The Death of Mr Love, page 32
Nanavati, still holding the revolver, left the flat saying he was going to a police station, but instead he went to the Naval Provost Marshal, Commander Samuel.
Ten minutes later, Deputy Commissioner Lobo of the Bombay Police received a call from Samuel, who said he had sent Nanavati along to give himself up at Gamdevi police station.
‘Are you sending him under escort?’ Lobo asked. A couple of months earlier a naval rating from Nanavati’s ship had strangled a woman in a cheap lodging house, and the Naval Provost had sent him to the police under guard.
‘Of course not,’ replied Samuel. ‘He is driving himself. Kawas Nanavati is a gentleman.’
On the fatal morning, Nanavati had had a row with his English wife, Sylvia. His ship was not long back from a cruise and instead of the enthusiastic lover he must have hoped would welcome him home, Sylvia was withdrawn, distinctly moody. They had gone away for a few days with his brother and sister-in-law and Sylvia’s behaviour continued to be odd. On their return, she refused an invitation to dinner with his brother because, she said, of a prior engagement with a friend, Mamie, Prem’s sister. The Nanavatis had known Ahuja and his sister for some years. They occasionally made up a bridge four. Nanavati knew of Ahuja’s reputation as a playboy with a penchant for the lonely wives of serving officers.
There are various versions of what happened on that morning, the twenty-seventh. Nanavati had some chores to attend to. He had to take the dog to the vet. In the afternoon, the family planned to go to the cinema. Another report describes a trip to the Metro, to buy tickets for the film. On the way home they apparently stopped to do some grocery shopping in Crawford Market. The atmosphere in the car was tense. If Blitz and various rather more fanciful accounts are to be believed, the following scene must be imagined when they got home.
The Nanavati living room, a large comfortable room with an airy sea view. SYLVIA is seated on a sofa, with a magazine, Eve’s Weekly. She pretends to be absorbed, but can’t concentrate. Her husband, KAWAS, a handsome man in his thirties, is nervously pacing the room. He sits beside SYLVIA.
HE: Sylvia, please. What is the matter?
She is silent, flipping through her magazine.
HE: Please. What’s wrong?
SHE: Nothing. Why do you keep badgering me?
He puts his arm around her shoulders.
HE: Darling, something is wrong. Please tell me.
SHE: (shrinking from his touch) Don’t do that!
He leaves the arm where it is, tries again.
HE: Sylvia . . . (Hastily withdraws arm as a servant enters.)
SERVANT: Sahib, memsahib, lunch ready.
Exit servant and Nanavatis. The room remains empty for half an hour, during which we are obliged to imagine them eating lunch at the family table. SYLVIA reenters, sits on the sofa and picks up her magazine, flicking the pages. Several more minutes pass before KAWAS comes in.
HE: Oh, there you are. I was waiting in the bedroom. I thought you might like a rest after lunch.
She ignores him, continues flipping through her magazine. He sits on the other end of the sofa.
HE: Look Sylvia, we must have a proper talk.
She looks away.
HE: Sylvia, do you still love me?
Silence.
HE: (hoarsely, or gently, according to various accounts) Are you in love with someone else?
Silence.
HE: (presumably hoarse by now) For God’s sake, you must tell me.
SHE: Yes.
HE: Who is it?
She shakes her head and will not answer.
HE: Is it Ahuja?
SHE: (after a long silence, murmurs) Yes.
HE: Did you remain . . . honourable?
She bows her head, then shakes it. He jumps up and paces the floor in great agitation.
HE: Oh God! Oh God! Oh my God!
SHE: What are you going to do?
HE: What is to be done any more?
He comes to a decision. Stops. Sits beside her.
HE: Look, is he prepared to behave honourably? Will he marry you? Will he look after the children?
SHE: (hangs her head) I don’t know.
HE: Sylvia, listen, I can forgive you. I am prepared to forgive you. But you must give him up. Now tell me truthfully, darling, will you give him up?
SHE: I can’t answer that at this moment.
He starts up again, this time in anger.
HE: I must go and settle the matter with this swine.
SHE: No, no. You must not go there. He may shoot you.
HE: Don’t bother about me. It doesn’t matter anyway as I am going to shoot myself.
SHE: (jumps up and grabs his arm to calm him down) Why should you shoot yourself? You are the innocent one in all this.
HE: By God, look at the time. Get everyone in the car or we’ll be late for Tom Thumb.
The trial, at the Bombay Sessions Court, proved as sensational as the murder. There was huge public support for the wronged naval hero, and universal loathing for Ahuja the seducer, destroyer of wifely virtue.
Sylvia appeared in court wearing a widow’s white sari and played to perfection the role of the naive, penitent wife, led astray by a scoundrel. She described the day of the murder. How she had had to nerve herself to give her husband the bad news that she was in love with another man. She could not bear to deceive him about what had been happening in his absence.
She told how Nanavati had found her moody and distracted, how under his gentle questioning she had confessed to being in love with another man and no, she would not lie, she had not been faithful. Her husband declared that he would go to talk to Ahuja. He would ask Ahuja if he intended to marry Sylvia and – this drew oohs and ahs in court – to look after the children. Sylvia begged him not to go. She said that Ahuja might shoot him (thereby claiming that Ahuja had a gun).That, said Nanavati, was why he went to get the gun from his ship. For his own protection. Or to shoot himself. Or both.
What a story! ALL THIS AND A SKULL TOO! shrieked Blitz.
Crowds have been stampeding the Court compound to catch a glimpse of Nanavati appear and disappear in his smart naval uniform displaying an array of medals and decorations. Cheers rend the air every time he enters and leaves the Court. Numerous college girls are said to have lost their hearts to the handsome Commander. Some have swooned after seeing him. Others have reportedly sent him 100-rupee notes marked with lipstick. A few love-lorn nymphets have even made him offers of marriage, anticipating a divorce. While the overcrowded courtroom listens to the counsel, there is another mute and eyeless ‘spectator’ present – AHUJA’S SKULL, an exhibit in the case, which stands on the table near the press benches, grinning sinisterly.
The jury, like the crowds outside, was rather obviously in favour of the defendant and listened, nodding, to every point the defence elicited from the shamed, but repentant wife. The hero was going to see Ahuja for the honourable (yes) and thoroughly responsible (yesyes) motive of asking his intentions towards Sylvia and the children. And Sylvia had warned him that Ahuja might shoot him. (Obviously Ahuja had a gun – one can’t shoot people without.) So Nanavati took a gun for self-defence (yes). Besides which, he also needed the revolver to shoot himself (oh yesyes), a most honourable (Roman, Japanese, tragic, heroic) way out of dishonour, despite the fact that he was innocent in all this.
Unfortunately for the defence, the judge in the Sessions Court was not willing to entertain the concept of a Wild West type shoot-out between these two revolver-toting rivals in love. No gun had been found at Ahuja’s flat. Dozens of bottles of liquor had been found, a box of love letters had been found, but no gun. Ahuja could never have shot Nanavati. In any case, as learned counsel for the prosecution pointed out, for the defence to be valid, the act that causes death must proceed directly from an overwhelming and ungovernable impulse which in turn must proceed directly from the grave and sudden provocation. The prosecutor observed that three hours had elapsed between the wife’s confession and the shooting. During this time Nanavati drove his family to the cinema, went back to his ship, drew a weapon, tidied up some official business, and only then set out for Ahuja’s office and, not finding him there, his flat. There had been plenty of time to cool down. Drawing the weapon then waiting three hours was premeditation, ergo it was murder.
So the defence called Nanavati to the stand and the aghast and dumbfound court was asked to imagine another scene.
The Ahuja bedroom. A room with an airy sea view. It is entirely dominated by the bed. A dressing table with large mirror stands nearby. Also a wardrobe, and a radiogram. One door leads off to the bathroom. Another to the rest of the flat. AHUJA is lying on his bed naked. Or in some versions is clad in a bathtowel, combing his hair at the mirror. A doorbell rings (off ). A confused murmur of voices can be heard (off ). The door of the room is flung open and NANAVATI stands there, holding a bulky envelope which, unbeknownst to AHUJA, contains a revolver (brought purely for self-defence in case AHUJA tries to shoot him). AHUJA snatches up a bathtowel to cover himself, or in languid disdain, continues combing his hair, according to whichever version the audience may prefer.
NANAVATI: You low dog!
AHUJA is startled, but arrogantly defiant.
NANAVATI: Are you prepared to marry Sylvia and take care of her and my children?
AHUJA: Do you really suppose I’m going to marry every woman I sleep with? Get out of here right now, or I’ll throw you out!
He takes a threatening step towards NANAVATI. NANAVATI (not wanting to use the revolver) places the brown envelope on the radiogram and raises his fists.
NANAVATI: By God, I’m going to teach you a lesson!
AHUJA , declining the challenge of fisticuffs, makes a grab for the envelope (which he somehow knows to contain a revolver), but NANAVATI snatches it up, knowing that AHUJA will mercilessly shoot him if he gets it first. AHUJA, nothing daunted, grabs NANAVATI’s hand and begins twisting it to make him drop the envelope. For his own clear self-defence NANAVATI extracts the revolver and (not aiming it at AHUJA), orders him to stand back. AHUJA, in crazed and violent rage, does not do so. Instead he makes a grab for the gun. A struggle ensues. NANAVATI fearing for his life, but desperate not to use the gun, manages to push AHUJA back to the bathroom door. AHUJA rains blows on NANAVATI and pulls him into the bathroom. AHUJA now tries with all his strength to grab the gun from NANAVATI. He is very strong. So powerful is his grip that it crushes NANAVATI’s hand onto the gun. NANAVATI cannot let go of it even if he wants. AHUJA swings on NANAVATI’s hand. During this struggle a shot rings out. AHUJA looses his grip and falls to the floor. NANAVATI immediately leaves the bathroom.
It was obvious, the defence contended, that from first to last the responsibility for Ahuja’s death lay with himself alone. Nanavati had shown the utmost restraint. His civil (given the circumstances) and reasonable enquiry about Ahuja’s intentions met only with abuse and threats. He did his best to settle the matter as men should, as written in the Gospel according to John (Wayne), with fists. But Ahuja, proving himself a contemptible coward as well as an impetuous arrogant hothead, tried to seize the envelope. Nanavati had to grab the gun, or without a doubt Ahuja would have shot him down in cold blood. He tried hard not to use the gun he had brought with him only for self-defence (did Ahuja’s actions not prove how wise a precaution it had been?), but Ahuja kept Nanavati’s hand clamped to it so tightly, whilst simultaneously raining blows on him and swinging from his wrist . . . The rest was karma. At the same time, of course (in case anyone remembered that three shots, not one, were fired) Nanavati had suffered further intolerable provocation in the form of the grossly insulting remark made by Ahuja, to wit: Did Nanavati really think that he, Ahuja, was going to marry each of the (numerous beyond counting) women he had slept with, including his, Nanavati’s, wife? So it was an accident in self-defence in response to an intolerable provocation. In short, three defences rolled into one, but there can, m’lud, be only one possible verdict.
The establishment, just as fervently as the public and the ‘yellow’ press, wanted Nanavati acquitted. The Navy, to avoid scandal, had asked for a discreet court-martial. Deputy Commissioner John Lobo was obliged to explain to the Chief of Naval Staff that as Nanavati had killed a civilian in Bombay city, there was no way out of a public trial. Still the Navy did its best for its man. Appearing in his defence were Captain Kohli of the Mysore, who had given permission for him to draw the fatal weapon. Chief of Naval Staff Admiral Katari and Defence Minister Krishna Menon also took the stand on behalf of the gallant Commander. He was of course loudly championed by Blitz, which devoted much of each issue to demanding that sentiment should prevail over law.
The trouble was that nothing in the Nanavatis’ story rang true.
Not Sylvia’s painful honesty. She’d been deceiving her husband for more than a year without pangs of conscience. Why would she suddenly be morally unable to tell a lie? Much more likely that she’d got tired of waiting for Ahuja to make up his mind, and decided to force the issue. How could she guess that her gentle, kind husband would grab a gun and go hunting?
Not the need for the gun. The notion that Ahuja had a gun and was dangerous depended on the word of Sylvia alone.
Not the struggle in the bedroom. The servant outside the room said that mere seconds separated the crash of the bedroom door from the triple boom of the gun.
Not the intolerable provocation. Ahuja’s alleged insult was the sort of thing a bully says, not to an angry husband waving a gun, but to a crying woman.
Blitz reported that when the jury filed back into court with its verdict, one pretty juror winked at the hero.
Not guilty!
THE CRUCIFIXION OF ‘MRS ?’ (LEWES , JUNE, 1999)
‘In schtuck with Katy?’ breathed Piglet as we sat in Charlotte’s and emptied a second brace of pints.
‘How do you know?’
‘She rang the other night. Late, it was. About eleven. Asked if you were with me. Should I have lied?’
‘Of course not.’
‘It’s that blonde, isn’t it? The one who lives at Sleeman. The mystery place no one has heard of.’
I didn’t tell him, but I had already solved that mystery.
Maya’s books were stacked upstairs, great piles of cardboard cartons, filling most of the two small rooms above the shop. Whenever I could, I did a bit of unpacking, classifying. Some of them would go into stock, most would join my private collection.
A few days after the lunch with Phoebe I opened a box full of books that had lived in Maya’s rosewood bookcase. Among them were several titles on the Indian Mutiny.
The Indian War of Independence, 1857 (Veer Sarvarkar, Karnatak Printing Works, Chira Bazaar, Bombay, 1947. No. 252 of limited edition of 1000 copies. pp 552 including frontispiece of Sarvarkar and his famous jaw. Many colour plates. First published in England in 1909 and immediately proscribed).
The Tale of the Great Mutiny (W. H. Fitchett, Smith Elder & Co, London, 1901, pp 384, 1st ed, with portraits and maps).
Journey through the Kingdom of Oude (Major General Sir W. H. Sleeman, Richard Bentley, London 1858, 2 vols with maps, pp 424).
Sleeman?
Now it came back to me. After Maya’s funeral, when Piglet was pressing Phoebe for the name of her village, she had been staring at the rosewood shelves. And she had said Sleeman.
Ever since our lunch, I had been struggling with excitement, fantasy, hope, regret and doubt. Already Phoebe had told more lies than ever there had been between Katy and me. Only one thing lay unspoken in our marriage bed and probably because Katy had not wanted to hurt me. The pain of what I had never been meant to see, now dull, now exquisite, had faded over the years, just as we two had faded. I had long since forgiven her as she had forgiven me. I too had strayed. It had been a bad time for both of us. Katy was good, kind, loving and, yes, faithful in the sense that matters most. She loved me and had stayed with me.
And Phoebe? Katy was right. I knew nothing about her at all. Not about her husband, her marriage, not even where she lived. But Katy was also wrong. Phoebe was more to me than a grown-up stranger. In her face, I could still see the child I had loved, as she could see the child in mine. Now that we had met again, I knew what had been missing from my life all these years. Aristotle believed that love is the soul’s yearning for a lost part of itself. She was the other half of the self I thought I had lost so many years ago. I could not just let her go. A resolve was shaping in my mind. The child I had been had not died. It was still there, still alive, waiting for a call. I would somehow find Phoebe, confront her. One way or another, resolve the mystery. What might follow I didn’t know and did not want to think about.
This isn’t foolish, I told myself. I had good reason for wanting to see her again. What I had been reading explained a great deal about her mother’s torment.
The Nanavati verdict was rapturously acclaimed by the waiting crowds outside the Sessions Court, but their joy, like one of those butterflies that fly during the brief hot interludes in the monsoon, was brilliant but short. Word soon spread around the city that the judge had overturned the verdict. Declaring that a miscarriage of justice had taken place, he sent the case to the High Court and Nanavati to prison. The re-trial was scheduled for February 1960.
According to Phoebe the blackmailer had already begun his extortion before the first trial. By the time the High Court hearings began he was really turning the screw. The papers spread across my desk told me why. He was running out of time. Sybil’s letters, found in the box under Ahuja’s bed, had not been mentioned during the original trial because the Sessions Judge had ruled them irrelevant. But Nanavati’s lawyers needed something new to take to the High Court. They had to give Nanavati a stronger reason for going to see Ahuja. What if it could be proven that Ahuja was in the habit of promising marriage as a means of seducing women? Sybil was about to be dragged into the case.
