Ramya's Treasure

by Pratap Reddy

  “… in the darkness nobody noticed it,” finished Amma, pronouncing the final judgement on the matter. But Ramya wasn’t so sure — the necklace could have fallen off while she was running about in the front yard earlier in the evening.

  11

  Midnight’s Child

  THERE’S A COPY of Midnight’s Children in the sandalwood chest. Ramya picks up the book and riffles the pages. The flyleaf boasts Salman Rushdie’s signature, a bold scrawl, as if the signatory was aware of his impending greatness even in his salad days. The signature looks like a silhouette of a boat with sturdy masts braving the tempestuous winds.

  The book, an inexpensive trade edition, was a gift. It’s one of the items she placed in the box long after she moved to Canada. Nikki Lodha, who gave her the book, wrote a brief message on a notepaper, saying she hopes Ramya too will become a writer someday, realizing her juvenile dream.

  Ramya sighs. Her desire to be a writer was meant to be a secret, like an unwanted pregnancy. But somehow, her childhood friends, being keen as a knife, knew of her secret desire.

  Isn’t it time she did something about her dream? In the past weeks, she’s done nothing about anything, postponing even urgent matters. She must change! She must do something! Kuch karo, do something, was the customary advice for youth in India.

  Rise and shine, sleepy Ramya, she tells herself, paraphrasing a song which students sang in her convent school during the music period. But it’s easier said than done.

  What should she do? Where should she start?

  In August 1983, there was an announcement in the Deccan Chronicle that Salman Rushdie would be visiting Hyderabad to give a talk at the Women’s College. The college was housed in a stately and beautiful building, once the home of the British Resident in Hyderabad, the largest of the independent states in India, a country where most of the territory was ruled directly by Britain. The ruler of Hyderabad was Mir Osman Ali, HEH the Nizam, the richest man in the world until his dominion was mail-fisted into becoming part of the Republic of India in 1948.

  Salman Rushdie was a rising star, and had recently won the Booker Prize. Even though the Indian political establishment had turned up its nose on him, he was welcomed everywhere, even in the so-called second-tier cities like Hyderabad. It wasn’t a surprise; with one flourish of his magical quill he thrust Indian writing, which was suffering from a stubborn colonial hangover, onto the centre-stage of world literature. Until then, Indian literature in English was, for the most part, obsessed with poverty, partition, and hill-station preoccupations. Going to see such a man was as good as a pilgrimage for any wannabe writer.

  For long Ramya had harboured an ambition, like an undisclosed fetish, to become an author when she grew up. Her trifling verse and stray, short articles published in her school magazine doubtless gave fillip to her aspirations.

  And why did she keep her desire a secret? Whenever Daddy proudly told his friends that Ramya wrote poetry, they’d turn around ask her:

  “So, you want to be the next Kamala Das, is it?”

  Kamala Das, a beautiful person and a sensitive poet, was famous for all the wrong reasons. People were more acquainted with her opinions on sex than her poetry.

  Besides, the realities of socialistic India, with few openings in any field, let alone in writing, put paid to her ambition. She yielded to social pressure to take up a college course that would lead to a vocation. Artistic pursuits were to be indulged only in childhood; as you grew up, you were required to drop them, much like a space rocket discarding its spent fuel tanks, as you progressed in the trajectory of your lifecycle. Taking up fine arts for study or as a profession was violently frowned upon.

  Rushdie’s visit was well advertised. It was uncommon for any eminent writer to visit Hyderabad — while a historic and fascinating city, it was not perceived as a happening place. Or perhaps other writers’ visits didn’t get such wide publicity. Whatever the case, Ramya never had the opportunity to see an author in the flesh, not even the hacks who wrote for the local papers. If an internationally famous author did visit, he went usually to cities like Delhi, Mumbai, Kolkata or Chennai, as if they were the four cardinal points of the socio-cultural map of India. Hyderabad wasn’t even considered a minor point on the compass.

  When she called the number on the press release to wangle an invitation, she thought that she would be staved off with objections. That was the climate of socialist India — there was never enough of anything, other than people. But an old man with a quavering voice answered, and when he learned she was a young student of English Literature, invited her to the meeting in incredibly precise English, and without making any fuss whatsoever — to her utter surprise and delight.

  When Salman Rushdie had started making news, for political rather than literary reasons, she’d borrowed the book from a library out of curiosity. She found the going tough despite the bedazzling quality of the prose. (Who wouldn’t be impressed with the use of a phrase like “the clock-hands joined their palms in respectful greeting” just to denote midnight?) Nevertheless, she recognized that the book had all the hallmarks of a masterpiece. She slogged away at the book, though it took her a long time to finish, and when she returned it she had to pay a hefty fine. She may as well have bought the book, so punitive was the fine she had to cough up.

  The evening before Rushdie’s talk, Ramya made her father drive her from pillar to post, or rather from bookshop to bookshop, to find a copy of the book. They drew a blank at India Book House on RP Road and at JC Pinto on MG Road. Night was falling thick and fast, and any time soon, the bookshops across the twin cities Hyderabad and Secunderabad would be pulling down their shutters, and no amount of joining her palms in prayer could avert that. It was pointless to go all the way to Abid’s on the other side of the Tank Bund where A.A. Hussain was located. She was about to shed tears of disappointment, when Daddy had a brainwave. He thought of Kadambi, a small roadside bookshop on a busy thoroughfare near the Secunderabad Clock Tower. He doubled back, driving as fast as he could while steering the car through the evening rush of bicycles, buffaloes, and buses. Kadambi was still open, even though it was well past closing time. The owner, a gentle soul, was having a friendly chat with a customer, though the latter was merely browsing, having no intention of buying anything. It was here in this small hole-in-the-wall bookshop that they hit pay dirt. It was the last copy on the shelf, a more expensive edition, and Ramya grabbed it with unseemly but triumphal haste. She wanted to hug and kiss her Daddy then and there, so ecstatic she felt. But of course she didn’t; one couldn’t be so demonstrative of affection in public.

  After returning home with her catch, Ramya called Sujatha, who’d previously shown interest in attending the talk.

  “Let’s meet at the entrance to the Durbar Hall ten minutes before the start of the programme,” Ramya said.

  “Sure. I’m so happy you could find a copy of the novel. I know it means a lot to you to see Rushdie in person and take his autograph. Like having a darshan of a god.”

  Ramya was embarrassed. She didn’t know she was so transparent.

  “See you tomorrow,” Ramya said. “Your idea about the newspaper is a good one, by the way.”

  Sujatha’s parents, being parsimonious, hadn’t agreed to buy her a copy of Midnight’s Children just for the pleasure of getting Rushdie to sign on it. The only books they bought were textbooks for their four children. Moreover, they weren’t inclined to shell out money for a book by a new writer who had the gall to mix literature with politics. In Sujatha’s family, only R.K. Narayan, of all Indian authors writing in English, was worthy of esteem or expense. (In all fairness to Sujatha’s family, her father did try Raja Rao’s The Serpent and the Rope after reading a glowing article about the eminent writer in the Illustrated Weekly of India, and learning that he hailed from Hyderabad, but the poor man couldn’t make head nor tail of the voluminous novel.)

  Sujatha wasn’t disappointed, being by nature an understanding person. But she was
resourceful, and planned to take the newspaper which carried an article about Rushdie, and have the author autograph it.

  The next morning Ramya woke early, unable to contain her excitement. She was going to skip college, and Daddy too took the day off to drive her to the venue. Durbar Hall was once the glittering audience chamber in the rambling mansion of the Resident of Hyderabad. It was said that when Colonel James Kirkpatrick, the British Resident at the court of Hyderabad, showed the architectural drawing to the then Nizam, the building looked so immense and magnificent that the latter refused to approve it, fearing that the mansion would outshine his many palaces. The crafty Resident simply had the sheet showing the plan of the building, and not the building itself, drastically reduced in size and hoodwinked the great Nizam into giving his nod.

  The Nizams were no ordinary vassals of the British Crown. Being fabulously wealthy, one of the Nizams, it was said, had loaned a substantial sum to Queen Victoria in her empire-building efforts. In return, the Empress bestowed on him the exclusive E, squeezed between the two run-of-the-mill H’s. It stood for His Exalted Highness, separating him from the rabble of over five hundred princelings in India.

  But just as Daddy picked up the car keys from a brass bowl on the hallway table, the telephone in the living room rang. To Ramya’s ears, the tone of the telephone conversation didn’t bode well. She knew, as a doctor’s daughter, that their plans were beginning to unravel.

  “Ramya darling, one of my patients’ condition has become very serious. I’ll have to rush to his house. I’ll come back and take you to the event.”

  “It’ll be too late, Daddy,” Ramya said. Tears of disappointment welled in her eyes.

  “Would you like to go in an auto rickshaw? You take one of the servants with you … Or why don’t you come with me? If the visit gets over quickly, we can proceed from there.”

  So, Ramya accompanied her Daddy to the patient’s house. The day was bright, the sky the colour of faded denim, with a few thin lazy puffs of clouds drifting across. When they drove over the bund of the Hussainsagar Lake, she got a glimpse of sailboats scudding on the vast expanse of blue water. But Ramya’s heart had already sunk into her boots.

  The visit to the patient wasn’t going to get over quickly as his condition had become worse. Since they didn’t have the time to wait for a taxi, and ambulance services being practically nonexistent, Daddy had to drive the patient, who sat groaning with fever in the back seat, to the hospital.

  So that was that — Ramya never got to see the Great Master and take his blessings. In a way, it portended her insubstantial literary achievement. Her expensive copy of Midnight’s Children remained virgin, without the author’s Hancock decorating the flyleaf.

  A few days later she met Sujatha. “Do you know how long I waited for you outside the Durbar hall?” Sujatha said. “When I went in, all the introductions were over, and Salman Rushdie was walking up to the podium to give his talk.”

  “How was the talk?”

  “It was good, but it wasn’t what I expected. He kept reading from a prepared speech, raising his head now and then to look at the audience.”

  “Did you get his autograph?”

  “Yes. But I got the impression he wasn’t too pleased that I hadn’t bought a copy of the book.”

  “Don’t worry about that. After all, I did buy one but couldn’t have it signed by him. It kind of makes up, I guess.”

  “He had such piercing eyes, so full of intelligence though. He was so fair, almost milk-white, like marble.”

  “Yes,” Ramya thought to herself, “a literary idol, in every way — but I didn’t get the chance to genuflect before him. Just my luck.”

  “Do you know who else I saw at the venue?” Sujatha asked.

  “Who?”

  “Make a guess.”

  Ramya shook her head.

  “Monica. She came along with her beau. What’s his name?”

  “Amar. I never knew they were the literary types.” Ramya added with a sigh: “Some people have all the luck in the world.”

  When she enters the drawing room, she sees that there’s a message on the telephone. Her first impulse is to ignore it. She changes her mind and picks up the receiver.

  The disembodied voice informs her that there are four new messages.

  The first one is from Jack: Hi Ramya, just thought I’ d touch base with you. I’ve got a couple of ideas for your professional development strategy. Give me a ring when you have time.

  The second one is from Renata: Good Morning, Ramya. It’s unfortunate that we haven’t been able to connect …

  The third is from Wilma: Hey Ramya! You know what? My horoscope prediction has come true! Give me a call, and don’t forget to check your letterbox. (I know you don’t do it that often!)

  She hopes the last voice-mail is from her employer, but it is from Sandeep, her stepson: Mom, please call me back. We’re leaving for India tonight.

  Ignoring the first three messages, Ramya calls Sandeep.

  “Hello, Mom!”

  “Are you all packed and ready to go? When do leave for the airport?”

  “In another half hour or so. Vidya’s still doing last minute packing.”

  “Vidya’s a good girl! Hang on to her.”

  Sandeep chuckles, and says: “I will … Mom, I spoke to Dad a while ago.”

  At the mention of Prakash, Ramya stiffens and lapses into silence, a silence she hopes more audible than speech. Sandeep should know by now — Prakash was a closed chapter to her.

  “He enquired about you,” Sandeep says.

  “Is he in need of a maid?” Ramya says, annoyed into finding her tongue. “Or a financier, perhaps? Or both rolled into one? By the way, does he know I’m out of work?”

  “Mom, you sure do have a sharp tongue. Yes, he knows you’ve lost your job. I think he’s just lonely and getting old. He wasn’t his usual cheerful self.”

  “Why? Has he stopped drinking? Maybe he doesn’t get enough opportunities to say ‘cheers!’ before downing a bottle of scotch.”

  “Mom, he stopped drinking ages ago.”

  “Good for him. In some ways Prakash drunk was more companionable than Prakash sober. Anyway, when you reach India, give my regards to your grandfather and your mother.”

  “I will. Mom, forgive me for saying so. I think you and Dad must patch up. After all, it’s not that you’re legally divorced.”

  “Truth to tell, we’re not technically married either.”

  “What do you mean, Mom?”

  “Thereby hangs a tale. I don’t want to go into it now. About our patching up, it’s out of the question, Sandeep.”

  Sandeep has steeled himself to persist with the conversation. Ramya can almost feel him grit his teeth as he speaks.

  “Mom, you must let bygones be bygones. There are many divorced couples who’ve remarried. Marriage and divorces are everyday stuff in the West.”

  “Really? You seemed to have learned a lot about the West from your six-month stint in the USA.” Coldness creeps into Ramya’s tone.

  “All I’m asking you to do is give Dad a second chance.”

  “Second chance? I must’ve given him a dozen already.”

  “OK. Please give him another chance.”

  “I’m too old now to learn to play Happy Families, Sandeep. Besides, I don’t believe it’ll work at all. It’s so pointless.” Ramya shudders at the thought of sleeping next to Prakash on the bed. His loud snores, his farts, and the way he shakes the bed when he turns over — you’d think he was an elephant.

  “In your old age, both of you will need companionship.”

  “I’m not old!” Ramya says.

  “I know. Young in spirit and all that. Even you could do with some companionship.”

  “Sorry, Sandeep. Life with Prakash is not in the retirement plans I have for myself. I wish you a happy journey!”

  “Dad was right. You are just a poor little rich girl. You were born with a silver spoon in your mout
h. So you’ve no need for anybody or anything.”

  Ramya slams down the phone.

  Ramya’s literary career had progressed in fits and starts. While in school, she wrote sporadically, at the behest of her English teachers. In the final year of high school, she even became the editor of the school magazine which had the sabre-rattling name Excelsior — after all, the pen was considered mightier than the sword. Ramya wrote trenchantly, revelling in writing editorials with headings such as “Whither India?”

  But writing was something you couldn’t take too seriously. There were few avenues for getting published. Just a handful of magazines published poetry and short fiction in English. The English language publishing in India then was in a nascent stage — mostly a textbook and reprint market. Any Indian author worth his salt was initially published abroad — Raja Rao, Kamala Markandaya, Anita Desai to name a few. Even R.K. Narayan, the quintessential Indo-Anglian novelist, had his first book published in England, though he was to publish many of his later works in India under his own imprint of Indian Thought, with the cover and content of the novels matching Indian sensibilities.

  So, who would publish her in India? She put her ambitions on the backburner (however much she would’ve liked to see her name on a best-seller list) and prepared to get married off like a nice Indian girl.

  When they immigrated to Canada, Ramya had a faint hope that she could rekindle her guttering desire to become a writer. But the thing she found herself writing and rewriting innumerable times was her CV, and of course Prakash’s, which went without saying. Prakash had brought home a Résumés for Dummies kind of a book from the local library.

  “What we call a biodata, or a CV, is called a résumé here. It’s also a bit different. They don’t need all the biographical details of marital status and hobbies. We should recast our CVs to make them more meaningful for Canadian employers.”