by M G Vassanji
This is reckless, Mohini. Don’t let the world hear you. She entered the car.
You must give up something dear to you…
She choked, overcome by a sudden sick feeling; her insides ready to collapse. Goosebumps crawled over her body and she shivered. Why had he reminded her of Shirdi? A moan escaped from her heart and she started to cry.
“Is everything all right, Madam?” the driver asked, his eyes upon her from the rear-view mirror.
“Yes, everything is fine.” She sat up and wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “I was just reminded of my bau-ji. Thank you for staying late for me today, Bahadur.”
“Welcome, Madam.”
She still suspected he was a spy.
* * *
—
Earlier that afternoon, she had walked into the house to see Asha and her tutor Amit sitting at the table, bent over a textbook. They turned around simultaneously. A beam on Amit’s face, a delighted, triumphant look on Asha’s.
“What’s up, guys?” Mohini asked.
“A miracle, Madam,” Amit stood up. “Truly a wonder! She received eighty-six per cent in physics!”
“Really? Asha?”
“Yes, Mamma.”
“She’s cracked the secret, Madam. And not everyone can do it, I tell you. It’s not just knowing the formulas, but how to pose the problem mathematically and solve it. And she’s found out. Madam, congratulations!”
“Oh…” Mohini gave Amit a hug and he was taken aback. Then she gave Asha a hug.
“You don’t think this is a fluke? You didn’t cheat, Asha? This is not a one-off?”
“No, Mrs. Singh, no on all counts. I guarantee it.”
“Mamma, this is the second quiz.”
“Yes, Mrs. Singh, I forgot. We kept the first one a secret, because I wanted to be sure this was no accident!”
“And the first one?” Mohini asked.
“Eighty-three per cent.”
“And the one before?”
“Sixty-two. But I can see for myself, Mrs. Singh. I set her a problem and she does it seventy-five per cent of the time. We still have to do more practices…”
The boy couldn’t contain himself. She ordered a pizza for them.
* * *
—
She reached home, gave Bahadur a large tip, and went inside. She went into the living room, saw Ravi, and said, “You are here,” by way of greeting. She sat down, absorbed in herself. His eye was upon her, but he let her be. She felt hot and cold, pulled her shawl tight around herself, squeezing her heart which was about to burst. Ravi went to bed, she told him she would sit alone for a while.
Asha’s turnaround was the miracle, she was convinced of it. Two test results, but she could see it in her daughter’s sparkling eyes, the belief there that she’d not seen in a long time. What will you give in return? the guru had asked. Something dear to you. Was it pure accident that Munir himself had reminded her of Shirdi?
Did she even believe in miracles? A few months ago she would have said no. She was modern. She believed in spirituality, but not in cheap miracles, quid pro quo with the gods. That was Ma, and her one big prayer was never answered. She herself went to temples because of their calming atmosphere, and because of her respect for tradition. You placated the priests and you placated the gods, whatever they were. And ultimately we ourselves are God. Tat tvam asi. That’s spirituality. What’s inside you. Your conscience. Your heart.
But she had promised, and you did not fool around with God.
She had not promised to God. Only to a holy man. To be chaste and pure. And she believed sincerely that her love was pure. She wasn’t promiscuous. She was modest and generous, she had been attentive to her parents. She had not lied to Ravi…just kept things from him. Between them was the arrangement of marriage; respect and care, duty. Affection too, at times. But nothing like what she felt for Munir, and he for her. She and Munir were meant to be, and they had found each other.
He was what was dear to her.
Ask of me anything else, Baba, and I will give it to you. Not this.
She was woken up by the birds tweeting outside, her cheeks all wet.
Ravi did not ask her why she had not come to bed, and the four of them had their breakfast together. A chirpy Asha then left for school, giving her mother and father each a kiss, and Ma a tight hug. Ravi left with, “Achha, see you later.” Mohini and Ma finished their tea in silence.
Munir
THE NEXT DAY SHE DIDN’T CALL. Nor the day after. There came no reply to his two messages. The tomorrow she had promised had yet to dawn. He went out for walks, browsed in the bookshops at Khan Market, bought a few apples, had a haircut. He read. He reflected.
On the second evening, after a light supper at the lounge, he walked into the library, which was almost empty. He walked to his carrel, opened his laptop, and stared at a blank page for some time. Then, fatefully, feeling—so he thought—like a child taking its first step, he wrote:
A NARRATIVE OF THE LAST DAYS OF DELHI
One terrible day bled into another following the death of our Sultan Alauddin by poison, and the three princes’ gory murders in Gwalior Fort. There was no end in sight to the naib’s evil machinations; now a Hindu was installed Sultan of Delhi and the descendants of maharajas strutted about its streets, energized by their polished new idols and charms. The future of Hindustan lay exposed and our own lives hung in the balance from day to day.
Such dark thoughts had returned to play upon my mind as I walked home one evening from a visit to my master Nizamuddin…
She called at nine p.m., just before the library closed, and he walked out and answered. She apologized for having been inaccessible. Had Ravi not returned yet? he asked, meaning, was it all right for her to talk?
“He’s engrossed in a news program.”
He told her what he had been up to, the last two days. The reminder of her broken promise was implicit.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” she asked.
“I’ll go to the old city. Do my usual haunts. Look for inspiration. Will you come?”
“Do you want me to?”
“You know I’d like nothing better.”
There was a pause. Then softly: “I think he knows. Definitely knows. The dinner was a bad idea…but it was his idea…” Another pause, then a quick, “Tomorrow. At eleven.”
At a quarter to that hour the next morning she phoned that he should wait for her outside the gate, she was on her way. He went down and waited, and soon enough an auto came coughing to a free crawl beside him; she peeped out and he stepped in. Quickly she made way for him, and he could tell immediately that her mood was not right.
“He knows,” she said crisply.
“I’m sorry?”
“I’m telling you, he knows.”
“We’ll just be more careful. No smile today?”
“Yes. And keep your distance, please, the man is watching us.”
She meant the driver, who did not even have a rear-view mirror. Her tone surprised him too, as though she were warning off some uncouth male ready to make an advance. Had she come to quarrel with him? Break up? She had promised him a tomorrow that never came. Now this.
They got off at Ajmeri Gate and agreed to take a cycle rickshaw to the eighty-four-bell temple. At the doorway she hit the bell with vigour and almost pushed him back as she entered. There was a priest this time at the shrine. She covered her head, bowed, and quickly did her puja before the gods. She did not wait for him to join her, and feeling hurt he stood behind. They came out back into Sitaram Bazar and walked silently for a while, stopping at a stationers’, where she bought a box of greeting cards. They walked on towards the great mosque. On the way they passed Karim’s restaurant, which she had introduced to him on their first visit here.
“We can return here for
kebabs later,” he offered.
“I’m vegetarian now.”
Two days ago she had had fish. What had happened in the meantime?
“We’ll both eat vegetarian, then.”
“No, you must have the kebabs here. I insist. I’ll grab a palak or something.”
He didn’t answer and they walked on. On the way she grumbled at the crowds, the rickshaws, the dirt, and finally the number of steps to go up to the mosque. This had turned out to be an awkward outing. Why had she come? “We don’t have to go up,” he said finally.
“No, I’m sorry. You must go. We’ll go.”
They entered the vast courtyard, their shoes in their hands, and stepped onto the red runner. At the fountain, like other visitors, they stood and gazed around at the familiar scene: the four minarets, the immense dome. On the western side, under the dome, the qibla, where a few dozen people were at prayer. To his amazement, she turned to him, tugged sharply at his arm and said, “Don’t you want to go and pray?” He was amused. But she was serious. “You are a Muslim, aren’t you? You should go and pray. Go!”
He was utterly bewildered. Was this Mohini’s double who had come with him today? Irate, offensive, like he hadn’t seen her before. Why was she intent on wounding him? What crime had he committed?
“Why do you hesitate? Aren’t you a Muslim?”
“All right. I’ll go and pray. To make you happy.” He paused, then took off his socks, walked over to the fountain where men were washing their hands and feet, and imitated their gestures. He strode up towards the qibla and halfway there went down on his knees, but didn’t know what to do then. After a minute or so, he got up and returned to her.
“There, I have prayed. I’m a Muslim. Does that satisfy you? Do I fit into your world now?”
Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what’s got into me,” she whispered.
He thought of saying, It’s in the air, but desisted.
They took a rickshaw to the Chandni Chowk station, and as they passed the glittering jewellery market she said, placatingly, “Don’t you want to stop here? It’s your favourite place.”
“Next time,” he replied. “When I’m alone.”
He had planned to buy a pair of bracelets for Razia, but now he simply wished to call an end to this excursion. He would return another day, before he flew back. He hailed a taxi. Outside the Club gate, he got off and paid the driver, telling him to take the Madam home.
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye, thanks for accompanying me.”
* * *
—
Barely conscious of his actions he headed towards the lounge, sat down somewhere at the back and ordered tea. Shock. A ringing in his ears, which had borne their punishment. He could barely hear himself even in his own mind. All around him incomprehensible noise. It took a while for him to breathe easier, in out, several times, then he started silently railing against himself. How stupid and naive he had been. A gullible fool. An idiot. A desperate and lonely widower. A defunct writer. He should have seen that he was a foreigner, and these Indians were aliens. He would never understand them. He had got much out of Delhi, he had attached to it his personal history. He was able to find a home for his grandfather’s memories. He was grateful for that. Now he was ready to scram. To run for his life.
Looking up towards the door, he was surprised to see her come in. So she had not gone home. She had many friends here. He saw her glance towards him but paid no notice. Finishing his tea, saying thanks and goodbye to the person who had shared his table, he got up and hurried to his room.
She had wounded him terribly. He had been assaulted, in his intellect, in his emotions. She had found that weak spot in him and pressed it. How could someone who had been intimate with him, who had loved him, turn against him? For the Hinduism she had discovered in herself? Was her spirituality so exclusive and political? For her new-found purity? Or was it his fault, for falling in love with a married woman, taking advantage of her problems? Sitting on his chair, watching through the window the odd person walking or jogging in the park behind the fence, he fell asleep. He dreamt, of her, but later he wouldn’t remember what.
There was a light knock on the door. Then another.
He went and opened it. She rushed in, closed the door behind her. Looked at him frantically, took both his hands. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…please!”
He held her, feeling her hot body against his, her tears drenching his shirt.
He was still hurting and here she was, crying. This was the body, this the soul he had united with. An immense empathy filled him. He gulped to control his emotions, then very tenderly kissed her eyes.
“How will you explain your tears and your state?”
“I won’t…” Meaningless yet meaningful.
He wiped her tears with his handkerchief. She looked pathetically at him, tried to smile. “I will never let you go, Munir,” she said.
They made passionate, reckless love. A fearless consummation oblivious to the fire outside.
* * *
—
He called up Razia. It was night there but she was happy to hear from him. And he was relieved to hear her familiar voice, her clear North American accent with the mark of New York upon it.
“Are you all right, Dad?”
“Yes, I’m all right.”
“You sound—you know, different…How is she?—should I ask?”
“Fine. Don’t worry. How is Joshua?”
“A bit cranky. You know something, we were debating whether to expose him to Beethoven at this time…or hip-hop! What’s your opinion?”
“Both? Afraid he might make the wrong choice?”
“Not me. My mom-in-law sees a new Rubinstein in him. Just from his fingers.”
He laughed, and he thought he heard a voice in the background.
“Goodnight, Dad.”
“Goodnight, dear.”
Mohini
WHAT HAD HAPPENED TO HER? As soon as he stepped off the taxi with a curt “Thanks for accompanying me,” her heart sank. She watched him as he hurried away from her and through the gate. And she felt as if she had just broken something, something rare and precious. What had she done? Was there no going back?
She told the driver to stop and return her to the Club. When she arrived there, she sat outside on the patio for some minutes to calm herself before walking into the lounge. He was at the far back and avoided her eyes.
Was that it? All the anxiety and risks, the joy and passion, for nothing? Had she thrown it all away? It couldn’t be.
She sat at a table by herself, greeted a few people. Thoughts racing through her mind.
He wasn’t like that, unforgiving. She knew him. She had to go and tell him, I’m sorry, a thousand times, a million times, I’m sorry. Let’s wipe today clean, it never happened. Let’s push it into a black hole…out of our memory…forever. If only he would look her way.
Who should come by and join her post-haste but the smarmy fanatic Jetha Lal, trailed by two of his followers. He gave off a sweaty odour, despite his pressed, shiny white outfit. Two other young men joined the table. Past the initial greeting, when she affirmed, honestly, “Yes, it’s fine, these seats are free,” and the man had sidled up next to her on the wide chair, she wasn’t even listening to what they were discussing, until he attempted to draw her in.
“Mohini-ji, don’t you agree, you have daughters, na?” he said in a low, ingratiating voice.
“Yes,” she said, looking at him, “I have two daughters, but what are you talking about?”
“It is our duty to protect our daughters, don’t you agree?”
She got a little annoyed. “I agree, but from what? What’s the danger?”
“Mohini-ji, Valentine’s Day is coming. And boys and girls will, you kn
ow…but it is not the Hindu way…not our tradition…”
He gave her a toothy grin.
“They have to be told,” said a boy.
“Yes, told,” another one put in and nodded.
“We don’t live in Saudi Arabia, Jetha Lal-ji! You can’t go around checking on couples on the streets! It’s their personal business.”
If he had cared to read her columns, he would know where she stood on the “anti-Romeo” crusades—zealots and even police stopping couples to demand proof of the legitimacy of their relationships. What happened to freedom?
“Madam,” broke in an acolyte earnestly. “But our daughters and sisters need protection—”
“Yes, but from whom? Have you looked at the rape incidences reported daily in our newspapers? Gang rape, child rape, whatnot? So-called holy men raping girls? You should address those problems first.”
They shut up.
* * *
—
She got up abruptly, paid at the counter, and left the lounge, not caring if they were watching her as she walked over to the main building and up to his room. Daughters and sisters…there was no end to madness. There had been the showdown at home last night. And again this morning.
The mood had been bright around the house the past two days, especially Asha’s. Her entire outlook on her future seemed to have altered, and they were already discussing colleges for her. Delhi University was her first choice. Some kind of engineering, all agreed. Chemical or biological, perhaps. Last night, Mohini had brought home tandoori chicken, french fries, and a cake.