by Abha Dawesar
They shared the compote of wild berries that Maya had ordered and took a cab back to his flat, where Prem gave her an extra pajama set.
“I’ve not done this for ten years. We have to give it some time.”
Maya moved close to him in bed and held his hand. His tenderness was so sweet, she could have remained in that state, just a few steps shy of passion, for a long time.
“We can give it as much time as we want,” she whispered. Then she slid her hand inside his pajama top and caressed his chest as he fell asleep.
In the morning they went to the café by the carrefour for breakfast. The handsome waiter gave Maya a smile and paid her a lot of attention. Prem sipped his coffee, amused.
“My family is showing up. I need to organize the flat. They’ll take the so-called office room. Since I’m not working on a new book, it’s not a problem, but I have to clear it up.”
“I can help you. I won’t get to see you much with your family here. I might as well try to get more of you now.”
Prem’s grandson had looked covetously at his flannel pajamas, once remarking they were like velvet. Prem wanted to buy two identical sets, one for himself and one for Ratan. He knew Ratan would get excited when he saw that they were both wearing the same thing. The truth was that even Prem, despite his advanced years, took a secret thrill from the idea. At an expensive men’s shop Maya helped Prem pick out a soft flannel set in a shade of blue that went well with his silver hair. They had the identical set in a boy’s size.
Maya took stock of all the dishes in the kitchen cabinets and made sure there were enough glasses, flatware, plates, soup bowls, and side plates for a family of three to eat. Espresso cups were missing. She bought a set of four from a store on the boulevard St-Germain. They were sleek and colorful. Each cup was painted different on the outside and the inside. The saucers were different colors entirely.
Having family over was like nothing else. Prem was not alone for a single moment after they arrived. Homi and his wife, Deepika, took the guest room, but Ratan insisted that the settee on which he was to sleep be placed in Grandpa’s room.
“I promise you he won’t bother me in the least,” Prem had to reassure Homi a few times before Ratan could have his way.
Deepika ensured that Ratan was ready for bed in his new pajamas and kissed him. “Promise not to disturb Grandpa.”
“I promise.” Ratan obediently kissed his mother, got into his bed, and drew the sheets over. Minutes later, when Grandpa got into his bed, Ratan stealthily made his way to Grandpa’s bed as if he were trying to hid his voyage from Grandpa himself. As soon as he was at the edge of the bed, Prem lifted his quilt to let the boy jump in. It was their secret.
Prem accepted Ratan’s small thin frame in his arms and slid his pillow to share it. His heart filled with immense gratitude for being the recipient of this particular love. At the same time he had the sense of being taken back in time, of being ten years old himself. Invariably, after Ratan fell asleep, Prem lay awake in bed speaking to his dead sister. He heard every breath of their grandson for her sake, remembering the last days before her death, wondering when his own would be upon him. Meher, I want to die like this, with this lovely boy beside me in bed. If it weren’t for the fact that it would traumatize him to find me dead, I can think of no moments happier than the moments with him.
Occasionally Ratan’s size four feet kicked him. In the bedroom, as the rotating beam from the Eiffel Tower illuminated his grandson, Prem looked at Ratan’s eyelids, drawn so long and relaxed they took up half his face. In the morning Ratan woke up at the same time as his grandfather. A light sleeper like Meher and me.
Prem pulled on his pants to go get some croissants from Poilâne, and Ratan, still in his pajamas, held his hand and accompanied him.
“Grandpa, I think I love you more than Daddy loves you.”
“Why do you think that?”
“For Daddy you are his uncle. But for me you are Grandpa.”
“I’m still your grandmother’s brother. It’s just that you’ve always called me Grandpa because none of the other grandparents were around when you were born.”
“But it makes a difference. A grandfather is closer than an uncle.”
The woman at the counter handed Ratan a small, fresh sablé de blé.
“One for the road,” Ratan said, stepping out.
“That’s a good expression.”
“I wish I had your surname. That way when I win the Nobel Prize everyone will know that two people from the same family won it.”
“Marie and Pierre Curie were a husband and wife who won it.”
Over breakfast Prem convinced Homi to take Deepika to Versailles.
“But Ratan can be very demanding, especially in the afternoon when you want to take a nap. I think he should come with us,” Homi said.
“I want to stay with Grandpa.”
“And Grandpa wants him to stay,” Prem said, looking at Homi.
Ratan was less distracted and more talkative in the absence of his parents, as if he understood that he mustn’t tire the old man out. Prem arranged to have lunch with Pascal near his house in the fifth. He would take Ratan to the Panthéon before lunch.
Within minutes Pascal called back to say Irène was depressed. Would Prem mind if she joined them for lunch? “I wanted to ask you first because I know Ratan will be there. She’s looking awful.”
Prem reflected for a moment. He remembered how bad Meher had looked in her last days and the distaste he had sometimes caught on Homi’s ten-year-old face at that time. And yet Homi had been a good boy, had tried to remain cheerful around his mother.
“Yes, it’s okay.”
“Are you sure? I know it’ll make her feel better. She loves kids.”
“Then we must do it.”
“Your grandson is so delightful. I never gave her kids.” Pascal sounded as if he were about to weep. “Remember your job is to make her feel better, mon vieux.”
The cab dropped them on rue Soufflot, and Prem walked with Ratan to the Place du Panthéon. Once they were in the interior, Ratan threw his head up to look at the immense ceilings. In the center Foucault’s pendulum was oscillating. Prem sat Ratan on a metal barrier so that he could watch the small screen playing an English film that explained the mechanics of the pendulum.
“Some of France’s greatest writers and thinkers are buried here. We’re going down to see them,” Prem said.
They took the narrow circular stairs. Prem descended holding on to the railing.
“Most of the people were buried elsewhere when they died, but then the State moved their remains here at different times to honor them.”
“Daddy says you took care of Grandma when she was dying. He says you did more for her than his father did.”
“Your dad’s father was working. I had come from England just to look after Grandma and was free all day. Let me tell you more about some of these people.
“This man here, Rousseau, said, ‘Man is born free, but he is everywhere found in chains.’” How much could Prem explain to a boy of ten?
“‘Born free but found in chains,’” Ratan repeated, puckering his face.
A sign said that Rousseau was a man of nature and of truth.
“Should I win the Nobel Prize like you, or should I become the Prime Minister of India? I don’t think I can do both; it’ll be too much work. Daddy says no one can do both.”
“What does this have to do with Rousseau?”
“I think the Prime Minister of India is not free at all. He has to welcome all the people who want to talk to him and pretend he is interested. But you seem quite free. Even in the middle of the day when you are not on holiday, you can decide to go sightseeing.”
“How do you know I’m not on holiday?”
“Daddy says that just because you don’t go to an office, it doesn’t mean you don’t work very hard. He says that writing books that win prizes takes a lot of time.”
Ratan was excited by the
passageway leading to the deeper crypts, the steps and archways along the way. He wove his way through the columns while Prem sat for a moment on a bench. They walked to the Curies. Some of the neighboring graves in the crypt had their doors open, and wreaths on the tombs, but the Curies’ was closed. Through the trelliswork of the door, they craned their necks to see the severe chamber where Marie Curie was commemorated, and below her Pierre. In comparison to the grand tombs of France’s sons Rousseau and Voltaire, these looked like the tombs of stepchildren.
“If they won the Nobel Prize, what did the others win to have better tombs?”
“Nothing. Voltaire and Rousseau were very important to the history of France and were placed here much earlier than the Curies. They only came in nineteen ninety-five. Let’s see the writers.”
Prem found the chamber with Dumas, Hugo, and Zola after consulting the map.
“I know Victor Hugo wrote Les misérables. I read it in the Bournvita Quiz Book.”
“That’s right. We can go after lunch with Pascal to the house where Victor Hugo used to live. He used to write while standing.”
“Like you?”
“Yes. Like me.”
Outside the Panthéon the sky was a clear perfect blue. The slight chill in the air enhanced the brilliant rays of the sun. The pale yellow stones of the Place du Panthéon seemed like part of a film set. Prem held Ratan’s hand to cross the paved street east of the Panthéon.
“We are going to meet Pascal and Irène for lunch. She’s not feeling very well, so if she doesn’t speak much, don’t get too scared.”
“What happened to her?”
“She’s got cancer.”
“Grandma had cancer too.”
“Irène is sad today. But Pascal and I are going to laugh and tell jokes so that she becomes happy. Pascal said she wants to see you because she loves children.”
“I’ll tell my airplane joke.”
“Good. And you can tell them what we saw. We must try to convince her to come with us to Victor Hugo’s house. She took me there the first time I came to Paris.”
They descended the few steps past the church where Pascal had arranged to meet them. He and Irène were already seated on one of the sunlit terrasses of the Place Larue. As they approached the table, and Irène came into clearer view, Prem felt Ratan’s grip tighten. Prem squeezed his hand before greeting Irène and Pascal with kisses.
“So what did you do today, young man?” Pascal pulled Ratan onto his lap. Prem took the chair beside Irène.
“We saw the Panthéon. We saw all the graves of the famous people.”
“Your French is good. You pronounced Panthéon very well.”
“I know all the famous people.”
“Who are they? Tell us,” Irène interjected.
Ratan looked away with embarrassment.
“Voltaire, Rousseau, Pierre et Marie Curie, André Malraux.”
“Who taught you to speak like a French boy?” Pascal asked.
“This is how the guide was saying the names of the people.”
“Which guide?” Prem asked surprised.
“The lady in the red dress who was talking to the tourists.”
“I thought you were listening to me.”
“I was listening to you and to her at the same time, Grandpa.”
The adults laughed.
“You see this street?” Pascal pointed to the street sign. “It’s named after Descartes. Do you know who he was?”
Ratan shook his head.
“Descartes was a great philosopher. He said, ‘I think, therefore I am.’”
Ratan closed his eyes and repeated, “‘I think, therefore I am.’”
“Do you know what that means?” Pascal asked, waiting for the boy’s response.
Ratan opened his eyes. “I think I like it more than”—he closed his eyes—“‘born free but found in chains.’”
“You learned a lot today. Very good. Now I have to put you back on your chair.” Pascal moved Ratan to another chair.
Ratan looked at his grandfather and lifted his little finger.
“Do you want me to come with you?” Prem asked.
Ratan shook his head.
“Mon petit, the toilet is in the back there,” Pascal said, pointing to the interior of the bar to the right of the counter.
Ratan went off. Pascal pulled out a piece of paper and wrote on it. Prem looked at Irène, who seemed rather contemplative. He thought it best not to interrupt her. I hope Homi and Deepika don’t mind that I brought Ratan along to see Irène and told him she had cancer.
Ratan was back. Pascal handed him the paper on which he had written. “I wrote what Descartes said for you in both French and English.”
“Thank you, Pascal Uncle. But I think he’s wrong. In the toilet I just thought I was big like you and Grandpa, but I’m still small. So this Descartes is wrong.”
“No, he means the fact that we think is proof that we exist. That’s how we know we’re not just in someone’s dream but are real. Do you dream?”
Ratan nodded.
“Do you remember your dreams?” Irène asked suddenly.
“Yes.” Ratan looked down at the table instead of at her.
Irène was wearing a tight red Gilda’s Club–type turban to hide her baldness. Her thin face had lost the little bit of flesh it had once had. Her skin was pale. Her lips were dry, and the medicines had turned the corners of her mouth white.
“What did you dream last night?” Prem asked.
“I dreamed that you and I were flying in a plane,” Ratan said, looking up at Prem.
“You didn’t tell me this in the morning,” Prem remarked in a neutral voice.
Pascal looked at Prem. The child had their total attention and not just because he was cute. None of them had any insight into his world.
“Don’t you think dreams are interesting?” Pascal said. “You feel as if it’s all happening and you are sure, but when you wake up you know it’s a dream.”
“But that’s because your mind plays tricks on you. It’s like an”—Ratan closed his eyes at this stage and then emitted the phrase—“optical illusion.”
“Yes, just like a mirage,” Irène said, smiling. Prem noticed for the first time that even her voice had aged and fallen ill. The voice corresponded to what she looked like now and not to what she had looked like earlier.
“What is a mirage?” In his eagerness to know, Ratan looked at Irène.
“Do you notice that when it gets very hot in Delhi in the summer, and you are in the car, you can see water on the road?”
“Yes. How do you know?”
“Pascal forced me to go Delhi in the middle of June one year to visit Prem. That effect of the water, that’s a mirage.” Irène spoke slowly. She told Ratan about the people of the desert looking for water and imagining that there were oases everywhere. She told him stories as Prem and Pascal ate their lunchtime steaks. Ratan could not be persuaded to more than nibble his sandwich, so enraptured was he by her storytelling.
“I was telling him that we should all go and see Victor Hugo’s house,” Prem said.
“Pascal can take you. I really shouldn’t come. I’ll get tired.”
“But, Irène Aunty, Grandpa said you love that house. You must come with us.” Ratan smiled his most angelic smile, and Prem knew then that Ratan knew that no one could ever say no to that smile. He could be an actor. Or a writer. A séducteur.
“I guess we can go for a short while,” Irène said.
Ratan looked at his grandfather and gave him a triumphant smile.
At the Maison Victor Hugo, Irène took the initiative to guide them through the house, making sure to provide details that might be interesting to a young boy. Prem and Ratan thanked her for the tour. After his grandfather had kissed Irène on the cheek, Ratan got on his tiptoes and waited for the lady to bend down so that he could kiss her too.
“Did Grandma look like that when she died?” Ratan asked in the cab back.
/> “She looked weak, but she was much younger so she had more energy.”
“When is Irène Aunty going to die?”
“I don’t know, honey.” Prem pulled Ratan close and ran his hands through his hair.
“Is Pascal Uncle very sad?”
“I think he’s very sad, but he tries to hide it.”
“Daddy said you tried to hide that you were sad when Grandma died.”
“Does he speak a lot about Grandma’s death?”
“He speaks to me about Grandma only when Mommy is not there. Mommy doesn’t think a young boy should know about death. But I know all about it.”
“What else did Daddy say about Grandma’s death?”
“He said that Grandma never laughed as much as when you came to see her. He said that she was the bravest person he ever knew. She was braver than Rani of Jhansi and Joan of Arc. She was even braver than most men.”
Prem had been too grief-stricken during Meher’s death to realize how much Homi had been affected.
That night Ratan didn’t make his way stealthily into Prem’s bed. Instead he got under the quilt before Prem could turn off the bedside lamp. Once Prem slid down from his seated position and made himself comfortable, Ratan took Prem’s large hand in his own and said, “Grandpa, I promise I’ll take care of you when you get old. I’ll make you laugh a lot.”
At that moment Prem wanted never to die. He could have fought viciously for his life to spare this boy from the absolute loss that is death. He understood now how Meher had found energy, even on her worst days, to live rather than die, selfless even in moments of extreme pain for the sake of those she loved. Only someone graced with the total love of another person could choose pain over the permanent release from pain.
“I know you’ll make me laugh.”
Prem lay still, waiting for Ratan to fall asleep. He hadn’t recovered from Meher’s death, though he had been thirty years old at the time. What kind of person would he have been if she had died when he was ten? How had Homi coped? Should he prepare Ratan for his own death or hope he’d live long enough for the boy to be in a position to understand?
“I can’t sleep, Grandpa.”
“You know, I was just thinking that even though your grandma died so long ago, she’s still with me. I talk to her every day.”