Ranjan was rising in politics, continued to make a fortune at the Bar and laid the foundation for the great leap forward. He refrained from referring to his marriage but once mentioned in passing that there was no sign of a ‘family’. I drew my conclusions.
My own life, too, continued uneventfully. Then, one day, Pat spotted an advertisement for a new Chair of Law at Monash University in Melbourne. She nagged me into applying and – with the help of Fortuna – I got the job.
Life in Monash was tough. My lose, informal, existence in Wellington, which gave me adequate time for my hobbies and research, was replaced by a strenuous role as a teacher cum administrator. My ability to handle people had always been poor. The Chair at Monash was the promotion to my level of incompetence.
Pat, too, had a hard time. In Wellington she had enjoyed the social life of the diplomatic community. She had also been active in pottery – her realm of creativity. Life in Melbourne’s suburbia was dull in comparison. True, Melbourne was a metropolis. But it was not a capital city; the diplomatic core resided in Canberra. In Melbourne, we faced an alien milieu. Slowly but steadily we became isolated – cut off in our elegant but lonely four-bedroom home.
Monash had a number of foreign staff members. One of them was a Sinhalese from a background similar to Ranjan’s. Whenever Marcus went home to visit his family, he brought me a message of love and friendship from my climbing friend. I gathered from Marcus’ news that Ranjan had taken over the Home Ministry, later on switched to the Ministry of Trade and Industry, and was being tipped for a senior seat in cabinet if his party were to win yet a further election.
“Any news of a child?” I asked on one occasion.
“I am afraid not,” said Marcus in a tone that conveyed his being in the know.
After three years of an administrative quagmire at Monash, I felt the need for a break. The Dean, an understanding soul, agreed to grant me a year of no-pay leave to be spent as a Visiting Professor in Singapore.
During the years that had passed, Singapore had metamorphosed from a sleepy port town into a successful business centre. Life had become hectic. The outlook was optimistic, with everybody believing in a rosy future. Ugly but functional skyscrapers had replaced the old gracious colonial architecture of the City. Orchard Road had been turned into a one-way crowded traffic vein; and even Chinatown was getting a facelift. The University, too, had changed. It was in the process of moving into a new campus, had added the word “National” to its name and boasted multidisciplinary courses.
One of my new colleagues in Singapore, Allen, was a Sri Lankan Tamil, who had left his home country and settled in Tasmania. From there, he migrated to Singapore. Having remained a staunch supporter of the cause of his Tamil community, he had no liking for the Sinhalese leaders of Sri Lanka. Ranjan, in particular, was an object of his dislike. Allen, who was a few years younger than Ranjan, had attended Ranjan’s old school in Colombo. Ranjan, who used to be postulated as a model to freshmen, had gained Allen’s ire. Right from the beginning, he had seen through Ranjan’s veneer.
“That fellow is a racist and a bloody hypocrite,” Allen told me one day.
“Come, come,” I stepped to the defence. “What harm has he done since he entered politics?”
“You just wait and see,” predicted Allen.
A few months thereafter, Sri Lanka had a general election. Ranjan’s showing was excellent. He now became a senior member of cabinet. According to conventional wisdom he had emerged as a prospective successor of the ageing President. Not only the Sinhalese but even the Tamil community saw in him the progenitor of a better and more harmonious future. Just for once, he was the darling of all factions.
I was accordingly taken aback when Allen told me, in unequivocal terms, that Ranjan had been lucky to come up with such a convincing performance. A poorer outcome could have resulted in his having to face a sordid prosecution.
“Anything to do with money?” I asked.
“Much worse than that: bodily assault!”
Shortly before the elections, Ranjan’s wife started to go out with a young man of her own community. As Ranjan was busy with his campaign, he probably welcomed the extra time he gained. Everybody believed the relationship was platonic – a simple case of a bored wife going out in a purely friendly manner with somebody she knew. Then, unexpectedly, someone threw acid in that man’s face. He survived the attack but was badly deformed.
“What has this got to do with Ranjan” I asked.
“He ambushed the fellow and threw the acid!”
“I don’t believe it,” I said with fervour. “I don’t believe such a filthy trick would ever cross his mind; and even if it did, he’d never do it himself. And why should he have done it? He must have known she was seen with this fellow?”
“He found out it wasn’t ‘innocent’!”
“Bullshit!” I exclaimed.
“I’m afraid it isn’t,” Allen persisted. “You, Peter, don’t understand Asian people. And, coming to think of it, what would you do if you found out your wife was cheating on you?”
“Divorce her, unless I decided to close my eyes. And, well, I might have slapped her in the heat of the moment. But throwing acid? Never! Neither would Ranjan!”
Even as I spoke, I realised that my surmise was the superficial. Ranjan came from a background miles apart from mine. In his milieu men had some licence; wives were supposed to be ‘pure’. In Ranjan’s own case, the situation was exacerbated by his having been denied access. He must have been in turmoil when he realised the truth. He had been tricked and cuckolded. I had known all along that Ranjan’s Hyde was far removed from his Henry Jekyll act; when Edward took over, all hell could break loose. Obviously, it did on this occasion.
“How do you know it was him?” I asked Allen.
“The eyewitness got one of our relatives to ask for my advice. I said he should clam up; if he told the police what he had seen, he might be eliminated! The clan would see to it!”
“Pfui,” I said.
“Pfui to them,” retorted Allen. “But now you know what lurks beneath the benevolent façade!”
So that was that! I could visualise Ranjan’s contorted face and blazing eyes when the acid landed on his victim’s face. Did he smile when the man wriggled in agony? Did he feel that strange release – that revolting satisfaction brought out by a senseless act of revenge – when he transformed a good-looking man into a monstrosity?
“Did that poor fellow lose his sight?” I wanted to know.
“One eye is gone; and his face is a mess; and I’m told he lost his reason! Your good friend Ranjan can smirk with satisfaction!”
“But what did Ranjan’s family and wife do?”
“They feigned ignorance – pretended not to know. I wonder what they said behind closed doors.”
A few months later Ranjan went on a state visit throughout South East Asia. I saw him briefly during his two days in Singapore at an official function. We had no chance for a heart-to-heart talk. All he mentioned was that his wife had filed for a divorce.
“It’s the best way out,” he said evenly. “This way both of us are out of bondage; and we’ve agreed to ‘remain friends’.”
“Will you remarry?” I ventured.
“Time will tell; but I do want an heir.”
He was about to revert to my problems but his host – a local cabinet member – nudged him back into the hub of the party’s small talk; and I was relieved.