Across the Line

by Nayanika Mahtani

  ‘Have you both taken the day off?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ve got some news for you, Jai. Come and sit here, please,’ said Rajan.

  Jai’s heart sank. He hated things being sprung on him. Such as acrobatic mice leaping out at him in kitchens. Or bullies pouncing on him in school hallways. Or his parents flinging this ‘we’ve got news’ thing at him in living rooms.

  What were they going to say? An alarming array of lurid possibilities raced wildly through his mind. Please don’t let this be the announcement of a baby brother or sister. With his luck, it would turn out to be a complete nuisance. Or then, were his parents getting a divorce? Was it about that fight he had overheard after that party they had attended last week? His mother had seemed very upset that his father had complimented Mrs Arora on her sari and not noticed that she, his wife, had had a haircut. Not a trim—a proper haircut—from shoulder-length to a bob. At which, his father had gone on about how a man had no peace—no peace at all—and was constantly terrified of saying anything—anything at all. And then his mother had said that if he wanted ‘peace’ so much, he was most welcome to leave and go in search of it. Was this what they wanted to discuss with him?

  Jai’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of his mother talking.

  ‘ . . . and so, both Papa and I thought that it would be a good idea if I went for two months . . . ’

  Oh God. They are getting a divorce, thought Jai. He could feel a knot forming in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘I know it’ll be hard for you, Jai. But Papa and Badi Ma will be here with you,’ continued Arathi.

  ‘And besides, you can go and visit Ma whenever you like,’ Rajan added.

  Jai looked at his parents. ‘Do you have to get a divorce?’ he asked, his voice faltering.

  His parents looked at each other in bewilderment.

  ‘Who said anything about a divorce?’ exclaimed Arathi. ‘Is there something I don’t know, Rajan?’ She clenched her jaw and her voice dropped to a menacing rumble. ‘Have you been having an affair with that wretched Anjali Arora whom you can’t stop paying compliments to?’

  Rajan looked entirely baffled. ‘Wha—where is all this even coming from? What divorce are you talking about, Jai?’

  Both of them looked at Jai, trying to recall if they had ever dropped him on his head when he was a baby.

  ‘Er . . . why is Ma going away?’ Jai asked finally.

  ‘It’s for that software assignment that I’ve just been telling you about. It’s only for two months, but it’ll be a huge promotion for me at work,’ said Arathi.

  ‘Oh, okay. Where will you be going?’ asked Jai.

  ‘To London. Haven’t you been listening to a word of anything I said?’ replied his mother, rather exasperated. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, since you have your summer holidays soon, Badi Ma, Papa and you can all come over for a short break—unless Papa prefers to stay behind and lavish compliments on Anjali Arora’s wardrobe, of course.’

  Rajan shook his head and smiled. ‘I’m never going to hear the end of that, am I?’

  ‘Not until you remember to notice my haircuts too.’

  ‘So, er, coming back to the topic,’ said Jai, ‘when do you have to leave, Ma?’

  ‘Well, they’re working on my travel documents—so as soon as I have the papers. Oh, I’ll miss you so much Jai, but we’ll email each other every day until you visit, okay?’

  Jai nodded happily. What he was thinking of was the restaurants that he wanted to visit in London. He had made a list when he was ten from an issue of the BBC Good Food magazine that his mother had brought back after one of her work trips abroad. This list had been stuck into a special scrapbook that Jai kept updating over the years. It was all part of his preparation and research for when he would open his own café one day. ‘Wraps and Rolls’, it would be called. He really wanted to visit Nabeel’s Kitchen in London. The magazine had carried a special feature on ‘hidden gems’—cafés to watch out for—and Nabeel’s Kitchen was in that list. Jai had memorized almost every word the food critic had said about how expertly Nabeel Said added a contemporary twist to traditional dishes. Jai desperately wanted to try her version of haleem rolls. Just thinking about it made him smile.

  ‘You seem so happy about the news, Jai—just like your father,’ huffed Arathi. ‘The least I had hoped was for someone to be a little sad that I’m going away for two whole months.’

  Just then, Toshi entered the room and heard the last snatches of what Arathi had said.

  ‘Going away for two months? Oh, don’t say that, beta,’ she said to Arathi. ‘Are you leaving Rajan because of that fight over the foolish compliments he was paying to that silly Anjali Arora?’

  ‘Come and sit down, Ma,’ said Arathi, sighing. ‘It’s got nothing to do with that. It’s this software assignment that I’ve been offered in London.’

  ‘Arre wah, beta,’ said Toshi. ‘You must go—and don’t worry about a thing—we’re here to hold the fort. I’ll keep an eye for you on my foolish son too.’

  Arathi smiled and hugged her mother-in-law.

  ‘Rajan and I are also planning to bring you and Jai there during his summer holidays, if you like, Ma. They’re putting me up in a serviced apartment, and apparently, it is quite close to your favourite cricket stadium.’

  ‘Hmm. Waise, I don’t really care about London, but I’ve always wanted to visit Lord’s,’ said Toshi. ‘To see that balcony where Kapil Dev stood, holding the World Cup trophy in 1983.’

  ‘Gah! That was in the last millennium,’ said Jai.

  ‘Oh, but it was so special,’ chorused his parents and grandmother.

  ‘That Voice’

  Rawalpindi, Pakistan

  Inaya hadn’t stopped talking about Nabeel Said to her grandparents or to Zain and Saba. Of course, she had to ensure that she didn’t inadvertently mention Nabeel Said to her father. She had decided that it wasn’t worth telling him yet—and besides, she might never need to tell him at all, because in all likelihood, she wouldn’t get selected for the league tournaments anyway.

  All the same, Inaya continued to sneak off to tape-ball practice before school. She had told her grandparents about it, but Irfan had been given to believe that she was going to school for extra lessons—and he was delighted with the interest she was showing in her studies.

  This morning as always, she nipped into the kitchen at the crack of dawn to get herself something to eat before she left. As she reached for the light switch, her heart skipped a beat; she sensed the presence of someone else in the kitchen. It couldn’t be anyone from her family. Inaya knew the clockwork-like routines of every single person in the house. Her grandparents came downstairs at six and her father came half an hour after that to get the newspaper.

  She slowly inched back towards the telephone in the hall to dial the police emergency number. Then she heard a cough that sounded familiar. Gathering her courage, Inaya peeped into the kitchen again.

  Silhouetted in the dim glow of the streetlight was her grandfather, seated at the kitchen table. He seemed to be writing something. She switched on the light. Her grandfather looked up, but there wasn’t even the faintest flicker of recognition in his eyes.

  ‘Daada?’ said Inaya, approaching him tentatively.

  He took no notice of her and went back to scribbling away on a piece of paper. Inaya felt utterly spooked by Daada’s strange behaviour. Saba had been telling her about this book she was reading in which a young boy gets possessed by an evil djinn. Had Daada been possessed by a djinn? Why wasn’t he speaking?

  Inaya heard soft footsteps behind her and heaved a huge sigh of relief upon seeing her grandmother walk in.

  ‘Daadi, something’s wrong with Daada! He’s behaving really odd.’

  Humaira didn’t seem too perturbed. ‘It’s okay, Inaya. He sleepwalks sometimes,’ she said soothingly. ‘And he draws in his sleep too, occasionally.’

  ‘What?’ said Inaya, aghast that she had no idea about this. ‘Daa
da sleepwalks? And sleep-sketches as well?’

  Her grandmother nodded. ‘It’s nothing to be worried about, my kishmish,’ she said. ‘When he wakes up, he’ll take his medication—and he’ll be just fine. Last night, he fell asleep watching the news and forgot to take his pill. You carry on for practice—he’s fine.’

  Inaya didn’t think Daada looked fine, but one look at the clock told her that she needed to quickly eat and head out.

  ‘I’ll spend some time with Daada when I’m back from school,’ she promised, popping two slices of bread into the toaster.

  ‘Don’t mention anything to him about this morning, Inaya—he feels embarrassed about it.’

  ‘But why should he be embarrassed, Daadi? It’s not his fault that he sleepwalks. It’s just a condition . . . like being seasick or something.’

  ‘We’ll talk some more when you’re back. Go now, my kishmish, before your father wakes up.’

  Later that evening, Inaya sat curled in the armchair beside her grandfather, as he watched the news on the television. ‘Watched’ was perhaps the wrong word, as he nodded off every so often, his head drooping to one side. Inaya looked at him, wondering whether he would start sleepwalking again. She hoped not. It was unsettling enough having to deal with it this morning. And even though Daadi had said it was all fine, she had used ‘that voice’. The voice that she used when she spoke about things that disturbed her, but she didn’t want to admit they did. Such as the fact that Inaya’s mother, Benaifer, was not Muslim but Parsi.

  Inaya’s parents had met while attending the same college in New York. Inaya knew that Daadi had never really been happy about her parents’ marriage, although she always said that she was absolutely fine with it, using ‘that voice’. So, Inaya knew everything was not fine with Daada’s sleepwalking either.

  Much as Inaya wanted to, she didn’t broach the subject with Daada, as Daadi had specifically asked her not to. Besides, he seemed to be going about his work as usual—visiting art galleries where his pieces were being exhibited and giving lectures at colleges for the arts.

  Inaya might have pressed further but she was preoccupied as well. It had been a whole week since Selection Day and there had still been no news. Inaya had reconciled herself to the fact that she wasn’t going to be selected. Some of the other girls had been practising for far longer than she had. Still, the effort had been worth it, even if only to meet Nabeel Said.

  ‘Bunch of buffoons!’ boomed her grandfather’s voice, out of the blue.

  Inaya turned to see that Daada had woken up from his power nap and was now deeply engrossed with the latest political bulletins, adding his expletive-laden commentary to the general chaos on the television screen.

  Moments later, Mudassar came in with the tea trolley. Humaira liked to have her tea poured out of her silver teapot through her silver strainer into her little porcelain teacup with a spot of milk from her silver creamer. On the other hand, her husband preferred to have his tea ready-mixed, which he slurped rather noisily from a large terracotta kullar, to Humaira’s supercilious disdain. The trolley accordingly reflected this disparity, as if half of it had been set for some visiting royalty and the other half had been assembled in a railway station’s tea stall. Also, on the trolley were a cup of hot chocolate for Inaya and a plate of steaming hot samosas for the entire family.

  ‘Ah, thank you, Mudassar,’ said Habib, sitting up and reaching for his modest cup. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, picking up a letter that was lying on the tray.

  ‘It came in the evening post, huzoor,’ said Mudassar.

  ‘It’s addressed to you, Inaya,’ said Habib, handing her the letter.

  Inaya glanced at the envelope. It was from the Tapeball4All League. She could hardly get herself to open the letter, let alone read what it said. She thrust it towards her grandfather.

  ‘You open it and tell me what it says, Daada, please.’

  ‘I don’t open young ladies’ mail,’ teased her grandfather. ‘God alone knows which admirer of yours has written this—penned in blood, perhaps?’

  ‘Oh please, Daada. I really have to know.’

  Habib sighed and put down his cup of tea. He picked up the letter and using his letter opener, neatly slit open the envelope. He peered at the letter, reading it carefully. He then looked enigmatically at Inaya.

  ‘It’s from the organizers of the Tapeball4All League, Inaya. They say that you were very good, but they regret to tell you . . . ’

  Inaya’s face fell, all her hopes collapsing like a house of cards.

  ‘ . . . that you have been selected for the tournament,’ continued Habib in the same morose vein, although a twinkle crept into his eyes.

  It took a few seconds for Inaya to register what her grandfather had said. She stared at him in disbelief and then dashed over to take a look at the letter herself. She read it and then re-read it to make completely sure that there had been no mistake. With a whoop of joy, she hugged her grandfather and almost upset the tea trolley in her excitement.

  ‘Oho! What’s the commotion about?’ said Humaira, emerging from the prayer room. One look at Inaya waving the letter in her face told her all that she needed to know. She whooped as well, causing Mudassar to hurry back into the room, to check if anyone needed first aid.

  The sound of a car rolling up the driveway was like a pinprick to everyone’s ballooning enthusiasm. Inaya’s father was home.

  ‘Don’t you worry, Inaya,’ said her grandmother. ‘Don’t say anything to Irfan tonight. Let me handle it,’ she said with the worldly air of a woman who had handled much more than she let on to.

  ‘Thanks, Daadi,’ said Inaya, grateful that she was not to be the one to break the news to her father.

  ‘I’ll go and tell Saba—and Zain,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, tell Zain first,’ said Humaira. ‘The poor boy has come by thrice already asking whether you’ve heard back.’

  ‘That’s only because he’s so competitive, Daadi. It’s not because he’s happy for me or anything.’

  ‘That’s not true, Inaya. He has been such a good friend to you ever since you both could barely hold a cricket bat. Of course, he’d be happy for . . . ’

  ‘Who’d be happy? And what about?’ asked Irfan walking into the room just as Inaya was preparing to slink out. ‘Were you leaving, Inaya? Come and sit with us all. How have your extra classes been going?’

  Irfan sat down and looked pointedly at the empty seat next to him. Inaya groaned inwardly as she came over and sat down.

  ‘They’re going fine, Abba.’

  ‘Good, good. So, whose happiness were we talking about?’ repeated Irfan.

  He looked around expectantly for an answer. There was a pregnant pause—until Humaira, as usual, took charge, laying the foundation of her little plan.

  ‘We were just saying that my sister, Adeela, would be so happy if we visited her this summer in London. Habib could also finally exhibit his art there—the Aicon Gallery has been keen to have him for ages. Should we all plan to go?’

  Irfan turned to his father.

  ‘But you’ve never been keen on having shows in London, Abba?’

  Habib slurped his tea, buying time to come up with a suitable response. He wished, as he had done a million times before, that Humaira would give him a heads-up before launching him willy-nilly into such situations.

  ‘Well, you’re right about that. But they’ve been awfully persistent, so I said, why not? And of course, the only reason I would tolerate staying with Humaira’s wonderfully annoying sister is if we get to watch some cricket. I think Pakistan will be playing a few matches in England soon.’

  Humaira harrumphed.

  ‘There he goes again—always finding fault with my poor sister. And what about your family, huh, Habib? Each more annoying than the other, if you ask me,’ she said, airily.

  ‘Well, if you both are keen, I can start making the bookings,’ said Irfan.

  ‘Arree, what will two old pensioners do on our
own there, Irfan? Habib will drive me up the wall and round the bend with his imaginary aches and pains,’ said Humaira.

  Habib at this point looked genuinely pained at the allegation. ‘Those aches are not imaginary, if I may say so,’ he said. ‘My little toe does throb rather painfully after a bath.’

  Humaira raised an eyebrow in an I-rest-my-case expression. ‘We need you youngsters around, Irfan. Inaya and you must come along as well. Inaya’s holidays will be starting shortly, and you haven’t taken a break for God alone knows how long. One would think that the entire world rested on your shoulders.’

  Irfan smiled but shook his head.

  ‘It’s going to be very difficult for me to ask for leave, Ammi. We’re undergoing a restructuring, and my job is . . . well, it’s not on solid ground. But I’ll make the bookings for you.’

  Inaya was watching this entire scenario playing out with bated breath—latching on to every syllable, as if her life depended on it.

  ‘Do you think you can get away, Inaya?’ asked Irfan. ‘Don’t you have your board exams coming up?’

  ‘Tsk, her board exams are at least a year away, Irfan,’ said Humaira.

  ‘I think I can take some time off, Abba,’ said Inaya, trying her best to sound nonchalant. ‘I’m up to date with all my schoolwork.’

  ‘Yes, and she has also been doing all these extra classes in the mornings,’ interjected Habib with a straight face.

  ‘Hmm. Okay. In that case, if everyone is keen, I’ll start making the arrangements,’ said Irfan. ‘This should be interesting. Especially if we do well in cricket, right?’

  Irfan looked at his father for validation. But someone behind him was nodding her head vigorously.

  ‘Yes, yes! Especially if we do well in cricket!’ thought Inaya, almost jumping with joy.

  She blew a big kiss to Humaira behind her father’s back and mouthed, ‘You’re the best. Thank you, Daadi.’

  Humaira winked, beaming from ear to ear.