A Delhi Obsession

by M G Vassanji

  There were friends and relatives to inform, the house to be prepared to receive them, and the priest to call; the body to be bathed; and then the cremation. All of which she accomplished, with some help from Aarti, like an automaton, as her duty to her bau-ji. She would recall each of these tasks seconds later. But if she had paused to reflect at the time, she would have broken down. She and Ravi and Aarti and Kishore took the ashes by car to immerse in the Ganga at Haridwar, where they spent the night in a hotel. Ma stayed back with Asha. On the way back they had lunch at a dhaba outside Haridwar, where they fondly recalled Bau-ji as they had known him at various times, and then it was all over. Bau-ji was no more. It was decided that Ma would stay with Mohini and Ravi for a while. Aarti and Kishore left, flying to Delhi and onward to Bangalore.

  There remained a weight upon Mohini’s heart, an indescribable oppression, a need to scream it out to the world. She had not been there for her parents, not realized how sick her father was. More so in the recent months, since Munir came into her life. She thought of Gandhi-ji, who had been dallying with his bride at the hour when his father was dying. He never forgave himself. She was not fit even to touch Gandhi-ji’s toenails, why compare…and Munir was up in Shimla when Bau-ji died, why blame him? After her outburst, she had longed to see him again. Say she was sorry. To be held and told it was all right. All that for herself, and Ma and Bau-ji got neglected. If she had called the doctor right then, when she’d arrived…spent time with him then. She had casually walked away with Ma.

  Was this her punishment, this gnawing guilt, would God have taken away Bau-ji just to get at her? What about Aarti—who knew what she was up to, with her modern outlook and all her travels abroad? She had taken it all in stride, Bau-ji was an old man, after all. Old people fell sick and died.

  “You can’t blame yourself for Bau-ji, Moi,” Ravi said. “You did more than anyone else. And he did live a long and eventful life. His time had come and he’s found his peace.”

  Throughout, his had been the voice of cold reason. But he did care, she thought. He had been kind to her father.

  They were in the living room having tea. Asha was on the floor watching an American sitcom, chuckling away, but she paused to agree with her dad.

  “Yes, Mamma…old people have to die,” she said.

  “Didn’t you love your nana?” Mohini asked her sharply.

  “Of course I did, Mamma. Just saying.”

  “What’s happening to me, I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  A few minutes later Asha got up. As she passed her, Mohini put an arm out and drew her close in a hug, with a sob. “You must forgive your Mamma—for everything. You know I love you very much.”

  After that, she and Ravi sat mutely in the room, the silence between them suffocating. Finally an English wicket went down with an uproar.

  “Who’s playing?” Mohini asked.

  “West Indies against England. It’s an old match,” Ravi said, then asked, “Is…Munir…still in India? Just wondering.”

  “Yes, he’s gone to Shimla to give some lectures.”

  “Ah. He’s seeing more of India now.”

  “Yes, he went to Gujarat before that.”

  “Good for him. There’s more to India than Delhi, he should know that. Delhi is an artificial city. Most people who live in Delhi have come from somewhere else. Listen—”

  He paused and stared at her. She looked back. “Yes?”

  “I received a phone call from a colleague.”

  “And?”

  “You know that time you—he complained about his room being searched at that guest house on Bahadur Shah Zafar Road?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s their job to do these occasional searches. Well, it turns out that this Munir Khan is the grandson of a terrorist. One Yunus Khan of Dariba Kalan. A long time ago, still…”

  Catch your breath, she said to herself, don’t make a fool of yourself again. Count to ten, to a hundred. Why is he telling me this? When she was ready she said, “And that makes Munir Khan a terrorist? That was during British times. Even Netaji Bose was called a terrorist—”

  “I just thought you should know.”

  “Okay. Sorry.”

  Their eyes met.

  “Let’s invite him for dinner. I’ve not had a proper chat with him. When’s he back from Shimla?”

  “Sunday.”

  He could have asked her how she knew. Instead he got up and went to the bathroom.

  “Would you like the kulfi?” he called out later.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  She picked up her phone and looked at the message which had arrived a short while ago. Upon seeing it she gave an audible gasp.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  She was staring at the selfie she and Munir had taken at Safdarjung Tomb. At her insistence.

  When the kulfi came, she choked on the first bite. With difficulty she forced herself to finish it. Her husband just stared at her.

  Munir

  ASHA OPENED THE DOOR for him with, “Come in, Uncle,” and gave him a shy smile. “Thank you,” he said. “It’s Asha, isn’t it? I’ve heard so much about you. Nice things only.” Her eyes lit up and he walked behind her into a little hallway and then what appeared to be the dining area, with a large table set for four. Mohini had come forward and with a smile guided him to the living room inside, where Ravi Singh was waiting. “Welcome, Munir,” he said. He pointed Munir to an armchair and they sat down.

  Mohini stood at the doorway. She was in a blue salwar and white kameez. Ravi was in an elegant beige kurta. Munir had put on a newly acquired short blue kurta over his casual pants.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” Mohini said and left.

  There was an awkward moment of silence, before Ravi stood up and walked to a cabinet in a corner. “What will you drink?” he asked. “I’m having whiskey.” Munir said he’d have the same, with a little water.

  Ravi poured whiskey for Munir and himself, and vodka for Mohini, who had just come in with some water and ice.

  She’d remembered he took water with his Scotch.

  “So what’s happening in Canada, Munir?” Ravi asked, in a dry, drawling voice. “You live in a very stable country. You are lucky. Over here we’re constantly at each other’s throats.”

  Munir laughed politely and agreed that Canada was indeed one of the calmer places on the globe currently.

  Ravi smiled.

  “India is different. India changes day to day, minute to minute—it’s hard to keep up. It’s a complex country, mind you, but…”

  And so it went. Mohini got up—“I’ll give Asha her dinner first”—and Ravi regaled Munir with GDPs and budgets, poverty statistics, and life expectancies. Very clearly, he cared about his country, and was concerned that China was developing much faster. Munir asked him what kept India behind. At this point Mohini came in to say that dinner was ready.

  “My mother is staying with us for a few days, but she’s a bit shy to come out. And it’s too soon after…”

  Munir said he understood.

  For dinner they had pakodas, palak paneer, bhindi, and karhi, with chapatti and a fragrant pullao. She had asked him if he would like Italian or Chinese and he had said he would prefer traditional Indian. There was an affecting intimacy in eating what she had made with her own hands. Her hands. “Munir was born in Nairobi,” Mohini said, to keep the conversation going, and Munir gave his resumé. Ravi himself came from Jaipur; his father was a schoolteacher. He had joined the army and later moved to the home ministry as an information officer.

  “There should be a meat dish, dear,” Ravi said to Mohini in mild reprimand. “You could have ordered lamb biryani. You know that our guest is non-veg.”

  “I’m not addicted to meat,” Munir said, with perhaps too much emphasis. “
I do like vegetarian, especially when it’s this good.”

  There was a pause. A tinkle of cutlery on plates. Ravi said, “That’s not right. If you’re non-veg, you should remain consistent.” Realizing the oddness of the comment coming from a host, he laughed and said, “But of course you are free to eat what you want to eat!”

  They all laughed.

  “Munir especially likes palak paneer,” Mohini said.

  She shouldn’t have. First the water for his Scotch and now this. He exchanged a sweeping glance with Mohini. The discussion about meat was absurd, for she had told him that Ravi and Asha both ate chicken. And she ate meat occasionally, as he knew, and surely Ravi the information-meister knew that too. They spoke freely and fluently, yet there was an oppressive formality to the proceedings that would not go away, a lurking fear that something wrong might be said.

  They returned to the living room. Ravi poured them more whiskey, saying, “Some Indian whiskeys nowadays are better than Scotch.” Mohini declined a drink, hovering close to the doorway. Indian women have three jobs, she had said.

  “Your family didn’t migrate to Pakistan?” asked Ravi, sitting down.

  “My grandparents didn’t, obviously. I believe my dada’s siblings might have gone there—there was a brother and a sister. We didn’t keep in touch—at least not my generation. I don’t know where they are or what happened to them.”

  Mohini breezed in, followed by her assistant gingerly carrying a clattering tray of dessert. “Gulab jamun,” she said. “I hope you like them. I didn’t make them, but there’s a very good halwai in the area.” She sat down, looking very tense. He wanted to reassure her that everything was fine. Asha came in and sat on the carpet before the TV, which she turned on, keeping the volume low. For a few minutes Munir played the avuncular guest, asking her about herself. She said she liked school. Her favourite subject was business, but not science, and her marks had improved because she had tutoring. She liked dance. She wanted to go to college in Delhi, close to Mum and Dad. Turning a shy, apologetic look on him, she went back to the TV. Her program had started.

  The gulab jamun were excellent, Munir said. Yes, he would like some coffee, but afterwards. They were still on the whiskey. It went well with the dessert, he thought. He felt closely observed.

  The program on TV was called The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, and they all got a couple of minutes of relieving laughter from it. Munir said his daughter Razia used to watch it. Yes, he had only the one child. And yes, his wife Aileen had died in a car accident not too long ago.

  “She was a banker…must have left you a good inheritance,” Ravi said.

  “I have enough money of my own. Most of Aileen’s bequest went to our daughter in trust. I own half the house and don’t have to pay rent as long as I live. That helps.”

  He smiled his embarrassment at them.

  “We don’t speak about money,” Mohini admonished her husband.

  “Just curious. I know that writing books is not especially lucrative. Unless you write books like Harry Potter…”

  “No, for most writers it’s not lucrative,” Munir agreed. “I stopped writing a long time ago, but I am quite comfortable. I inherited from my family, you see. I understand you are in the security services?”

  Mohini opened her mouth and almost dropped her dessert.

  “Let’s say that’s another subject we don’t speak about,” Ravi said with a stiff smile.

  “Of course.”

  But, Ravi said, he was close to retirement and did yoga and meditation. He read the Gita every morning, and sometimes the Upanishads. He had a guru in Rishikesh, whom he visited occasionally. He explained to Munir where Rishikesh was.

  Ravi now served Indian brandy. Mohini said goodnight and went to bed. Ravi and Munir sat together and watched the news. They discussed cricket and the great days of the West Indian sides. Munir, of course, had not kept up with recent developments. Finally Ravi walked Munir to the taxi stand and saw him off. The look in his eyes as he closed the car door behind Munir was icy.

  * * *

  —

  There had been no laughter or mirth during that visit except for that distracting minute or two of the sitcom. It had been a sizing-up operation. Munir felt unsettled by the experience, he felt violated; but he would not now have to look at Ravi curiously across a distance. He could wave at him in a pretended friendship. But he had also felt like an intruder in that home. A home with a man and wife and a child. But was it that simple? Having alighted from the taxi he had come to sit on the lawn, in a penumbral shadow, to wear out the effects of the whiskey and the unnecessary brandy in the cool, fresh air. Occasionally a taxi would arrive and drop someone off on the driveway; otherwise there was no one about save for the watchman and himself.

  How would this end? It was too complicated. Perhaps he should simply go away, leave Delhi and never come back. And yet already he longed for her.

  Just then five white ghosts emerged from behind him on the right, and while passing, one of them threw a sharp sideways look at him. He was only a boy. At the head was Jetha Lal himself, and there was a determined, purposeful manner in the way they all marched, leaning forward towards something. They reached the driveway and called for a taxi. Soon a few small groups followed, and Munir recalled seeing a poster in the notices cabinet at the entrance about a lecture in the second auditorium, behind the bar. It was titled “Hindu Ritual, Hindu Nationalism.”

  Mohini

  HE LOOKED UP WITH a pleased smile as she arrived. “Where were you? I sent a message…”

  “I know. You shouldn’t have.”

  It had been a cryptic one, and the caller identity said, Jayanti. But a message saying simply, I am here was a dead giveaway.

  “I couldn’t resist. Today is—”

  “Our anniversary! And I’ve made it, haven’t I? Exactly here, at this table, where we first met, and you said—”

  He chuckled. “I said you reminded me of the actresses of the old Hindi cinema, and you deliberately misunderstood me—and gave me a chiding.”

  “I did.”

  “I arrived early, and stood a round of red wine for the couple that was already seated here. Then I requested them to move. You couldn’t come earlier?”

  The couple, now two tables away, were smiling benignly at them. If they only knew.

  She shook her head. “Duties. Just shopping and traffic took up half the day.” And then there was the meeting in the afternoon with Asha and her tutor. Finally, finally, Asha seemed to be getting the hang of physics and calculus. A miracle.

  It was three days since he had come to dinner. Three anxious days, and it was a relief to see him, hear his voice, that accent that was formed in many places, as he once described it to her; she could see that he was twitching to reach out and touch her.

  “You were good at the dinner,” she said. “You made a good impression.”

  “I’m glad. But that discussion about veg and non-veg was rather awkward. I felt I was being told that I was different, would always be different—and should stay different. Why can’t one just be?”

  She laughed, and a few faces quickly turned to observe them.

  “Don’t worry. You impressed him.”

  “I wonder. You were tense yourself.”

  “A little.”

  “A lot. And that boo-boo I made—him being in the security service?”

  “Yes. It didn’t matter. Just one boo-boo.”

  All it takes is one. And she was aware of her own gaffes, of which he didn’t remind her.

  Just then, a vague acquaintance came by to greet her and gave Munir a quick appraisal. A waiter stopped at their table and they ordered paneer tikka and fish cutlets. A bottle of Sula white. They touched glasses.

  “Tell me about that place…Shirdi?” he said.

  She was startled.

  �
�Why do you ask?”

  “Curious. After you went there I kept noticing images of Sai Baba everywhere. In taxis and autos. In shops. How was the experience? Did it transform you?”

  What to say? How to explain? She hadn’t yet come to terms with the experience, didn’t want to recall it now.

  “These places have an aura, a power. They do something to you. Ravi came. And Aarti and her family…”

  “I’m jealous.”

  “You should be,” she said, for no reason, then added, “But you were there with me. I thought about you. I wish you could have come.”

  A lot had happened since that first time they met. They had felt freer then. She had been chirpy, and he, shy but mischievous. There was the joy and charm of discovery and parrying. Now there was the ecstasy and the pain of passion and love. Fear. Helplessness. Guilt.

  A small crowd of people walked in, and the room was filled with excited chatter.

  He said, “I quite enjoy the atmosphere in this bar. It’s so Indian and yet not completely.”

  She nodded. “A lot of these people have lived abroad. Or have someone from their family living there. There was a play on tonight,” she said. “Tughlaq, by Girish Karnad.”

  “I saw the notice.”

  “It may be on tomorrow. Go and see it. You might get ideas. I read it in college, it was quite the rage.”

  He had been casually looking around the room; now he turned and asked softly, “Will you come up? Even a moment?”

  “Don’t be silly!” she replied, in equal measures softly and sharply. “It’s late. I have to go now. But tomorrow afternoon…” She put a hand on his arm, quick and risky, and he looked startled, then smiled at her. Before he could grab her hand, she pulled it back. But lingered long enough to leave a caress.

  “Tomorrow,” she said.

  She sensed his eyes upon her as she left.

  She couldn’t help herself. She knew she had to come, despite the late hour. He would be waiting for her. It was their anniversary. It mattered. She couldn’t have gone up to his room now, but tomorrow—she had promised. She wanted to be covered by his tight embrace, enveloped completely in his arms, feel the kisses on her face her eyes her mouth. Sometimes she thought she could recall every moment of their lovemaking, every expression on their faces, the tender words.