by M G Vassanji
“There they are,” she told him, turning her head towards the men, “all three are Mohans from Pakistan.”
They followed the nurse inside, and walked about scrutinizing each man carefully. Body type, face, how much their brother could have changed after more than ten years. “Don’t go too close,” the nurse warned them softly. “They seem quite harmless, but you never know.” Bau-ji would ask each one, “Are you Mohan? Nathu Lal-ji’s younger son—from Sargodha?” Only one of them replied, “I am Mohan.” But he, one of the two who were sitting, wasn’t their Mohan; he was too short, just not right. “He couldn’t have shrunk,” Ma said. “He just can’t be our Mohan.” The other two men did not speak. But they were not their Mohan.
Dejected, they shook their heads at the nurse.
“No?”
“No.”
“The one who speaks,” Ma asked. “Can’t he say more? Where he is from? His family?”
“All he says is that he is Mohan. The doctor says he might remember more later.”
Bau-ji asked, “If no one is here to claim them, why are they here?”
“Two other families with missing young men are coming later, perhaps tomorrow.”
“How did these men end up here?”
“The one who spoke was found near the Wagah border. It was determined somehow that he belonged to our country. The other two, the silent ones, I don’t know. Perhaps they had papers, or someone called them Mohan. They are not circumcised.”
Ma said, “Anyway, our Mohan was hale and hearty, he would not be in such a state.”
“How do you know?” Bau-ji replied.
“Perhaps it’s for the better this way,” the nurse said. “Assume that your Mohan is with the other Mohan, he is with God.”
“Yes, he was a good soul. All he did was go search for a toilet on the train.”
As they came out and searched for a tonga, Ma fingered her Hanuman pendant. It had not helped.
* * *
—
Ma would tell her that about a year after their arrival in Delhi, her father-in-law Nathu Lal had written a letter to Hassan, his former employee, whose address he knew, asking him to keep eyes and ears open for any hints about his younger son Mohan. Hassan’s reply came some six months after, having been delayed in the post, that he had asked around, even in the villages, and he would continue to look out. He prayed that the family would be united soon. Nathu Lal had not written back. He died soon after, never having recovered from his loss, and his wife followed some years later.
Soon after the trip to Amritsar, Bau-ji was given the teaching job in Shimla. It seemed a good idea to leave the past behind and start anew. The house they had lived in had always seemed haunted by memories of the Partition and reminders of the previous residents, Muslims who had either departed or were slaughtered. Nobody in the neighbourhood wished to visit those memories.
“You can’t know what horrors we passed through, during those days,” Ma would say. “It was narak. Gandhi-ji was killed just two days after we moved here. It is like a movie that keeps playing and playing in the head…Partition turned men into beasts.”
And the older they grew the more they missed Mohan.
They were possessed.
Munir
JOSHUA IS BORN.
“Dad, his family’s so excited, he’s the first male grandchild, and—”
“He’s also my first grandchild, Raz—”
“And Ruth will stay with us a few weeks, just to help…”
“Who’s Ruth?”
“My mother-in-law! I told you about her!”
“I don’t think you did. Still, when can I see my grandchild?”
“Give us a few weeks, Dad.”
Aileen would never have stood for that. She would be there by now, hovering by her daughter and the baby, jostling Ruth aside. But she and Ruth would have become friends in the end.
Joshua. Sticking to prophets’ names, are we. Would she adopt Judaism, Munir wondered. Become a Jew? Was that possible, even? He didn’t mind, if she was happy, needed an identity, a base to hold on to, to bring up her child or children in. Something he and Aileen had never given their only child. Was that wrong? Aileen had once tried to sneak her Scottish heritage in, sending Razia to Glasgow. That had backfired.
Munir would say, We are Canadians, and that’s all the identity I need. Facile and defensive, from an immigrant desperate to belong. Meanwhile the stories he wrote had portrayed life in Asian Nairobi. Putting the past to rest, he would say, just giving it a burial.
He looks at the new New Yorker Joshua M. Goldstein on his phone screen. Swaddled in a blue blanket, he looks like all babies. All babies look like Winston Churchill, Munir’s father Jehangir Khan used to say. “What’s the ‘M’ stand for?” Munir asked Razia. “We’re not saying now, Dad. It’s our secret.” Well, Josh, you are also a Khan and a McKellar. Remember that. A Pathan and a Scot. Whiskey and halal.
Does it matter, Granddad?
Not really. Perhaps. I don’t know, Grandson. Can I call you that? The world is funny. Sometimes it gives you labels you don’t need…identity is all the rage now.
He has the photo printed and laminated at a local store and drives to Mount Pleasant Cemetery. He reaches Aileen’s grave, unfolds his stool, and sits down. Tenderly he holds out the photo.
“Well, here he is, Aileen. Your grandson. Joshua M. Goldstein, Churchill lookalike. ‘M’ for mystery, by the way. Bless him.”
There’s a fresh red rose stem leaning elegantly against the headstone. And next to it he sees, to his surprise, wrapped in clear plastic, the volume of Amir Khusrau’s poems that had disappeared after he’d placed it there. Well, well. The secret mourner, he’s found the book. Does he come frequently; is he more faithful than her husband, Munir Khan? Why does he compete with me with his bigger and better offerings?
Munir turns and looks around for a couple of minutes. The maple trees are in full colour now, glowing yellow in the fall sunlight. It is absolutely quiet and beautiful. How lovely and peaceful Toronto can be. Safdarjung Tomb flashes into his mind for a moment, how different, its monument proclaiming history so casually, pointing to a time when this city and this country were not even a gleam in the eye. In the distance, in the direction of the street, he thinks he sees a figure pacing about, perhaps waiting for him to finish. He looks back at the grave. “Well, Aileen, whoever he is, this boyfriend of yours, he has to wait, while I finish telling you all about your daughter and your grandson.”
There was not much more to say, he realized, and soon stood up to go.
* * *
—
It always amazed him, whenever Mohini reminded him, how difficult it was for her to find even a moment of privacy in which to call him. “Can’t you just park the car somewhere and call?” “Park where, with all the traffic? And you forget, I have a driver. Bahadur is quiet as a mouse but he listens.”
Once, she called him using a friend’s phone. But even friends talk. Another time she called him from a grocery shop. The shopkeeper gave her a look. Yet another time, from inside an auto; he could not hear her. And she felt nervous, all the time checking there was no trace left of him on her phone.
He needed to hear that voice, and be reassured, to blow those clouds of doubt and apprehension back beyond the horizon. And when they did connect, even for half a minute, or by hurried text, there was renewed that assurance that they were there for each other, each a part of the other.
“How does it feel to be a nana—a grandpa?”
“I haven’t had a chance to play the role yet. But it does feel strange…It’s as though I’ve been extended and there is more of me now, with Joshua…and you, of course, you’re always with me.”
“I’m touched, Munir. I so, so wish you were here with me. Now bye.”
Just like that, a hurried goodbye.
—
The apartment is on the seventh floor and modest. It is crowded, and as Munir enters there is a hush and curious looks beam on him, before Ruth—he presumes—comes forward with an extended hand.
“You are Munir, Raz’s dad! How are you? And congratulations, you must be thrilled, as are we!”
Those New York vowels, they come at you like the Yankees.
“Thank you, I am thrilled.”
“It’s so wonderful to meet you, finally! What would you like to drink? Beer?”
He says yes but later, and glances around—Razia is not here, she must be in the bedroom.
He is introduced to Eddie, Mark’s dad, and there are Mark’s sisters Ellen and Liz, and his brother George, and two girls of about ten. Mark walks in, looking unshaven, unslept, and rumpled, and says, “Hello Mr. Khan—Dad”—he smiles, “come, she’s inside,” and Munir steps into the bedroom, where his daughter sits on an armchair with the baby in her arms. Josh begins to cry. A thin, baby wail.
He kisses his daughter and stifles a sob. Straightens up. “May I hold him? It’s been a while, but the habit doesn’t go away, I believe.”
Razia gives him a grin. “Have I done a good job, Dad?”
“Yes, you have. I’m proud of you.”
“It’s small, this apartment. You haven’t seen it before, have you? We’re looking for a new place, three bedrooms. They are not cheap.”
“If you need assistance, Razia, tell me.”
“I think we can manage, Dad. Thank you.”
“You must be tired.”
“No—sit.”
He sits on the bed and they talk. Joshua is back in her arms now and Mark comes in to tell her it’s time to feed. He pushes a pillow behind her so she can sit up and she begins to feed the child. Munir is embarrassed, looks away. It was not long ago, he thinks, when she was at the breast. Discreetly he gets up and walks out, as Mark sits down opposite his wife.
In the living room the family has laid out a spread for lunch and he eats with them and exchanges niceties. The Goldsteins are a close family, used to all being in the same room, talking at once, interrupting each other. Eddie brings Munir a beer and the two go sit down on the sofa. A girl gets up to give them privacy.
“We’ve not met before, Munir, but we are so proud to have Raz in our family. She’s a wonderful girl. And let me say this in all sincerity, we consider you a part of this family too.”
“Thank you, Eddie. I’m afraid I don’t have much of a family to offer you in return.”
There follows an awkward silence, before Eddie says, putting a hand on Munir’s arm, “I’m truly sorry for your loss, Munir. But I would like to reiterate, all of us here in New York are now your family.”
“Thank you.”
* * *
—
Back in Toronto he went and told Aileen about his visit to their daughter in New York. I like the family, Aileen. They are good people. Very warm. And Joshua? I’m afraid he’ll be spoilt, Aileen…I’m sure you’ll love him too, wherever you are. He’ll surely come to visit you here. Perhaps Christmas.
As he stepped out onto the pavement of Mount Pleasant Avenue, there was Aileen’s other visitor striding towards him, likely on his way to visit her grave.
“Hi, you’re Munir Khan…may I call you Munir? We met here a few months ago.”
“Yes, and you’re Ian. Ian Fraser.”
“You come to see Aileen McKellar ever so frequently.”
“As do you, apparently. May I ask how…how you relate to my late wife?”
“We knew each other long ago.” Ian paused, then asked, “Say, would you like to sit down for a cup of coffee? And we can get to know each other more.”
“Why not?”
They crossed the road and entered a coffee shop. Sized each other up. Knew each other long ago…how? Munir wondered.
“You’ve known about me,” Munir said. “But I don’t know you—except your name.” The question was implicit.
Ian showed the thinnest trace of a smile. He had blue eyes, fading grey hair, and, like Munir, a large forehead. He was slimmer, wore a fall jacket. A plaid logo on the side of his eyeglasses.
“We met by accident once at the Cricket Club—long after we’d parted ways. And then we continued to meet there once in a while. Nothing improper, I assure you.” He took a breath. “There was just a pull…from old times. We played tennis a couple of times, then stopped.”
So those were the Cricket Club visits. She could have told him about Ian. Her former boyfriend. Introduced him. But she needed her own secret to keep, a cubby hole inside herself. Do we all need that? Perhaps. Mine was my past, which I kept locked away.
“How did you come to know her…back then, if I may ask?”
“We went out together while at the U of T. Afterwards…well, we parted ways, and I went to work in Calgary and then moved to Vancouver—Scotiabank—then took early retirement and returned to Toronto. I am divorced. Three children—two boys, one girl.”
By now they had their coffees; Munir had a muffin, which they shared.
“Well. Thank you for being so candid. I wondered who the other admirer was, who brought a dozen roses for my one stem. And this time a more beautiful one.”
Ian laughed, loudly. “That was only the one time—the dozen roses. After that, one stem from me too, and tulips in the spring. That’s surely not overdoing it.”
“No. And that book of poetry?”
“I put it back, as you noticed.”
They resolved to be friends and stay in touch. And they reached an agreement: Munir’s day was Friday, Ian’s Tuesday.
Well, well, Aileen, you certainly kept secrets. Stayed in touch with your family, and then this man who came from your past.
They must have been intimate. Was Munir Khan, the Indian at the office, the rebound?
Mohini
“I HAD MY EYE ON YOU when you were still a girl in Shimla and I came here for a holiday,” Ravi said when they had just got married.
“Liar,” she’d replied.
Shimla days, she thought. The town was called Simla then, now they want to call it something else—those were gorgeous days. The happiest days, but they always are, at that age, aren’t they. Running in the snow, wearing coats and scarves, sliding, skating. Tobogganing. There were hills and hills to do that. Stopping over at dhabas for paratha and butter and dahi, without a care about waistlines. Sitting by the fireplace listening to stories and munching snacks. Monsoon, and morning mist over the green valleys. And the monkeys! You learned to talk to them so they would leave you alone. I had a favourite, an old mother who always protected me. I called her Janaki. If a youthful monkey came over to harass me on the road to Boileau Ganj she would lope over and smack him. Whenever I told people I grew up in Shimla, they would mention Love in Simla. A silly movie, but it struck just the right note. The innocence. The romanticism. Weekends we hiked up to Kamna Devi and in the spring there was always the long hike to Tara Devi. All four of us, Bau-ji, Ma, Aarti and me; Ma and Bau-ji would pause to rest and Aarti and I would head on, betting how long it would take the oldies to catch up. Then Aarti went off—escaped—to Delhi and there were three of us and the spectre of missing Mohan. Aarti always bubbling with energy had kept us in the present; it was hard for me alone. MA studies were a distraction…but then that happened. The incident.
Did I marry too soon? Because of that?
It’s a memory I didn’t want to see even a shadow of. Why now, when I carry in my heart someone with whom I have experienced my happiest moments? He would understand. But this one beside me, who doesn’t know, came around in time and took me away, and unwittingly allowed me to heal.
“You must marry,” Ma had said.
And Aarti, who was visiting at the time: “It’s a good idea, Didi. You have to do it
anyway. You do want to, don’t you?”
“And my MA degree?”
“It will work out. Bau-ji will make sure of that.”
And all the pressure for me to get married because of Professor Isvara Chinmaya, Ph.D., Bau-ji’s friend: “Call me Isvara. You can always come to me for extra help. You’ve got a good mind, young lady, train it and you’ll go far. You’re better than Suniti Gopal.”
Suniti Gopal, his former student, now a professor at JNU. What is the story there? She never came back to Shimla. And when I saw her once at DRC, I went to greet her, but she claimed she didn’t remember me. I know why.
It was the Henry James paper I’d been having trouble with. I had a pass already in my hands, but I was a topper, as they called it, and I had to be exceptional. Only, I was having trouble with context. All the nuances; the European mannerisms, place references; what, even now, do I know about them? The ladies and gentlemen. What was Boston like? New York I knew through American films. I should have picked Kamala Markandaya. Too easy, said Call-Me-Isvara. The department expects more from you. There are British Council scholarships waiting for you, Fulbrights within your reach. You could visit the American Centre in Hyderabad. And then, a year, two years in America!
For some weeks I went to see Call-Me-Isvara, Saturday afternoons. Usually in his office, once at a dhaba. It all seemed like fun and very intellectual, and the other girls were envious. I was flying high, destined for a great future. He knew so much, weaved circles around me, dropping names here and there. Frye, Berlin, Eliot…Adler, Reich, and Jung; he had shaken hands with Simone de Beauvoir and Sartre in Paris. These hands—better respect them, girl! The pretty—and liberated—French girls; then the innuendoes came. The West is relaxed about sex, but we still have a lot to learn, despite our Kama Sutra. We two hit it off, don’t we, Mohini? Peas in a pod, as they say. And Simla is a small pod, ha-ha. Say, how about the two of us travel to Kullu? Like the Bostonians, hey! Only joking. A hike to Tara Devi at dawn?—absolutely inspiring. I refused the whiskey. I refused the wine. And I began to get nervous. This was Isvara, Bau-ji’s friend?