. He got a leeway mainly because his innovation was orthodox. Orthodoxy overshadowed everything in Fisher House.
It was thus that the children ate the croissants, in an orthodox manner standing on the basement floor. Then they continued. Up and down, round and round, the balcony, the foyer, and past Granny’s room when they reached that part of the house, the western side, where in a large hall the books dwelt.
They were still in the corridor when they saw Jenny enter the library with the tea tray. They stopped and waited for some time, looked out into the darkness from the stained glass windows, which were as big as doors, and then proceeded. The door was ajar. They pushed quietly and it opened quietly. The hinges were well oiled. For what else the army of thirty staff was for – if not to prevent doors from creaking? They went in but could not find anyone there. At least no one could be seen in the vicinity. The tea tray was on the table alongside some open books. The children looked at each other and turned back. Then there was the creak. They again looked at each other. There were no termites – there had never been any in the vast woodwork of the house. There was no possibility of them being present till the sixty hands, ready to take care of the mansion, retire. So they moved towards the place from where the sound originated. They saw the massive wooden shelf filled with books. They peeped behind and…
Uncle Sam was there. Jenny was also there. Uncle Sam’s hands had disappeared inside Jenny’s blouse and his lips were going to devour Jenny’s lips. They stayed like that wriggling and moaning very faintly for an enormous length of time. The two children stared dumbstruck. They were neither red in the ears nor giggling. They were silent. Quiet – as if they knew that the situation demanded it: although they knew that their game demanded it. Nobody knew about the game “Who’s where?” except Clementine. And, by instinct, they knew that their game should be played silently – in quietude. So they kept quiet. It was only when the enormity of time hampered their breathing that both of them, man and maid, separated from each other and started looking into each other’s eyes. This also went on for an eternity until the book stack creaked again as Jenny leant against it. They blinked and creased their foreheads. Then they smiled. The two children saw these and then tiptoed out of the library.
****
“I wish someone should have built here a mausoleum for my father also”, complained Dolly as she came running towards the shade of the mausoleum.
“Ha! Ha! Your father wasn’t killed by any Indian soldier”, giggled Bob, as he stayed in the fast fading sunlight.
“So what? He was killed by an Indian driver”, countered Dolly.
“Indian, but no soldier. And where are his ashes?” prattled Bob.
Dolly mumbled something that remained unheard and then just to change the topic she asked Bob, “Why was Aunt Eustacia going towards the library? She’s not interested in books, I suppose. Jenny will feel embarrassed if Aunt Eustacia found Uncle Sam kissing her.”
“Oh no! She is blind. She was without her glasses then. Obviously, she wasn’t going to read books in the library”, answered Bob.
“Jenny is a good girl. Uncle Sam said that he was doing a moral duty in helping her. I hope Aunt Eustacia understands that.”
“Oh yea. Very well. She looks understanding with glasses.”
“Alright. Who’s where? Who’s where? Umm… Granny”, yelled Dolly.
“It’s so easy”, protested Bob.
****
It didn’t take more than a couple of months when the exodus began. So fate made a champion out of an adulterer. But the influence of the mansion was overbearing. Though the incident was just a foreshadowing, an avant-garde can’t breathe the air of status quo. And all those who lived in Fisher House were avant-garde to some extent. The Fisher diaspora spread. From the shell of orthodoxy came out the worms of radicalism. Conservationists gave birth to revolutionaries. Defection was the word. Whoever had a mind and the means defected. The family burst out like pods. Dispersing here and there and everywhere. Aunt Eustacia took Uncle Sam to Paris. Bob went with his father and mother to New York. Some went to Toronto and Chicago, and some to Hague and London. Dolly came to London with her mother. But every weekend she visited Fisher House with her mother. The Fisher House still had the army of thirty staff but only one inhabitant of the Fisher clan to serve. The oldest member of the Fisher family alive, Granny, still lived there. Every weekend Dolly found Granny sitting in the drawing room, on a rocking chair by the window, with a Bible on her lap. Looking out of the window into a different world! Looked after by, among others, Joseph and Maria and Clementine and Jenny! Jenny stayed in the Fisher House. Trapped. Her presence was a deterrent enough to prevent any reunion of the Fisher family. So Granny stayed alone. Dementia began eating her brains. Gnawing slowly at it. How often Dolly heard her remark, “How am I ever going to know who’s where?” Dolly knew that it is now the grown-ups who are playing games.
