A Burning

by Megha Majumdar

  He meets with teachers and teachers’ unions. He drinks endless cups of tea. He smiles until his cheeks ache.

  “Until I gave up my job to represent you all,” he begins every speech, “I was a teacher, like you!”

  Now and then PT Sir looks, from the stage, for a glint of a knife, or a weapon held high in the air.

  * * *

  *

  FROM THE YOUNG MEN and women working on social media, phones attached to their palms at all times, Bimala Pal learns about the angry Twitter and Facebook messages. They arrive, blips and bloops on laptops and phones, bubbles and boxes of typo-riddled, emoji-filled complaint.

  Y is Jivan getting a shot at a mercy petition? Mercy 4 wut??

  Justice now!!! Dont forget the 100+ innocents who died!!!

  This case will drag on for a decade and use up our tax money, nothing else will happen.

  Why r we payin 4 that terrorist 2 sleep and eat and relax in prison while some mercy petition goes thru the system? If u become the govt how will u handle?

  It doesn’t end.

  * * *

  *

  ON ELECTION DAY, a statewide holiday, PT Sir wakes up at four in the morning. A peculiar exhaustion slows his body, the exhaustion of getting up in darkness, and turning artificial lights on. His limbs are slow. While the sky lightens, he bathes, a stream of cold water falling down his back to the bathroom floor.

  Soon, a car arrives to take PT Sir to cast his vote. His polling station, which is Bimala Pal’s too, is a local school, closed for the day. Where on other days children fill water from coolers, where they linger and play and drop crumbs of lunch, there are now a dozen TV cameras and trucks carrying generators. Reporters drink paper cups of Nescafé purchased from a vendor who makes rounds with a kettle. Above them, barred windows conceal silent classrooms, their desks scratched in teenage love and impatience.

  Already there is a long line of voters. A housewife with sequined slippers, a maid with a thin shawl thrown over her sari, a man with alcohol-red eyes. A woman feeds a stray dog a biscuit, and the people behind her idly watch.

  As soon as Bimala Pal and PT Sir emerge from their sober white Ambassador car, the reporters rush to them, jostling to position a microphone or a small recorder before them. Beside Bimala Pal, PT Sir joins his hands in greeting, and bows his head. In the great humility of this gesture he feels a shiver of electricity run through him. How close to power he is. He will be on every television screen in the state, and that is the least of it.

  Inside the school building, in an assembly hall, Bimala Pal, like every other voter, casts her vote at a machine situated on a curtained desk. When she emerges, she receives an indelible ink dab on her index finger, at the border of fingernail and skin.

  * * *

  *

  THE NEXT DAY, NEARING the hour when election results will be declared, Bimala Pal’s house bursts with people—politicians, clerks, assistants, union leaders, even a stray celebrity or two. A TV plays on high volume in the corner, and shouted conversations are carried on over it. Somebody comes through the door carrying a sack of kochuri, fried bread, and a tub of alur dom, potato curry.

  Then a phone call comes, and the room falls silent. Bimala Pal disappears into the office, the phone held at her ear.

  “Where’s the remote?” someone yells. “Turn this TV down.”

  PT Sir paces, smiling tightly at the others gathered. In his mind, a racetrack of worries: What if the party doesn’t win? What if he gave up his job prematurely? An older man calls to him, “Be calm. Don’t take so much tension, not good for your young heart.”

  He continues, “It hasn’t been six months that I’ve had a pacemaker.” He points to a spot below his left collarbone.

  “I’m not worrying,” lies PT Sir. “Why don’t you sit, sir, let me find a chair…”

  When Bimala Pal emerges from her office, she holds the receiver at her side, a sly smile on her face. Men in front break into shouts, and a whoop of triumph lifts the room. Bimala Pal laughs as men around her, her assistants, playfully raise her arms in theirs, like she is a boxing champion.

  “Did we win?” PT Sir asks, unbelieving. “Did they call it?”

  Jana Kalyan Party has won the majority of seats in the legislative assembly. Bimala Pal, as the leader of the party, is now chief minister of the state.

  “Get ready,” says the man with the pacemaker, “for the real work to begin.”

  PT Sir nods gravely, as if he understands what is to come.

  Boxes of sweets promptly appear, and are passed from hand to hand. Somebody sends sweets out to the reporters swarming the lane, and a din rises from the gathered men and women of the media. Soon they make way for visitors arriving to congratulate the party. A rival party chief graciously brings an enormous bouquet, and the scent of roses fills the room. A renowned football player arrives, and a cricket player too. Musicians arrive, and film stars in sunglasses. A garland is draped about Bimala Pal’s neck, then another, and another, petals drifting down to the floor, pausing now and then in the folds of her sari.

  PT Sir watches the hoopla and eats a sweet, grinning from ear to ear. He shakes hands when hands are offered, and claps backs when he is embraced. The vitality of the moment dazes him. Never has he been in a place that felt so much like the center of the world.

  When he looks for an empty surface on which he can sit, he notes how the room has filled up with bouquets and garlands, dewy petals duly misted by an assistant who carries a water bottle with him, looking harassed. Through the windows, he sees the crowd outside grow bigger and noisier, a collection not only of cameramen but of well-known reporters, bigger television crews, neighborhood fans, even one comedian. They chant and cheer. Snacks that are brought to Bimala Pal are frequently distributed among those waiting outside. PT Sir watches them, those common people who will always be on the outside.

  * * *

  *

  LATE IN THE AFTERNOON, the chief minister–in–waiting beckons PT Sir to join her in her small office. She closes the door behind them.

  Inside, banners rolled into tubes lean in the corners, and old desktop computers sit on the floor. Though Bimala Pal’s seat is a luxurious leather chair, a towel draped on it for protection and cleanliness, the new chief minister does not sit. She stands before the dark wood desk.

  “What do you think,” she says, “about a senior secretary post? In the education ministry, of course. It will be good for you.”

  PT Sir forces himself not to grin. He must look like a serious man. In this room, with the tubelight casting a sad glow on the large table, the idols of gods arrayed in a nook in the wall, the scent of incense curling upward from sticks, his life is transformed. It is the kind of room which, at night, attracts the attention of flying insects and house lizards.

  “The teachers,” PT Sir says instead, “they delivered, didn’t they? Our work with them was good.”

  This much he has learned: A successful person is a magnet for resentment. Deflecting the light of success away from him is a better practice. But Bimala Pal will not accept it.

  “Your work with them,” she says. “Don’t be humble. You can’t be humble in politics.”

  PT Sir smiles.

  “How does it feel?” she asks.

  “I am ready to serve,” he replies. “I will gladly accept that post you are thinking about.”

  He turns to leave, his body buoyant with relief. Outside, he will glide past the men drunk on syrup from sweets, their heads big with knowledge of their new importance. He will glide past the assistants and interns, the social media youths, no longer required to remember their names. At home, no doubt over a celebratory meal, he will tell his wife. He relishes it. He is about to turn the doorknob when Bimala Pal speaks.

  “One thing,” she says. “Jivan, that terrorist. She has been polling high on vo
ters’ priorities.”

  “Oh,” says PT Sir, taken aback by the turn in the conversation. He should have known.

  “This issue is not going away.” Bimala Pal touches her forehead in a gesture of worry. “Something will have to be done. The public is unhappy that she is appealing for mercy and whatnot.”

  “I testified—”

  “That is why I am telling you,” Bimala Pal interrupts.

  “And the mercy petition is her legal right, so I don’t know—”

  “Legal right? You have much to learn about politics,” says Bimala Pal, smiling.

  Then her smile fades, and she looks at him, unblinking, until PT Sir feels his relief vanish.

  It is clear what he has to do. He draws a breath to speak, keen to crack the tension in the room. “Isn’t it always the quiet ones who turn out to have dangerous thoughts in their head?”

  “That may be so,” says Bimala Pal. “Listen, this is a result we can deliver as soon as we take power. It will be a big victory for us.”

  PT Sir knows that if the terrorist is—well, if the matter of the terrorist is resolved during their tenure, this government’s approval from the public will know no limits. They will have bought themselves time to implement other campaign promises.

  “The mercy petition is all that stands in the way,” says Bimala Pal. “See what you can do about it? The court gave its verdict. The people want justice. Anyway”—she smiles—“you will know best. Your student, after all.”

  LOVELY

  DAY OF THE AUDITION! On the road, my slippers are going flap flap, and I am praying, please slippers please not to tear today. I have tied my petticoat too low and my belly is jiggling, but no time to fix that. The guava seller is there again. For fun I am asking him the time.

  “Were you showing my guava on your TV interview?” he is grumbling. “Why I am telling you the time, then?”

  I am laughing and waving my hand. I am knowing what the time is, because I am planning my whole morning so I can be taking the eight fifteen local train to Tollygunge.

  “This is a ladies’ compartment,” one aunty is yelling, “can’t see or what?”

  “Move, madam,” I am replying respectfully. “I am just going to the other compartment.”

  “Oh!” she is saying after she is seeing my face. “Aren’t you—I saw you on—”

  I am squeezing past her.

  In Tollygunge, I am walking under a row of trees. Under one tree, a man is ironing clothes with a coal-loaded frame. Under another tree, a sweeper is sweeping plastic from the gutter. Then I am seeing a villa, surrounded by a clean white wall over which pink flowers are spilling.

  Outside the gate, sitting on a plastic chair, there is a man. He is thin like a grasshopper, and his freshly cut hair is standing straight up on his head. He is looking at me coming closer and closer, and he is saying, “Please, ma, not today, there is an audition going on—”

  “Very strange you are!” I am telling him right away. “I am coming for the audition only!”

  To this the man is not knowing what to say. He is looking like his boss is going to fire him, but he is not knowing how to stop me. I am looking that good. I am feeling that confident. So what if some man is trying to put a barrier in front of me?

  Inside, there is a big white building, surrounded by a tidy garden. So many flower beds, and so many nice benches. They are all empty because people are preferring the cool weather of AC.

  So I am pushing open the big wooden door, and feeling the air on my skin. Inside, there is a big room with colorful sofas, on which people with stylish hair are sitting. Their perfumes are mingling and my nose is enjoying. Behind glass partitions there are other people working. Some framed film posters are on the walls. The reception is a big desk, with a vase of flowers on top, and the lady behind it is wearing Western clothes and talking on the landline.

  “One minute, please,” she is telling me softly. She is even smiling at me.

  Then, in a room with floors so shiny I am feeling that I will slip and fall on my behind, Sonali Khan herself is coming to take my hand.

  “Lovely,” she is saying, “I am so pleased you could come. Your video was touching me right here.” And she is putting a palm to her heart. “I see audition videos all the time, but yours? It was something special.

  “For you,” she is explaining, “we are thinking about this role in my movie What Do You Know About Mother’s Love? It will be about a single parent, a hijra, stigmatized by society, who is smashing—I mean smashing—all of society’s rules by adopting a child on her own. A parent who is fierce, and ferocious, and full of love. A parent who lives life on her own terms. Blockbuster drama, mark my words. And we need a fresh face, authentic talent.”

  Her words are feeling to me like Azad’s embrace when we were falling in love, like a tub full of syrupy roshogolla whose sugar is flowing in my veins, like Mr. Debnath accepting me to his acting class. It is feeling like Ragini’s hands in mine, our laughter during the national activity of watching TV together in the evening.

  “But listen,” she is saying, putting her head close to mine, “one concern that my team has is, we want to avoid bad publicity. Your testimony for the terrorist—”

  I am looking at the floor, showing shame. “Don’t worry,” I am saying. “She was my neighbor, but I am understanding now that maybe I was never really knowing who she was.” The shame is burning in my cheeks.

  “Good,” Sonali Khan is saying. Then, in a normal voice, she continues, “Your video in which you were playing a mother, oof! Such feeling! Such emotion! Such drama in your eyes and voice! I said, ‘This is a star being born right here. We must call her in.’ ”

  After that, can you guess how my audition is going?

  * * *

  *

  ON THE FIRST DAY of the shoot, in front of the studio doors, the whole unit is coming together, from driver to caterer to cameraman to director, and we are doing a prayer, then cracking a coconut for god’s blessings. For all my life, everybody is believing that I am having a direct line to god, but I am knowing the truth. Whenever I am calling god, her line is busy. So today I am bowing my head deep. Please to let me act well today. Please to not let me get kicked off this film!

  In my purse I am bringing my own lipstick, just in case, but after the prayer, when I am going into the makeup van, my eyes are growing big like pumpkins. This van is having a big mirror, lit up with rows of bright bulbs. On the counter, there are open boxes of pastes and powders and colors, wigs and little cotton sheets and glues and clips. Then the makeup artist, Hema, who is smiling and calling me madam, is using one of those soft cotton sheets to clean my face. I am smelling mint, like a chewing gum. The hair artist, Deepti, is pulling and tying, pinning this and gelling that. When I am saying, “Aaoo!” she is saying, “Oh, sorry, madam.”

  “Close your eyes, madam,” Hema is gently saying, but how am I closing my eyes when they are making me look like a superstar in the mirror?

  Inside the studio, which is a big warehouse with nothing stored inside it, I am walking carefully, looking at the ground for the cables that are running everywhere.

  “Madam!” Someone is giving me a thumbs-up, a boy carrying silver umbrellas. “I saw your video!”

  I am giving him a smile.

  On the other end of the large studio is a set like the living room of my dreams—a big sofa, many plants, paintings on the walls, a cup of tea on a table. The cinematographer and director are making me sit here and sit there, stand at this angle or that angle. I am feeling afraid that my makeup will be melting.

  Then the studio is becoming so quiet I am hearing somebody sniffle.

  “Silence!” someone is calling.

  “Rolling!” someone is calling.

  “Action!” someone else is calling.

  And me, from the depth of m
y heart, I am becoming the mother I am needing to be, even though the child actor will be coming tomorrow, and I am only imagining her today. Every wish of motherhood that I am having, for all my life, I am pouring into the lines they are giving me. I am dreaming this child into being before my eyes, and I am holding this beloved little person. How real is she, my child.

  This child is having the face of Jivan, daughter of those poor parents, donor of pencils and textbooks. How is she living, alone in some dark cell? Even if she is not feeling the knife at her neck, I am feeling myself holding it. Now, my face thick with makeup, my hair stiff with gels, I am knowing what Arjuni Ma was truly telling me: In this world, only one of us can be truly free. Jivan, or me. Every day, I am making my choice, and I am making it today also.

  “Daughter,” I am telling this child, looking directly at the lens, “never let anyone tell you those lies. You are coming from the most precious place. Not from my womb, no, but from the deepest dreams of my heart.”

  “Cut it,” the director is calling. When I am stepping behind the camera, looking at the small TV where my shot is playing, I am saying, “Excuse, excuse,” to get through the dozen people crowding.

  They are all wiping their eyes.

  * * *

  *

  AT THE END OF THE DAY, when we are wrapping, Sonali Khan is personally coming to me. She is holding my arms and saying, “Lovely, you are going to be the country’s next big star, you just wait!”