by M G Vassanji
He was met at Shimla’s small, two-track railway station by Dr. Kamala Singh, a younger colleague called Dr. Girija Sharma, and two graduate students. A welcoming party of four—he was flattered. Upon being introduced, the two students immediately bent down to touch his feet. Dr. Singh was tall and athletic with a jaunt to her pace. Munir remembered to give her Mohini’s regards, which raised a curious eyebrow. Dr. Sharma was quiet and respectful. Both taught at the local university, where Mohini’s father himself had taught and whom Kamala Singh recalled with affection.
While a porter carried his small hand luggage on his head (Munir had no say in this) they walked up a narrow road to the institute.
He had come to a different world, as romantic-looking as its reputation; he knew it to be the setting of Bollywood films in which young couples in bright clothes frolicked about in the white snow. It was cool and misty, the air so pure he was inspired to take a few deep breaths. Some of the men and women they passed walked barefoot, their features noticeably hard. The men wore a peculiar embroidered cap, called the Shimla topi. Occasionally, steep concrete steps led down from the ridge along which they walked to houses on the slopes. Behind them upon the hillsides lay a dense sprinkling of white buildings, the town of Shimla. The Viceroy of India’s summer residence rose up ahead of them, on one of the highest points in the landscape. His entourage had occupied the many bungalows that were scattered about on the hills and were now in a decrepit state. From here the Raj had been ruled in the summers, while Delhi sweltered. Shimla wore an English veneer.
They arrived at a green wooden gate which, he was informed, was called the Gurkha Gate, and proceeded to make a steep climb up a long, curving driveway. Halfway up he was already out of breath, and his welcome party had to pause for him, much to his embarrassment. At the top of the climb was a gravel plain in front of a great, grey gothic building endowed with a plethora of balconies, verandas, and arches. Showing its age, the former viceregal residence seemed to be crumbling at the edges.
They entered a cavernous hall, muffled in a hushed silence as befitted an institute of advanced studies. Corridors led away on either side. A wide, majestic staircase curved up to the circular corridors of the two higher floors. The predominant motif was wood, deep brown teak brought all the way from Burma. Munir’s apartment was on the second floor, a two-room suite once opulent but since run down, with threadbare carpets and collapsed, faded cushions on the sofas and wing chairs. It looked romantic, a memento of another era. When he had placed his luggage inside and washed his face, he came down and joined the women for tea and pakodas at a cafeteria at the side of the building. They were at the edge of a cliff, bound in by a pipe fence, below them a deep green valley covered in mist, in the distance the snowy peaks upon which bobbed and teased the setting sun.
All Munir was required to do during his week-long stay was to give a seminar to the resident scholars, and a reading at the Fire Station Café near the top of the driveway, in the space where the Viceroy’s fire brigade had been housed. The rest of his time was his own. Putting in a morning of work at the library, he would go for lunch in the dining room, after which he took the long walk down to the promenade in town called the Mall, a strip of upscale shops and restaurants that during the Raj was restricted to the whites. In the afternoon he sat in on a seminar, or walked around the grounds. His own seminar was on the subject he had covered—so reluctantly!—in Vadodara, and so was the lecture he gave to students at the university. Kamala Singh invited him for dinner one evening at her house, where he met her husband, Inder, a state civil servant. They spoke affectionately of the rather lenient Professor Chand Khanna, Mohini’s father. How did Munir happen to meet her? They had shared a table once at the DRC bar, he explained rather inadequately. His red face perhaps further gave him away. He wanted to ask what Mohini was like when they’d known her, but couldn’t. Kamala, however, obliged. Mohini had been the brightest and most vivacious of their group. Daring too. In what way, daring? Well, answering back to gangs of boys who teased and made lewd remarks to girls passing by; once she even wrote in the university paper about advances made by professors. She didn’t name any, but the lecherous ones were well known to the girls. She gave up a bright future and got married suddenly. It was shocking, but that’s what happened to many bright girls. She had a lovely voice, too, and would sing at parties.
Kamala had sensed his stake in her and held him enthralled with her stories, although he tried not to show it. Inder finally came to his rescue with, “Mohini married a nice chap, this Ravi, didn’t she? How many children does she have?”
Girija took him on a tour of the Lower Mall, the local market, which was down a steep flight of stairs from the Mall. Munir’s grandmother’s folks had had a store in Shimla, Didi had said, and it must have been down here in the long, narrow alley, among the hundreds that sold anything from bracelets and car parts to jalebi and apricots. Dada had lain low here among his in-laws, but a police raid on any pretext would have meant arrest. The wounded Viceroy would have moved into town for the season, and there were soldiers everywhere on the lookout for terrorists. Here, a Muslim from Dariba Kalan had arrived not long following the Outrage. There was a mosque in the area. He would have gone there on Fridays. And then for some reason—a good reason—they had left for Bombay and onward to Kenya. Munir imagined they went by bullock cart and train to Amritsar, and then the long train ride down half the length of India to the docks of Bombay. A dhow to Mombasa.
Sitting by himself at the threshold of a chai shop halfway down to the Lower Mall, Munir wondered at the Providence that had brought him here to the mountains. Somewhat absently, he watched the bustle going up and down the steps, the dazzle of colours from the women’s clothing. Just outside the entrance, a man sat frying jalebis. Across from him was a small Hanuman shrine. Munir knew no one here, and yet he found himself connected, in a surreal scheme blending fact with fiction, past with present. Dada, a jeweller’s apprentice, had escaped Delhi to come to this quaint hill town where Kipling’s master spy Lurgan Sahib had run a jewellery shop. Lord Hardinge, perhaps still recovering from the attack on his life in Delhi, would have been two miles away, in that baroque palace that was now the institute where Munir was a guest, staying in a room that Lady Hardinge or her companions might have occupied; the present library was at the location of the ballroom where the English lords and ladies would have danced. The blueprints for India’s partition would be drawn there.
And Mohini had lived in Shimla with her refugee parents, down a hillside in an area called Summer Hill. She had been described to him as a vivacious, daring young woman. That same daring was on display as she plunked down at his table at the DRC bar and started chatting with him and challenging him, a total stranger.
The way back to the institute seemed longer, and midway, before he began to ascend, he had to pause on a bench by the roadside. He wondered if, despite what his checkups said, he was really fit after all. He should resume playing tennis. With this thought he felt a tug at his heart as he recalled the little girl he had taken to the courts and taught how to play the game. He pulled out his phone and called Razia. She was lying down, she said. Josh had just fallen asleep. He described to her where exactly he was walking, how beautiful it was, his felt connection to it. His dada and dadi had come to lie low here, before they left for Kenya. He was chatty, drunk on mountain air. Perhaps there’d been something in the masala chai. She had to interrupt him, “But Dad, I would like you to be here, close to Josh and me. Tell him your stories.” “I am always there for him, don’t worry, Razia. I’ll be back soon and you can come and visit.”
Lighter on his feet, he walked on. He had his walking stick, more like a prophet’s staff, presented to him by Kamala Singh, which he swung from time to time to ward off any monkey or stray dog contemplating harassment.
During his few days in the hills, having had tea with a snack late in the afternoon, Munir would opt for fruit and tea in
his room instead of a full dinner. He watched a bit of TV, read a lot on his laptop. Late at night, before turning in, he would take a stroll outside, the gravel softly crunching under his feet; a couple of times the sky was pitch-black, the stars clear, bright pinpoints and the haze of the Milky Way plainly visible; it rained two nights, when the earth seemed clothed in a mist as it trundled along its trajectory in the solar system. Over the bounding wall of the institute, thick as a castle rampart, he could look at the lights of the town, spread out in the dark before him like another galaxy. These variations of one stillness transported him deep within himself.
One night he awoke to the sound of muffled thunder in the distance, where the mountain peaks were, and he turned on his back, his heart racing. The gods are angry, he mused. It was pitch-dark and otherwise absolutely still. Then came fierce flashes of lightning, and there appeared on the curtain of the French window the shapely figure of a woman. He stared at her. Common lore at the institute said that some of the viceroys’ wives haunted the premises. Don’t be silly, he chided himself. But he turned away from the apparition, not wanting to face her, and started to breathe again. His hair had stood on end. Perhaps, the thought came, it was Lady Hardinge, come to haunt the grandson of the terrorist. Go to sleep. He fell asleep.
It was a night of nightmares. He saw Aileen standing at the bay window of their house in Toronto, telling Razia and Mark, “But he’s not here! Don’t you see, he’s gone away. He’s gone away and he’s not coming back!” She was in tears, and Razia was on a bed, a baby in a bassinet hollering beside her. Mark was alternately the man at the cemetery and Razia’s husband. Razia was in New York and Aileen in Toronto. Razia with a pained look on her face, protesting, “But he’s here, Mom, why don’t you see him?”
Munir woke up, his heart thumping. There was a loud knocking on the door. Outside the window, dawn was breaking. At the door, the attendant had brought his tea tray, with biscuits. Thank God, he said, taking it, his hands shaking. The man helped put it on the table. Aileen had come to haunt him. Perhaps it was not Lady Hardinge but Aileen all along. But Aileen did not have such an exorbitantly shapely figure. With his tea in his one hand and a biscuit in the other, Munir walked to the French window, which was rattling from the wind. Outside was the wide parapet of the building, with stone railings, a few of them broken. He deduced the obvious—that it was the shadow of a railing, thrown onto his curtain by the lightning, that had frightened him.
* * *
—
There had come nothing from Mohini since he arrived. He had texted several times, called once, anxious to share his excitement. Finally, two days before his departure, a text came. My father passed away last week. I’m with family.
He texted, So sorry. I’ll be back on Sunday. Take care of yourself. Thinking of you always.
Friday night he spent with Kamala and Inder at their home, with four other old-timers, including the vice-chancellor of the university, who had also been a colleague of Mohini’s father’s. It was a long night of nostalgia that began and ended with Scotch. On Saturday at noon, still barely awake and suffering from a hangover, he took a taxi to Kalka, from where he caught the nightly Kalka Mail to Delhi.
Sitting in his compartment next to the window, as he liked to do, staring at the darkness outside, he reminisced about his visit. He had calmed his nerves after that altercation with Mohini and seen a truly amazing place; he had given greater dimension to his grandfather, the old jeweller of Nairobi, grounding him in a larger India than simply Old Delhi. He had learned more about his dear Mohini. His tea tray came. Before he attended to it, he opened the message that had just buzzed on his phone. Mohini had written, We would like you to come to dinner at our house. Tuesday. Please come.
He smiled. He thought he should check his Canadian phone to see what had arrived there. A few missed calls and some messages. He pressed to view the last one, and a chill ran through him. A bright, clear photo flashed on the screen. It was not possible what he saw. Yet it was there, the selfie of himself and Mohini at Safdarjung Tomb. The photo on his phone had come back to him.
He was being warned.
He slept fitfully, and when the train arrived at Old Delhi station in the morning, he was wide awake.
Mohini
WHEN MOHINI ARRIVED on her assigned Tuesday to oversee the cleaning of her parents’ house, she found Bau-ji sitting on the sofa in a grumpy mood, complaining about this and that. His breakfast was cold, the plate was not cleaned properly, one of his slippers was gone. Mohini herself noticed that one of his pyjama-coat buttons had come off. The new girl was wiping the floor at his feet, where he had dropped his tea cup and saucer.
“What’s wrong, Bau-ji? Something bothering you today?”
“It’s not a good day.”
After the girl left, Mohini and Ma went for their usual visit to the Hanuman temple. On the way, Ma, breathing unusually hard today, said, “That Khan fellow is back, isn’t he?”
“He’s not a ‘Khan fellow’, his name is Munir Khan. Yes, he is here. What’s wrong?”
“Have you seen him?”
Mohini said nothing, and Ma continued to puff along beside her.
“Don’t walk so fast. I always thought it would be Aarti who would cause me grief, not you.”
“What grief, Ma? I have done nothing wrong.”
Ma didn’t bother with that.
“Your bau-ji has not been feeling well. Last night he stumbled twice.”
“And you didn’t call the doctor, Ma?”
“He didn’t want me to. Where’s the pendant I gave you?”
“I forgot to wear it. You know I don’t like these cheap magic trinkets. They make me look like some village girl.”
* * *
—
It had been a difficult week. First the bombing in the city and her outburst at Munir. She felt a pang when she was told that he’d checked out. Serves me right, she thought. Thankfully he’d gone off only as far as Shimla. She smiled. Life would have become easier if he’d really gone away. But he couldn’t, just as she couldn’t help feeling pleased that he was still around.
Delhi had fretted nervously, poised for another terrorist attack. There were already loud calls for war from the loony right. And Ravi was in a bad temper, his department bearing responsibility for producing the wrong intelligence. Despite their latest interrogation techniques, they had been fooled. Their information had said Bengali Market would be the target, and it went under tight security, but the bomb was thrown on the Janpath Road by a speeding motorcycle with two men on it. They were shot dead, which was another mistake.
There had been the altercation with Ravi. After two difficult evenings away, he was spending one night at home, and perhaps she should have been more responsive to him. They were in the living room, as was usual when he was around at night, but this time they were not quite together—he watching a heated discussion on television, four screaming guests conducted by a screaming moderator, while she brooding with her own thoughts. The discussion on TV was about security, and Ravi made a few dissenting exclamations to which she paid no attention. Finally he sat back, saying, “Nonsense,” and looked towards her. She met his gaze with a blank look. His face clouded, and he turned away; after a moment as he stood up to retire, he asked, pretending to be casual, “That Khan fellow still around?” More accusation than curiosity. She flared up. “Why do you have to call him ‘that Khan fellow’? He’s a person!” She had fallen into it, and he had his handy response: “What’s he to you that you so readily jump to his defence?” “Everything!” she said. He turned slowly, took a step back and hit her across the face. He’d not done that in years. He apologized, over and over, fondled her and kissed her, and then the make-up sex, and her head ringing from the blow. She had only Munir in her mind then, and she knew he could tell. They had reached the end of the road now, but would he let her go? Would the girls or her pa
rents allow her? Would she allow herself?
* * *
—
She and Ma reached home to find Bau-ji sitting on the sofa, looking blankly in front of him. There was no question that he was not all right.
“What happened, Bau-ji?”
“I…I…I just don’t remember how I got here.”
“Where were you, Bau-ji? At the dining table? Having lunch?”
“Yes…I think so, but I must have got up.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Huh? I don’t know—can you hear me? I don’t know what I’m saying.”
Dr. Panwakar arrived in five minutes and immediately called an ambulance. “Stroke,” he pronounced. “But it’s not advanced.”
Ma almost had a stroke herself, barely coherent when the ambulance came, and had to be restrained as her husband was wheeled away on a stretcher. Later that afternoon Mohini and Ma went to see Bau-ji and stayed with him till midnight. He slept, mostly, but occasionally opened his eyes and attempted a smile. The two of them would hold his hands then. Ravi came in the evening at seven, bringing Asha with him. Mohini joined them for a meal and then the two of them left. Aarti would fly in the next morning and Kishore would follow. Aarti was constantly on the phone from Hyderabad. Shall I come, Mamma? No, darling, I’ll let you know.
At six the next morning they received a phone call from the hospital. Bau-ji had passed away in his sleep.
* * *
—
Mohini hardly slept the next three days. There were so many arrangements to make, there was no time to dwell upon her grief. Ma needed attention constantly, in her dazed state feeling more loss than grief. There were moments when she thought she was still in Sargodha, or Shimla. She would speak to the absent Mohan— “Your elder brother is dead, Mohaniya, how he worried about you.” “Now he is gone, Mohan.” Asha would go and stand by her grandmother and hold her hand. Once, breaking into nervous laughter, Mohini said to Asha, “Are you taking her pulse?”