by Nillu Nasser
Akash raised his head, weary. “I’ll go and see him tomorrow.”
“Go and wash. I’ll be back soon.”
Drums in the distance. Dust the colour of joy. Ashes. Akash closed his eyes and blocked it all out.
Bushra found Jaya at her desk drawing designs for the new show, her fingers stained with the green ink she liked to use for her first ideas.
“Your sister is here to see you,” said the older woman, all bustle.
“Oh, I wasn’t expecting her.” Jaya put down her pen. Her flawed concentration meant that she hadn’t yet come up with anything original.
“She’s here all the same.”
“It’s nearly home-time,” said Jaya, pushing back her chair. “Give me a minute and I’ll meet her out front.” She dumped the pile of newspapers in the wastepaper basket just in case Ruhi ventured down the corridor. An obsession with her cheating husband wasn’t something Ruhi would tolerate, however much she urged Jaya to believe in love.
A wall of heat hit Jaya as she walked out into the evening air, where Ruhi waited for her, her training bag on her shoulder. She crossed to where her sister stood.
“Hi, what are you doing here?” Jaya gave her an impulsive hug. Usually Ruhi was the affectionate one.
“You didn’t seem okay on the phone,” said Ruhi. “I thought I’d come and see how you are. Besides, I was kind of hoping I’d bump into Ravi so I could give him a piece of my mind.”
“He’s keeping his distance,” said Jaya.
“Good.”
“Okay day?”
Ruhi hoisted her bag strap higher onto her shoulder. “Yeah, I’ve been at dance practice for a film.
“Who’s directing?”
“Rishi Kapoor.”
“Wow. Have you met him yet?” said Jaya. They used to watch Rishi Kapoor’s films as children, when he still played a leading man.
“No, not yet. It was just the choreographer and an assistant. Sweaty work and I need a shower before Vinod gets home, but I wanted to check on you without Maa and Papa breathing down our necks. You okay?” She searched Jaya’s face, then linked her arm through Jaya’s. They started the walk home. “I heard on the radio this morning that it was suicide. Akash was not involved.”
A flicker in Ruhi’s voice jarred with Jaya. She stopped short on the pavement, not caring about the sea of pedestrians. She knew when her sister was hiding something. Jaya listened carefully, alert to any inconsistencies in her sister’s behaviour. “You were always so full of anger towards him. And yet you seem relieved he’s off the hook. Why is that?”
Ruhi drained of colour. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“What has changed, Roo? Have you forgiven him for abandoning me? Why now?”
“Let’s go to my house. Let’s not talk about it here,” said Ruhi. “Please.”
“No. I need to know now.” The subterfuge angered Jaya. Why would Ruhi, of all people, hide the truth?
Ruhi hesitated. “Okay.” She pulled Jaya aside. They nestled between the bright displays of a clothing store selling pashminas. Even here, impatient shoppers jostled them. Ruhi’s words rushed out. “He didn’t leave you. Papa told him to go.”
Jaya turned cold and still. “What did you say?”
“He was trying to protect you, I think.”
“I don’t understand.”
Ruhi blew out a shaky breath. “Akash tried to see you after the fire. Papa told him you died.”
A wail took shape inside of Jaya, gathering force, right there amongst the shoppers. “Akash came back? Maa and Papa decided he should go? They did this to me?” Her body swayed with emotion. “I didn’t need protecting. I just needed the truth. All this time, I thought Akash had abandoned me when I needed him most.” A thought catapulted into her mind, barbed, with teeth that tore at her fragile mind. “How do you know?”
Ruhi blanched, held her tongue.
“Oh, I see. You’ve seen him? You’ve actually seen him?” said Jaya, failing to keep the ice from her voice. “How long have you known where he is?”
Tears filled her sister’s eyes. “I don’t know exactly where he is, Jaya. But he is close.”
Arguments between them were rare and painful, leaving blemishes on their relationship neither would forget in a hurry, like scar tissue underneath freshly healed skin. Yet by keeping Akash a secret, hadn’t Ruhi betrayed her too?
“How long, Roo?” Jaya stumbled over her words. “I told you I ‘d seen the boy, Akash’s son. I told you and you pooh-poohed me. When did you realise? When?”
“Later, after you mentioned the boy, Akash came to me at the house. He’d found out you’re alive after all this time.” Kind eyes brimmed with tears. “He wants you back, I think.”
“He wants me back? How can he want me back? He has a family of his own, doesn’t he?” But Soraya was dead. Akash’s lover was dead, and she would become the dead woman’s poor replacement. It made no sense, or perhaps it did, because no one ever wanted her just for her.
“I don’t know,” said Ruhi. “I don’t know anything at all. But when I looked into his eyes, I was sure he still loves you. I could see it through his desperation. It was why I told him to write anonymously. To earn your trust.” Ruhi’s hands splayed, pleading. “I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want him to just turn up. I wasn’t sure how you’d react, whether you’d cope, but he couldn’t stay hidden.”
Jaya’s memory dredged up a glimpse from the near past, a flash of anonymous letter tucked into her knicker drawer at home, dog-eared from repeated reading. “The letter. The one I received at work. No post stamps, no signature, just a stranger reaching out. That was him?” She shook her sister. “Ruhi?”
“I didn’t want you to be hurt. Was I wrong?”
“I’m not sure. Is it better to close the door on that part of my life or revisit it?” Hot tears trailed down Jaya’s face. She could taste the salt on her lips. “I always wanted children. If he’d come back, years ago, it might not have been perfect, but it would have been something. Now, now there is a whole world of history between us I’m not sure we can overcome. My dreams were so bright once. Now, they are pale imitations of themselves. The real ones have escaped like ghosts through my fingers.”
Ruhi watched her, wordless, helpless.
Jaya shuddered. “Painting Akash as a monster has been part of what makes me strong. I’m not sure I want him to be a victim. I liked being the one in our marriage who had right on my side. Finding out otherwise is like rewriting my identity. I’m not sure I can go back. Can anyone leave behind a long road of sadness and pain without regret?”
A caress of her sister’s hand on her cheek, tender, seeking forgiveness. “What are you going to do?”
“Make my own decisions.”
Chapter 34
Rows of graves perpendicular to Mecca lined the burial ground. Arjun’s back ached, but he continued the slow trudge to the fresh pit that the gravediggers had prepared for his mother. The Imam stood at the head of the grave as they lowered his mother directly onto the soil on her side, with her face turned towards the holy city.
Arjun bowed his head as men placed a thin slat of wood on top of her. Then, he took soil from the heaped mound beside the grave and threw three handfuls in. His sweaty palms moistened the earth and it fell into the pit with a dull thump. Beside him, each mourner took three handfuls of soil and followed suit until the initial beat of the soil on the slat became a muted sprinkle that stilled to nothing.
The Imam uttered a final prayer, and then he and the final mourners turned their back on Soraya Mansoor, leaving just her son kneeling where she lay. Arjun took out the book of Gibran poetry she had given him and read out loud.
“I am dotted silver threads dropped from heaven
By the gods. Nature then takes me, to adorn
Her fields and valleys.”
He dropped the book into the earth and stared blankly across the mounds before him.
After the burial, the men ar
rived in groups of twos and threes for the wake at Arjun’s house. Muna and the women served simple food, and the mourners ate in honour of the departed soul and talked in muted voices. The gathering could have taken place at the restaurant, but this way, Arjun claimed back the house from the shadows cast by his mother’s suicide. Once they had finished their meal and disposed of their plastic plates, the mourners came one by one to shake Arjun’s hand or pinch Leela’s cheeks, and exchanged a few cursory words with him about his mother and how she now journeyed to a better place. Not one of them seemed to know his mother well. He was relieved when the last visitor had gone home. The maid cleared up, and Arjun and Muna trudged upstairs. He felt older than his years.
“Let me help you with that.” Muna reached up to unfasten Arjun’s collar. There had scarcely been a moment to converse in private with the guests present. “Are you okay?” she whispered, reluctant to wake the baby, who now slept in the adjacent room. “Did it go smoothly?”
He smiled weakly. “We didn’t drop her if that’s what you mean.”
“Of course not. I meant, the burial. Was it peaceful?”
Women were unwelcome at the burial site at the moment the body was committed to the earth, a patriarchal norm that had irked his mother and had prevented Muna from burying her own parents.
“I suppose so.” Arjun drew her to him and buried his face in her hair. She smelt familiar, of orange blossom from the body cream she liked to lather on. “It was hard. I wish you could have been there.”
“Me too.”
“Afterwards, just a mound remained. It seemed odd that people were having such fun on the streets when I’d left a vital part of me behind.”
“It seems wrong to play Holi this year with Maa gone,” said Muna. She wore the same punjabi suit she had dressed in for the funeral, white with a simple needlework border in pale green thread. “Will we go back tomorrow? I’d like to pay my respects, bring incense and water. Leela could come.”
Arjun sat on the bed to peel off his socks. “Yes, we’ll do that.”
“How about your father?”
Arjun’s paused and lowered his foot slowly to the floor. “You want to take my father to the cemetery? I don’t even know where he is now he’s been released. Probably in the ditch he came from.”
Muna’s voice was a low hum in his ear. “Akash Saheb loved Maa. She trusted him. It is what she’d want.”
Arjun’s knuckles turned white. “I don’t want to talk about it, Muna.” His stomach churned at the thought of seeing his father. He took a deep breath and retrieved a t-shirt and some jeans from the closet. He padded into the ensuite bathroom in bare feet and splashed his face with cold water, then changed briskly. A brief look in the mirror revealed a drawn face and dark shadows under his eyes.
Muna was waiting for him on the bed when he returned. She rested her hand on his arm. “He’s innocent. The autopsy proves it. Your father might not have stopped Maa, but he was not to blame.”
Arjun set his jaw.
“Speaking to him might give you some closure.”
Arjun spun to face her. “Maybe. Maybe, Muna. But my mother was buried today. I can’t think about this right now.” He stooped to grab some sandals from the foot of the bed. “I need some air.”
Two minutes later Arjun drove his car out of the driveway. He instinctively prayed as he drove. He didn’t pray to ease his mother’s passage into the next life. Instead, every atom of his fibre concentrated on praying that he would never see his father again.
Janghir Merchant, owner of J.R. Merchants in Andheri East, held out his hand to shake Akash’s, a swift pumping action. He nodded at Tariq. “It’s been a few months, Mr. Choudry. I was hoping to see you sooner. I’ve had some work waiting for you,” he said. “I’m pleased with how the new sign is holding up. A good man takes pride in his work.”
“I appreciate that,” said Akash, bleary-eyed. He had only come here at Tariq’s behest. The more laid-back of the two men, it surprised Akash how Tariq could nag like a fish-wife if he thought it important.
Janghir Saheb’s voice dipped into a whisper, mindful of the customers who traversed the aisles of his store. “I was shocked to see the news, but as I told my wife, I’m a good judge of character. I couldn’t believe you had committed such a violent act. I was pleased it all got cleared up, and though others might hold it against you, I don’t see it as a stain on your character.”
A pause, during which Tariq nudged him.
“Thank you,” said Akash. He appreciated the sentiment, but he hated that a relative stranger had discussed the details of his life.
“I have a proposal for you. I’ve been thinking about it for some time.” A customer arrived at the till and Janghir waved them aside while he completed the transaction. The man left the shop and Janghir leant forward conspiratorially. “India is booming. My tills are full of rupees. Not that I’m boasting, but, you know, when times are good, isn’t it my job to help those less fortunate than me, to create opportunities?”
Tariq and Akash looked at him, nonplussed.
“I’m expanding. There will be two more stores across Bombay. Can you imagine it? My name— J.R. Merchant—in three corners of this city. My father would be so proud.” He sighed.
“We’re happy for you,” piped up Tariq. “A big achievement indeed.”
“I want you two to help me get the stores up and running. I’ll need someone to take charge of the minor side of the renovations: shelving, signage, heavy-lifting, rubbish removal. While we’re getting the stores ready, you can sleep there to ward off squatters. I’ll pay you a decent wage, cash in hand. Do your work well, and afterwards there’ll be a security job in it for you. What do you say?”
“We’ll do it!” said Tariq, beaming.
“But—” Akash didn’t want charity.
“I like you both. My idea is good business sense. You’ve earned this. It would do you well to remember that. You’re honest, hard workers. This isn’t a handout. I need you as much as you need me.” Janghir stroked his beard. “Too often we think in binaries.” He tapped his cane on the floor, an incessant beat. “Black and white. Old and young. Punishment and compassion. Masters of their fate and the helpless. But I ‘ve found that there is a blurred line between those who are the authors of their fate and the ones who are blown about by events. A small choice, a sprinkling of luck, a helping hand, that’s all that it takes. I hope you’ll accept.”
It seemed a dream to enter the regular workforce, not to scavenge, to earn an honest wage. A door opened in Akash’s mind, leading him away from the dark. His eyes filled with tears. He blinked them away and nodded slowly. “Thank you, Janghir Saheb. We won’t forget this.” He meant it. Soraya, too had offered him help, but her charity had not allowed him to keep his dignity. Janghir Saheb had given him the chance to piece together his fractured self-esteem.
Janghir reached out across to tap each of them in turn with his cane, a core of seriousness hidden beneath his playfulness. “Don’t let me down.”
“We won’t,” said Tariq, earnest excitement bubbling up inside him as he sought to keep a professional facade.
They said their goodbyes, spilling out onto the street.
“Can you believe it?!” Tariq pinched himself. “Who would have thought that old man had such plans for us?” His face fell. “Wait, what if he dies before we start?” He shook off his morbid thoughts. A smile creased the corners of his eyes. “Can this be real?” He sprang into the air, his joy infectious. “This is going to be fantastic, yaar. No more milling around just to timepass.”
Maybe Tariq was right. Maybe Janghir Saheb had offered him a beacon of light in the gloom. Maybe, just maybe, he would finally have something to offer Jaya, and even Arjun. Is this your parting gift, Soraya? How fortunes could change in an instant.
“Let’s go down to the water,” said Tariq, irrepressibly jubilant, his joy lending him a glow that took the edge off his ugliness, the worn carcass of his body, awarding him a
youthful buoyancy, a glint in his eye. “We might not have time to do this in the daytime soon. Janghir Saheb opens his stores six times a week, you know,” he said, excitedly. “We’ll be too tired on a Sunday to do anything but sleep and eat. We’ll go to the masjid, of course, to give thanks.”
Akash laughed for the first time since Soraya’s passing. “Never lose your child-like joy, Tariq. It keeps you young.”
“Wait ‘til Zahid Khan finds out, the brute. He won’t be able to push us around anymore,” said Tariq. He stopped. “Our star is on the way up, yaar.” He hesitated. “You know what you should do?”
“What?”
“You should send the second letter to Jaya. We’re on a roll. Maybe the stars will align.”
Akash considered for a moment. He had written the letter already. What did he have to lose? He turned to his friend. “Okay.”
“Okay?” A slow smile broke out across Tariq’s face.
“Okay, I’ll do it.”
Chapter 35
Home could no longer be a sanctuary for Jaya, not when the people supposedly closest to her had lied. Ruhi’s revelation about her parents’ dishonesty—she could not imagine her mother had been anything other than complicit—turned her home into a stop gap, somewhere she went to sleep, change and refuel, nothing more. She considered looking for her own apartment. She had her own money. Her salary paid for most of the upkeep anyway. Her father had grown miserly with his dwindling savings. She would have liked nothing better than to release her ire on her parents and demand answers from her father about manipulating her, taking it upon himself to send Akash away.
Still, she knew better than most what it was like to start again with nothing. Living alone was not for the faint-hearted, especially as a woman in India. Her mother’s voice rang in her head. What will the world say? Jaya grimaced. Leaving her elderly parents alone was unforgivable, and she knew that it took a particular kind of strength to live alone, an acceptance of one’s self she was not sure she had. She shook her head, scattering her self-pity in different directions, giving space for anger to rise against Akash, who had set the wheel in motion despite her father’s unwanted intervention.