A Delhi Obsession

by M G Vassanji

  * * *

  —

  As she arrived at her husband’s table, one of the men, wearing a scruffy beard with his white kurta and pyjama, stood up and joined his hands in an exaggerated greeting. He was called Kamleshwar, a professor at JNU, a man in his fifties. The other man was older, a former minister of foreign affairs, and he too joined his hands but didn’t stand up. Kamleshwar had just finished an impassioned spiel, having counted votes on his fingers, with the pronouncement that were a national election to take place in the next few weeks, there was no way the Nationalist party could win a majority.

  The minister, who was Liberal, grinned happily. But Ravi would have none of it. He spoke calmly, his voice measured.

  “Do your counting, Professor, but come the next elections the Liberals will lose again; I see the signs everywhere I go. The Liberals ruled for far too many years, and the people are fed up.”

  Kamleshwar’s passion was not to be quelled. “I travel around too, Ravi Sahab, and unlike you, forgive me, I travel by train and put up in guest houses”— he abruptly sat up and with a patronizing smile at Mohini, announced, “But let’s set politics aside, we have a lady with us—a journalist! May I say, Mrs. Singh, I enjoy your columns immensely.”

  Mohini thanked him. The men went on with their argument, debating the current prime minister’s possible length of tenure, and Mohini looked around, waved at a few people. The “Mrs. Singh” part always irked her; it put her in her place. Chapatti-maker. She watched Munir depart through the door. Jetha Lal passed by, in the middle of his group like a man carried away on a boat, and bowed a greeting to their table, baring his white teeth again. Ravi turned around and responded briefly.

  “There’s a happy man,” he said, turning back. “If only one could have that certainty.”

  “Dangerous man,” opined the minister.

  “It’s not as if your party doesn’t have them.”

  “True.”

  It’s always the same, Mohini thought. The same topics till doomsday. Politics and cricket. Doesn’t anything else happen in this country?

  The three men proposed to head over to the bar before going for dinner at the restaurant. Mohini said she must return home and help Asha with her homework. Bahadur, the driver, would take her, and the minister would drop off Ravi later in the evening.

  She arrived home, Bahadur seeing her to the door, and saw Asha curled up on the sofa with a bag of crisps, watching the television. “What, no homework?” she exclaimed. “I’m stuck. I was waiting for you, Mamma,” the girl replied. There was that guilty, helpless look as she sat up.

  “I’ll make some chapattis, you set the table now. Did Rukmini come?”

  Rukmini, the part-time maid, had come and cooked the curry, daal, and rice. Mohini set about making chapattis. And then she and Asha had dinner. Afterwards, as the girl did her homework, she sat beside her and corrected her essay, and even called, deaf to her protests, Bhagat the maths and physics tutor and gave him an ultimatum.

  “Look, Bhagat, we hired you to help improve Asha’s marks. I must tell you that if they don’t improve within a month, I’ll have to fire you. Is that understood?”

  Bhagat, an engineering student from a modest family who needed the extra cash, stammered, “Yes, ma’am, I’ll do my level best. I promise. I’ll spend twice the time with her. But ma’am—please make sure she does the homework I give her…it’s well within her capabilities.”

  Mohini agreed and gave Asha the message. Asha said goodnight and ambled off to her room with a look of relief. Mohini went to her room, changed, and got into bed. She couldn’t sleep, and in the darkness she sat up for a long time, leaning against the headboard.

  That first evening at the bar of DRC, when he’d introduced himself as Munir Aslam Khan, the tiniest shiver had shot through her. She called herself an educated, liberal Hindu woman of the generation after Independence. Yet she had known no Muslims. There were no Muslims in her neighbourhood and schools when she was growing up; there were only a handful at her university. There were two Muslim girls in the class she taught currently, who always were together. At the Club she saw one or two sometimes. They were always “they…” And yet Munir was no different from anyone else. He could be a Malhotra. But what did she expect? Henna in his hair? A beard—a trim one like those Saudis had? A full, bushy one like those Taliban?

  A picture came to her mind. The deep forehead, the soft face, that curious, bemused look. She gave herself a dopey smile. She liked him.

  She was asleep when Ravi returned. He was in a good mood and affectionate, and he woke her up and wanted his bit.

  * * *

  —

  The following morning she stayed home and wrote her column. “Love Letters in the Cloud.” Tongue-in-cheek, to be sure. Valentine’s Day was approaching. Smart, witty, and liberal, that was her style. The reference was to Meghadootam, the Sanskrit long poem by Kalidasa, in which a lover tells a passing cloud to take his message to his beloved who is far away. “The printed card is a nice but quaint tradition. Who has the time these days? Like Kalidasa, many of us now will use the cloud to send messages to our Valentines. Electronic, of course!” She looked up from the screen, pleased with herself. A sudden thought came; she quickly dismissed it.

  All that morning she had debated intermittently, Shall I call him? I promised to take him out, but I can’t. What will he think of me? He’ll understand, probably prefers it that way. He’s a private man. An author who’s come to be by himself, to see his ancestral country. Didn’t he say he wasn’t writing any more, just toying around with ideas, how did he put it—“Kidding myself—it’s a way to stay alive.” Perhaps this visit to Delhi will revive him.

  The day passed, with guilt and justifications, and similarly the next. On the afternoon of the third day, she went to teach her class in English literature at Lady Bhishmji College. After the class she met her dean and put it to her, “Professor Leelawati, here’s a suggestion. Why don’t we teach some Canadian novels? Why do we lay so much emphasis on British literature! The Raj is long gone.”

  Professor Leelawati, a plump, rosy-cheeked woman, wrinkled her nose.

  “But the British have written the best literature.”

  Before the professor could trot out the holy name of Shakespeare, Mohini asked her, “There’s a Canadian NRI writer visiting in Delhi, why don’t we invite him to give a lecture?”

  “Canadian NRI? Who is he?”

  “Have you heard of Munir Khan?”

  “Munir Khan? Sounds Pakistani.”

  “He’s Indian. From Kenya, originally…”

  “Let me think about it. You know these kids don’t like anything extra outside the set syllabus.”

  Mohini knew that the dean would not take even a moment to think about it. Aruna Leelawati was there, courtesy of some politico, simply to warm a seat with that plump bottom of hers. She would not take an initiative unless there was money in it, or she got a foreign trip out of it. And even then, she would let others do the work.

  From the college Mohini went to DRC, where she paid her bill and picked up an events schedule. But that was not why she had really come. She searched the lounge and the library, then stood outside near the driveway and called Munir. To her surprise he turned out to be at the park. She went to meet him. He was sitting on a bench looking anxious and broke into a wide smile upon seeing her approach. Those were sweet moments. They chatted casually, revealingly; at times she held back. She learned about his roots in Delhi, and told him about hers in Sargodha. They were both Delhi-ites. An hour passed; when they got up, it was almost dusk, and she had the feeling that something inside her had given way. She liked this man a lot, and she was glad she had sought him out today. While they walked back to the Club he took her hand to help her step over a puddle, and she sent off a bothersome stray dog that had taken a liking to him.

  That evening Mo
hini again sat with Asha to help with her homework. And when her daughter went for a shower, Mohini went to the kitchen to make chapattis. Rukmini had prepared a chicken curry, which Asha and Ravi would eat, a vegetable curry, and daal. Twice Mohini almost picked up her phone, and once when it rang, her heart raced with anticipation and some fear. It was a solicitor.

  The next morning, unasked, she told Ravi she was staying home again. As soon as he left with Bahadur, she went out to the street and hailed an auto. As she approached the Club, she rang up Munir. She was on her way and could he come down.

  Had she misled her husband before? Of course she had. But not in this way.

  * * *

  —

  She had come to Safdarjung Tomb first with her friend Surjeet, while on a school trip from Shimla. They’d had to write an essay on one of Delhi’s monuments, and they picked this one, away from all the others. It was unimpressive, there was scant information about it, and it was not well preserved at all. There were hardly any people there. So they had walked around the garden, exchanging secrets, singing film songs to each other, talking about actors. A lot of giggling. Rajesh Khanna was the idol then. When, after her marriage, she moved to Delhi, Surjeet did so too, and a few times they had returned here. They stopped coming when they were noticed by some young men and teased. And then they both had children. She had not heard from Surjeet in a long time, did not know where she was.

  As she was strolling in the park with Munir, those carefree days came back to her. It was still so quiet here, and green. And private. A forgotten haven. It was hard to find privacy in India, at home or at work—everywhere you felt crowded and jostled, subjected to curious looks and judgements. But here was one place where you could steal some time for yourself. Where you could come and simply be.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked. They had come to sit on the grass under a small tree. It looked like almond, the leaves light green and broad, shimmering like tinsel in the sunlight.

  “Oh, nothing. Nothing, really—I don’t want to think anything at this moment—of responsibilities, cares—whatever! There will be time for that later.” There will be time…who said that? She shook the thought away, the braid went flying across her curved back, and she smiled at him.

  “Your hands are clasped tight…”

  So that they don’t stray. She felt a tingle run up her spine as she let him take her hand, play with it.

  “It’s blanched. You are very fair…”

  “They say Shimla girls are fair…and beautiful.” A mischievous smile came over her. “But I’m a Delhi girl, actually. Have you seen the film Love in Simla?”

  “No. Though I might have heard of it. Long ago.”

  “Yes.”

  They came out of the gate and, not finding an auto, walked along Lodi Road. She felt awkward in her shoes; a cool breeze blew, though the sun was blinding. An auto soon came by and picked them up. He got off at the Club and she headed home, refusing his offer to escort her back.

  They met again two days later in the afternoon. He was departing late that night and said he was packed. They had tea outside on the veranda of the cafeteria, facing the back garden with its lotus pond. The fountain in the middle was off. Beyond the wire fence on the left were the Sikandar Gardens, where in between the thick foliage walkers were visible hurrying along the track with purpose. She did her two days of yoga a week, but she thought she should seriously consider a walking regimen. She turned to look at him, saw him watching her.

  “Don’t forget about us, when you go back to your Canada!”

  “How could I?” he protested gently.

  “What will you do back in Toronto?”

  “A little bit of writing, I suppose. I volunteer at a hospital, that keeps the mind occupied. One has to give back. And in two weeks I’ll go to New York to see Razia, my daughter.”

  She imagined him with his daughter. What were they like together?

  “Have the bhel,” she said, pushing the plate closer to him. “You won’t find it in Toronto.”

  “But nowadays you can find anything Indian in Toronto,” he replied.

  They went outside and he said he preferred to sit on the lawn, in the sun. They pulled two chairs together and sat down. In full view of everybody, but so what, it was his last day. He told her more about himself and she listened, with interest initially but then just to the voice. She imagined vaguely a dozen pairs of eyes upon them. Suddenly she heard him say, heard her name,

  “Mohini—can I write to you from there?”

  She laughed. “Don’t act the Mr. Darcy!—you don’t need permission to write!” But she knew what he meant. “Text me, but only when I tell you.” She didn’t elaborate.

  Finally Ravi called, having arrived home, and she told him she had been delayed, she would be home soon in a taxi. Munir escorted her to the driveway. As they shook hands, she let his hand linger on hers, for an extra moment, they stared at each other in silence, and he said, “Till next time, then. I’ll write.”

  Munir Khan

  “DAD,” RAZIA SAID, “there’s a change in you. I’ve not seen you look so relaxed in months—since—” She paused. “Must be the holiday you took!”

  He gave her a guilty smile. She had come to see him this weekend, instead of him going down to see her in New York. That’s how she wanted it.

  “I guess it did me good. The house felt empty…I had to get away. You can be philosophical about death and loss, but you can’t escape its real effects. The day-to-day…”

  Like coming downstairs and seeing a ghost on the wing chair…hearing a familiar clatter at the kitchen sink…talking to yourself. It had been so sudden. It often is, isn’t it?

  The girl had sat down on the chair now, in front of the bay window, to face him. She always preferred that seat, always liked to simply plump down on it. To her mother’s annoyance.

  “Have you met someone?”

  A sudden silence.

  “You’re blushing!—you have!”

  “Well…” he couldn’t control himself. Better to have clamped his lips tight.

  “Where? Do I know her? Wait a minute—did you meet her in India?”

  “Look…let’s not discuss this now.”

  It’s not so easy, or even definite, there’s a Himalayan obstacle in front of this relationship, still embryonic in any case, it’s a fantasy only, and so on—, but this time he controlled the instinct to reply.

  “All right. I’m sorry. I just want you to be happy, Dad.”

  “I know. I appreciate that. I am happy.”

  She went away and made tea, pointedly using the leaves he had brought from Delhi, Mohini’s parting gift for him. Darjeeling. He could recall every detail of that scene in the Club garden, the catch in his throat when he said goodbye. That pleading look in those soft brown eyes.

  There was a certain jauntiness to his daughter now, a fully developed personality, opinions—too many, but she was young. Politically conservative. He watched her sitting across from him, legs crossed. The open cashmere sweater, the hair short, with a streak of red. The very stylish creased white pants. Very modern. Had she become an American, in her identity? He asked her.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Does it matter?”

  “If you vote, it does. And if you’re poor, perhaps it’s easier here. But you’re not.”

  She had never been poor, not gone to Goodwill for her clothes or the Salvation Army to get a mattress. She was eyeing him with a smile, aware of his thoughts. He smiled back at her. Yes, we walked miles to school, uphill both ways…Why had she gone away, against her mother’s pleas?

  “Were you happy, Dad—with Mom? I know it’s not fair…”

  The Grand Inquisition, but her question was almost a plea. I have to know.

  Why? How does it help?

  “Well—marriage is a relationship, it�
�s daily—or frequent—negotiation. It’s hard to explain. It’s not one thing, you see. It’s a relationship that goes on all the time…there’s pain and there’s joy…”

  Why did he say pain first? She must have noticed.

  “Did you love her, Dad?”

  There was a long silence.

  “Well?”

  “I no longer know what love is. How do you define love? In a relationship, if you give it time, there evolves mutual respect and appreciation…something deep and binding. There is care and there are moments of true affection. There are conflicts, inevitably. But on the whole we were happy to be with each other. You could call it love, I suppose.”

  “No passion, then?”

  “That’s for the young—when it’s all or nothing.”

  Was this the right thing to say to your child? But what could he have said?

  “But you’re still young,” he added. “And you—any love in your life yet—passion?”

  “From what you’re saying—”

  “That’s just me. Anyway, if there’s passion in your life, then from what one has read, you don’t need anyone’s opinion.”

  They used to say about passionate love, in his youth, If your heart is set on a donkey, what’s an angel to you?

  “What’re you smiling about? And so widely! Come on, Dad—give!”

  He repeated the quote to her. She laughed.

  “You have changed. I told you. Something’s happened.”

  Something he had no control over. In the vacuum that was absence, there had emerged a longing to hear again that voice, observe that chirpiness, and the tenderness behind it, see that face that was his last sight of her, the large eyes trying to say something, engulfing him, the feel of her hand, her delicate fingers in his, ever so light. Not passion, but something adult, laced with the bitter knowledge of futility, pain.

  His daughter was watching him.