by M G Vassanji
Munir helped himself. When he finished, he asked for tea, not realizing that tea was not served at lunchtime; nevertheless, it was brought for him from a neighbouring establishment, and sipping it he watched the crowds outside. At length, he asked for the bill, paid extra, and departed, taking a cycle rickshaw back to the guest house, where a new man was on duty, young and clean-shaven, in black trousers and white shirt. His name was Naren and he took away the jug of filtered water to refresh it.
In his room, Munir immediately went to his computer. It had been shifted towards a corner of the table, he noticed, when he’d left it right in front of the chair. When he pushed back the lid, it opened straight to his email page. This was not how he had left it. Someone had fiddled with it. When Naren returned, Munir complained. Naren was silent, stared uncomfortably at him.
“Did you play with this computer?” Munir asked half seriously. Naren looked too simple to know what to do with a laptop.
“Sahab, some police people were here, asking questions.”
“About what?”
“They come looking for terrorists, sometimes.”
“Do I look like a terrorist to you?” Munir asked with a smile. But he was bothered. Couldn’t the cops have waited for him to return? What did they expect to find, what had they found?
“I don’t know about these things, sahab,” Naren replied and grinned foolishly.
“All right. It doesn’t matter.”
Munir changed all his passwords, then lay down in bed. He fell instantly asleep.
He was woken up by a phone call from Mohini.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier. It’s been really busy. Were you lonely, what did you do today?”
He told her.
“Oh, wonderful! I knew you’d like it there. How do you find the place?”
“Modest. Rudimentary. And I think I just slept through suppertime.”
“I’m sorry…they’ll fix you something. Did you miss me?”
“I came all the way to be with you.”
“I told you, this is how it is in India…I can come tomorrow to see you for a few moments…”
A few moments each time, is this all it was going to be…
“Something strange happened,” he said.
“What?”
He told her about his computer. She became silent, then said, “These things happen, particularly in those areas…There are always threats. Those must have been security people. You should move to DRC soon.”
“I’ve already made a reservation. I’m moving there Monday morning. Can we meet at Safdarjung in the afternoon?”
“Let’s meet at the Gandhi Smriti—Birla House. It’s where Gandhi was shot and is now a museum. Quite close to the Club. You can even walk there. Gandhi’s been in the news lately, and I’ve been thinking about him.”
“All right.”
He had a shower and went downstairs with the purpose of going for a walk; on the way out Naren intercepted him to tell him his supper was ready. Grateful, Munir went to the dining room and sat down at the large table, where his dinner was laid out, simple vegetarian but substantial. Munir asked for tea and it was brought to him. Then he went out for a stroll, the man at the gate advising him not to wander too far. He walked for ten minutes and returned to his room.
The feeling of having been touched by an invisible hand remained with him as he tried to sleep.
* * *
—
The next day was Sunday; in the morning he again wandered through the old city. After some effort, making a lot of inquiries, he found the little temple of the eighty-four bells where he had come with Mohini. It was open but there was no one inside, not even the priest. The floor was wet, looking recently washed but not dried. Munir paused some moments to pay his respects at the idol in its glowing niche at the far end. He came out and, hailing a rickshaw, visited the house where Ghalib, the great Urdu poet, had lived in the nineteenth century. Ghalib, who apparently had a lover next door, their impossible relationship the subject of a well-known poem, had described in pithy detail the devastated condition of Delhi after the failure of the 1857 Mutiny—the First War of Independence, as Mohini called it. The great mosque had narrowly escaped destruction at the hands of the East India Company. He wondered if his grandfather’s family were in Delhi then, and what they would have seen. He noticed that, having embedded himself inside Delhi, this old ancestral Delhi, he couldn’t help extrapolating Nairobi’s Eastleigh back to these streets. The poet’s house was now a rudimentary museum, with manuscripts and objects from his period. A few stores down was a tea place where he entered somewhat hesitantly and sat down at a rickety table. A gang of three boys next to him had ordered paya—the spicy curry of goat’s trotters—which had Munir’s taste buds running. Paya day had been a big event in his house growing up. The trotters would be bought with the skin still on, and the first order of business was to burn it off on glowing charcoal. The trotters were boiled overnight and the remaining skin removed. Only then was the curry made. Sticky, spicy, and hot, consumed with steaming naan.
Throwing health warnings aside, Munir ordered a plate. As his paya came, with naan, one of the two boys voiced something to him. At Munir’s confusion, he spoke again, but in a thickly accented English. “Sir—you from Foreign?” They all became excited and greatly interested when he told them where he was from. He politely refused their offers to show him around, and washing his sticky hands with lemon water and soap, he left, feeling intensely pleased with himself.
A cycle rickshaw took him back to the guest house. And the next morning he checked in at DRC.
* * *
—
He stood for some moments on the porch steps of Birla House, a dignified white bungalow on a quiet residential street, contemplating its garden, its understated elegance. As was expected of any visitor here, he traced the path Gandhi had taken to the spot of his assassination, from the porch steps down to the lawn, the mahatma’s hands supported on the shoulders of two young women. Munir was familiar with the scene from the Attenborough film. This was the house, owned by an industrial magnate, where Gandhi had undertaken his “fast unto death,” which he broke only when Delhi’s influential citizens had signed a written promise to resist any outbreaks of communal violence in the city. It was the aftermath of the Partition. Behind the frail old man had been a small crowd of people; in front and on both sides many more. From the frantic crowd at the front, before the prayers could begin, the assassin appeared, did a namaste in greeting, and shot Gandhi, who uttered “Hé Ram” as he fell. Oh God. What more satisfying death for him.
The city’s violence would have affected his grandfather’s family—those who had been living in Delhi—had they stayed on in the city during Partition. Perhaps they had already gone away on one of those trains bearing refugees to Pakistan. Only now did it occur to him that the Partition was never mentioned in their home in Kenya. He only knew that there were two countries, India and Pakistan, in place of one, and they had gone to war when he was still a young boy. His father Jehangir had friends from all Indian backgrounds; on Saturday afternoons they would gather at the Nairobi Club to play snooker and drink whiskey. He knew nothing about his Dadi Amina’s background; his grandmother had been a busy woman in their household, providing food and comfort, and open arms to rush into when the world became unjust. On Eid days she gave him money with a smile and a pat on the head. He could recall clearly her death one August night during school holidays. It happened very fast, from an attack of meningitis, as he learned later. Their doctor had been away that night. He remembered her body lying on the living room floor, the female mourners sitting before it, crying. His grandfather developed Parkinson’s and died some years later.
A shadow fell before him and he looked up. It was Mohini. That same pale face with pointed chin, the long braid; the large moon-eyes and the forehead dot. “Mohini…”
he uttered, as though not believing.
“You’re standing where Gandhi-ji stood when he was shot.”
“Yes.”
“How are you?” she asked and he caught her hand furtively, before she quickly pulled it away, with, “Careful, you!”
There was mischief in the tone, he thought, and a hint of pleasure. He suggested they go to Khan Market for coffee or tea, and she said why not the Club. That would have been his first choice anyway, and they hailed an auto.
“Didn’t you like the guest house I chose for you, near Old Delhi?”
“It was well located, but hardly the height of comfort. And how would you have reached me?”
“I would have taken an auto.”
“With a guard at the gate? And a bunch of curious and sombre-looking seniors on the scene?”
She laughed.
“And the security people searching for a terrorist in my room?” The club cafeteria was not crowded, and as always they elected to take a table at the back, facing the door. The adjacent tables were not occupied, which gave them some freedom. They ordered tea and he told her about his adventures.
“I would have loved to eat paya!”
“Wouldn’t have been healthy for you…”
“And I suppose it was okay for you, a foreigner?”
She said she hadn’t been to Ghalib’s house in years, and then recited the famous lines in Urdu and translated, “It was not to be—it was not our fate—this relationship should happen…something like that.”
“I hope that’s not a foretelling.”
She blushed, said softly, “No.” They both waited. “What are your plans for today?” she asked then.
“I think I’ll go to the Nizamuddin place.”
“Amir Khusrau?”
He nodded. “And Ziauddin Barani. Perhaps I’ll get inspired.” He told her the story of Khizr Khan and Deval Rani as related by Amir Khusrau in the poem he had recently read.
Deval was the beautiful Gujarati princess who was brought to the Delhi court of Alauddin as a favour to one of his queens, Kamla Devi, who was also Deval’s mother. Kamla herself had been captured and separated from her daughter and husband some years before, when her kingdom of Gujarat was conquered by Alauddin’s forces. She was war booty, but a queen now. In Delhi, Alauddin’s son Khizr Khan and Kamla’s daughter Deval Devi fell in love. The ending was tragic.
Mohini knew the story, if only vaguely, but she had an opinion. A strong one.
“But it’s not true, that story,” she said flatly.
“Perhaps not exactly. Khusrau must have embellished it. Poetic licence, surely?”
“Embellished! Can you imagine a Hindu queen like Kamla Devi asking for her daughter to be brought to the harem? It’s not possible! Amir Khusrau made it up. A Muslim’s fantasy.”
“A Turkish Indian poet who happened to be a Muslim, you mean.”
That caught her short.
“You’re right…how silly of me. I’m sorry.”
“And you, are you my fantasy?”
“Yes,” she said brightly, and stood up. “Aren’t I what you always imagined? A film actress of yesteryear? Let’s go.”
The cafeteria was already filling up. Outside, at the crowded driveway where she waited for her car, he asked, “When?”
She paused a moment, then said, “Tomorrow at four. Safdarjung. Bye.”
He watched her taxi leave towards the gate, trailed by a few others. He turned around, pulled up a chair on the lawn, and sat down. There had not been a private moment between them yet, but there had been enough to fill his heart. Then why did he feel unsettled? Had they averted a quarrel? A Muslim’s fantasy. The words echoed in his mind. There’s a minefield here, he said to himself.
Jetha Lal was passing by and stopped.
“Namaste, sir. Haven’t I seen you before?” he asked Munir.
“I was here in January—must have been then.”
“Yes. And back so soon? You must like India!”
“More and more,” Munir said, and regretted that.
“Good,” the man said, then with a wave of the hand walked on, saying something to himself. He was soon joined by a few young followers and the gang in white made their way towards the library.
Munir wondered why the man had not asked him where he came from. He’d not even introduced himself.
He got up, went to the gate, and took an auto to Nizamuddin.
It was Thursday and the place was crowded; there were a lot of women present. On this day sacred to Muslims, Dada must have visited here as a young man. On this day, in Nairobi, Dadi and his mother had cooked sweet yellow rice, sooji halwa, and channa, and coming back from school in the afternoon he and his siblings would make a dash for the dining table.
He did his usual rounds of the two eminent mausoleums, paid his donation to the big attendant, who knew him now, and went and stood before the grave of the historian Ziauddin Barani. He had saved a portion of the flowers he had bought, and now placed them on the grave. A wry smile came upon him.
“Well, Ziauddin, what secret history did you want me to read in that dream?”
Barani sat on his haunches, just behind his grave, wearing a gold-embroidered olive coat and a red turban. “You’ll find it,” he said. “Where will I find it?” “Go ask Amir, he might know.” “But I just saw him!” Munir protested.
Munir turned around, amused with himself. The attendant, who was called Khursheed Nizami, said to him, benignly, “They didn’t know English, sir. But maybe the sheikh understood. He was a very learned man.”
“Then why have you given him such a modest place to rest?”
A careless shrug in return.
* * *
—
The next day at a little before four, he arrived at the Safdarjung Tomb. Not a soul in sight. He walked once around the garden and then up to the mausoleum. Standing at the parapet of the terrace, he saw her arrive through the gate in a hurry. She had on a greyish sari this time, in marked contrast to the bright yellow and red of yesterday. Night versus day. A camouflage against the green of the lawn? He walked down to go meet her and presented her the pink rose he had asked the gardener at DRC to give him. It was not done, the gardener said, but still cut a branch and handed it to him with an indulgent look.
They went and sat down, away from the line of sight of the entrance, where a yellow bougainvillea tree gave them a partial shade. How serene it was here, walled in and protected from the frantic bustle of Delhi, how precious was this sheltered privacy of theirs, every terrifying moment of it, under the blind eye of the old mausoleum.
He found himself telling her about his childhood, his school years, his two sisters, perhaps repeating in parts what he had already told her before. No, they hadn’t worn the chador, they were modern girls. Did it matter? Of course not, she said. She apologized again for her thoughtless remarks of the day before, when he’d told her about the romance of Khizr Khan and Deval Rani. We pick up attitudes without realizing, she said. He agreed, recalled for her the Asian racism in Nairobi. He told her they had spoken a corrupted Urdu at home in Nairobi, but that his generation spoke mostly English. He started to tell her about Aileen, and stopped. “Are you really interested?” She laughed with delight. He toyed with her fingers, long and pale, cool. “You’re so beautiful,” he said; “please be real.” As she looked at the ground, he stroked her hair lightly. All this, because illicit, with trepidation, a tremble in the hand.
“Did you find there was a lot of adjustment to make, with your Canadian wife?”
“Her parents were from Scotland. Yes…she could be rather forthright, which was a little shocking at first. Very candid with her opinions—but she too adjusted, became less so. Behind that cold exterior was a gentle and caring person…” And he was trying too hard to find a balance, not to sound critical, not to be too c
omplimentary, in case he drove away this woman who sat beside him.
It had taken Aileen time to warm up, to awaken to her own sensuality. She preferred a cuddle to sex. Was it his problem? And Mohini?—she was a smouldering flame.
“She was very neat and orderly—and that was a problem for us initially. I was messy.” He stroked her neck, then playfully ran down the bumpy spine, lingered at the open midriff. He heard a deep breath, but otherwise she pretended not to notice.
“Tell me about messy! I am thankful I have daughters…though Ravi doesn’t share that feeling. He would have liked one son.” She gave a rueful smile.
Her bau-ji had encouraged her to go for higher education. She had studied literature, and her final paper had been on Henry James. Bau-ji himself had gone to university in Lahore, with men who went on to become famous. But Partition came and it had turned him bitter. The family had to leave their family home in Sargodha and he lost his brother.
“His brother—your uncle?”
She nodded. He didn’t know what to say, came out with, “I’m sorry.”
“Mohan was his younger brother. He was in college. My father’s still not gotten over his loss.”
“And your mother?”
“She too. They were already married when they arrived. She’d been to high school but not to college.”
She suffered from depression now, and Mohini thought she would travel with her parents, take them on a few pilgrimages.
Where? he asked, idly. She named some places. Puri. Dwarka. Shirdi. She was religious, then? he inquired. Yes, she replied, looking at him, surely he knew that. But in a spiritual way. He said nothing, but recalled her visit to the eighty-four-bell temple, how she had covered her head and joined her hands in worship.
He felt a quiet thrill as they shared these confidences, these stories of their lives, these intimate parts of themselves. This was how it should be, their relationship. At this moment nothing else mattered but themselves. He watched her looking dreamy, leaning back on her hands, her feet in front of her, and wished he could lean forward and kiss those feet, that belly, those lips. She looked up and smiled at him, perhaps reading his desire.