by Pratap Reddy
The passengers filed out into a glass-walled corridor, and started to shuffle forward. But after a couple of hundred yards, they discovered their way was barred by a locked door. Most of the passengers, though tired and sleepy, were reduced to waiting in silence. But some, more irate or less patient than others, began to shout randomly for the airport officials. It was all quite useless. The place beyond the glass door was as deserted as a cemetery, and there was nobody around to take notice. Not even ghosts. From where she stood imprisoned, she could see posters hanging from the ceiling trumpeting the fact that the new Hyderabad airport was voted the best in the world in its class.
Nearly fifteen minutes later, a sleepy janitor arrived and set them free. The planeload of temporary captives erupted into rapturous applause. Despite her circumstances, a spectre of a smile formed on Ramya’s chapped, travel-weary lips. It must’ve been the first flight of the day, and the janitor probably dozed off. This was Hyderabad, and some things never change. It was still in some ways a sleepy, medieval city with domes and minarets defining its skyline, a city of a thousand and one nights. It had a reputation for its courtly and leisurely ways, where Father Time too would stop by to dally over Irani chai and mini-samosas. But now the city was being goaded into the digital age by politicians and businessmen, where software development centres of Microsoft, Oracle, Apple, Google, to say nothing of scores of lesser-known firms, kept cropping up like the proverbial mushrooms.
The new airport was miles away from the city, and she had no Indian currency on her, leaving her to wonder how to get to her house. But there were kiosks where you could change your money, and there were also touts moving like spooks among the passengers whispering about the great exchange rates for American dollars they could offer.
“I only have Canadian dollars,” Ramya thought with a sigh. Before she could think of what to do next, she spotted Raghu in the crowd outside holding a placard with her name on it. But when she approached him she realised he was too young to be Raghu, and her small smile of recognition faded away like a food-stain under Resolve. She got confused and thought to back away when the young man gave a coy smile and said: “I’m Raghunath’s son.”
“You were just a baby when I saw you last,” Ramya said, as she allowed him to take charge of her one suitcase, and be led to the parking lot. The drive was long but quick. The traffic was light as it was still dark, and the sun hadn’t yet risen. A brand-new flyover miles and miles long conveyed them directly to the heart of the city.
When she entered the house, which seemed to be wide awake with lights on and people milling about, she saw Daddy laid out in a glass-topped contraption, like something you see in a grocery shop in Canada. It was a refrigerated coffin. Cotton wool was stuffed into Daddy’s nostrils, and a white band had been tied from his chin to his head to prevent the lower jaw from falling open.
The room smelled of air-freshener rather than flowers or incense, though she could see that both were put to abundant use in the room. She dropped her suitcase, and stood bending over her Daddy’s body, gazing into the coffin, when Raghu stepped up, and opened the lid. Ramya bent down to touch Daddy’s wizened cheek, tears streaming down her face. Daddy’s face felt cold and rock hard. It was the same cheek that as a little girl she would kiss each morning before Daddy left for work.
Within a few hours of her arrival the body was carried out on a bier to an ambulance-like white van parked under the porch. The vehicle, which had the words “Last Journey Van” painted on its sides, would convey Daddy’s body to the burning ghat.
Times were a-changing. Though she was a woman she could go to the cremation grounds now. She got into the van rather than the taxi that was ordered for her. The van trundled over the city roads on its way to the crematorium. The suspension of the van was so bad and the roads so pot-holed that she found herself bouncing like a lailappa, the yo-yo-like toy that was a small water-filled balloon which Daddy would buy for her at local fairs when she was a child. Daddy’s cadaver too bounced on the trestle. He was having a bumpy ride to heaven.
It was Raghu’s son who performed the last rites. Times hadn’t changed all that much — a male relative had to do them, and it turned out, rather conveniently, that Kumar was a distant relation, with fourth or fifth degree of separation, on Daddy’s side.
The next day, after another orgy of pujas, they took the earthenware pot containing Daddy’s powdery remains to the sacred temple town of Mantralayam in their small car, a South Korean brand, though made in India. Making in India was always a big thing; it meant independence and self-reliance, a throwback to an age before colonial rule. Few people would know about this better than Indians; after all they made millions of babies in India (and outside the country too) every year.
They cast Daddy’s ashes into the holy river of Tungabhadra, now little more than a trickle — thanks to scanty rains, and indiscriminate construction of dams upstream in the name of development. The Tungabhadra, on whose banks mighty empires once flourished, would carry Daddy’s ashes until it merged into the Krishna, which in turn traversed the Indian peninsula before draining into the Bay of Bengal. Like Daddy said many years ago, all streams and rivers eventually find their way to the ocean. Daddy returned to the place where life on earth is said to have first originated — the bed of the ocean.
On the thirteenth day after Daddy’s passing away, an elaborate ceremony was performed to ensure his entry into heaven. At the end of it there was to be a sumptuous repast, but they couldn’t start until a crow or an eagle first partook of the meal. Ramya waited on the flat roof of their house for the carrion birds to espy the plate of goodies and come after it, while the guests waited in the house with mounting hunger, the aroma of the dainty dishes teasing their palate. Ramya could see a few birds circling in the sky high above, but they seemed in no hurry to make a beeline to the spread arranged for them. Perhaps, the vegetarian fare wasn’t worthy victual in the estimation of carnivorous birds. However, a few minutes later, a lone crow flew out of nowhere, and landed on the parapet wall. Ramya watched breathlessly as it swivelled its head one way and then the other before taking a few tentative hops towards the plate. It dipped its beak and bit off a morsel of food and flew away just as quickly. When the good news filtered down to the restive guests in the living room, a wave of silent delight spread among them. Now the feast could begin!
She had to stay back in India for two months after her father’s death as there were many official things to take care of like wills, bank accounts, and property taxes. Not everybody in India was as obliging as that small venturesome crow. To get legal and financial matters sorted out took weeks — not a surprise in a bureaucracy tied up in age-old red-tape. It took pleading, coaxing and a good bit of payola to get things moving. It was a frustrating and boring wait.
One evening Ramya stopped by a new bookshop. The ones she frequented as a child seemed to have disappeared, as if they’d fallen off the bandwagon of progress, and nobody so much as noticing. The new book stores were no longer outlets merely for books. This particular shop, which had a very catchy name (Crossroads? Crosswords?) offered a variety of merchandise like music CDs, toys, dolls, greeting cards and what have you. Fortunately, they also stocked books by the thousands. Bewildering arrays of works by new writers stared back at her from the racks. While some of the old favourites like R.K. Narayan were still visible, she looked in vain for Kamala Markandaya’s The Nowhere Man. She’d bought a copy long ago, but even before she could read it, Monica had borrowed and mislaid it. Living in Canada for a good number of years made Ramya want to read this classic, well nigh the bible of diaspora literature.
She asked the sales girl, who was hovering around like an undercover agent, for help. The young woman gave a watery smile and set off obligingly on a hunt, peering into the shelves, probing every display table, and even peeking under it. But in the end, she came back empty-handed, with the same smile pasted on her kind mouth. So Ramya picked up a couple of books by new Indian sensatio
ns (Chetan Bhagat and Amish) and went up to the counter. The manager got talking, and he was very knowledgeable about books.
“There are so many new writers in English now. And many of them are earning crores of Rupees!”
“That’s awesome,” Ramya said.
“I believe India will soon be the biggest market for English language books, after the U.S. and the U.K. … where are you from, ma’am, if I may ask? America?”
Ramya was amazed at the Indian shopkeepers’ habitual ability to spot a ‘foreign-returned’ person, though outwardly she looked no different from other Indians. She could never figure out how they did it.
“Well, almost. I’m from Canada.”
“Margaret Atwood! Rohinton Mistry! They sell well here,” the manager said, totting up her purchase on the cash register.
“Good to hear,” Ramya said, paying with Indian Rupees she drew from the bank after Daddy’s savings account was unfrozen.
“I hope you enjoy the books,” the manager said, handing over the carry bag.
“What do you think of these new writers?” Ramya asked.
“Well, for one thing they don’t have the colonial hang-up the older authors had. These youngsters write boldly and confidently about issues that matter to them and their Indian readers, rather than addressing their work to a Western audience.”
“That sounds good.”
A few days before she went back to Canada, she thought of visiting the Chilukuru temple. She’d reckoned that a visit to a temple, especially one so far removed from the rough and tumble of the city, would bring some peace of mind. She wanted a break too from the unending flow of visitors who came to condole with her. While they were profuse and genuine in their sympathy, they were far from providing comfort, and only kept Daddy’s demise fresh in her mind, reopening the wound every time they spoke of him. But a visitor like her old friend Sujatha was a different matter — one could snatch a few moments of joy even in one’s bereavement.
When Ramya told Sujatha about the situation between Prakash and her, Sujatha said: “Divorce is a way of life in the West, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps. It’s a little different there. Women are on the same footing as men — in terms of rights, status, everything. They don’t play second fiddle to them.”
Sujatha was silent for a while. Then she said: “You may be right.”
“What is it, Sujatha?”
“Two years ago, I was asked by my boss if I would like to head the Singapore office of my company. I had to decline the offer because Srinivas didn’t want to leave his job. But if it was the other way around, he would’ve expected me to dump my job and go with him.”
“As Monica would have said, c’est la vie,” Ramya said.
But the visitor who made Ramya’s day was Sailoo. Ramya was horrified to notice how old he looked. His head was all grey, and his face as wrinkled as a washerwoman’s hands. But, as usual, his eyes shone brightly with wisdom. He came with a wiry rust-brown mongrel in tow. The dog directed a gaze of unblinking curiosity at Ramya as though trying to place her.
“What do you call him?” Ramya asked.
“It’s a her. She’s Bar Guess’s granddaughter. Her name is Pennyloopy.”
“What kind of a name is that?”
“I asked Sujatha-amma to suggest a name that you may like. She looked into big fat books and came up with the name.”
Penelope! The personification of unwavering loyalty. It was a quality Ramya most admired in people. It was both amazing and disconcerting to learn, once again, how well her childhood friends knew her. But she wasn’t very adept at weaving, and certainly she’d never wait for anyone to return.
The early morning drive to Chilukuru was beautiful. It was cool and there were drifts of mists where stands of trees grew. Just before approaching the temple grounds, they had to stop to make a small payment at a tollgate. This was a new development; she didn’t remember doing it on her previous visit when she accompanied Prakash. But that was more than a decade ago. After the driver parked the car, she stepped out, leaving her shoes in the car — one didn’t enter temples wearing footwear. Unaccustomed to walking barefoot, her soles hurt as she trod over the unpaved ground sprinkled with flint. The road to God is always a painful one.
But when she rounded a corner, the tableau which presented itself made her gasp in horror. It was so completely different from the pastoral vision that was etched in her memory. Gone was the bucolic setting! Gone was the numinous stillness! Gone was the unimpeded view of the lovely lake!
Instead, rows of makeshift shops selling puja requirements and cheap souvenirs had cropped up. Scattered among them were dubious-looking restaurants and small fruit vendors’ stands. One had to make an effort to spot the lake. In a gap between buildings, and barred by a wire fence, one could see a sliver of water.
Inside, the look and feel was entirely different. While no major renovations were done to the small temple, the courtyard was choked with a circumambulating mass of devotees. It was as if humanity was being continuously churned, but there was no clue as to what was being creamed off. Going by the fact that many of the devotees had some form of counting arrangement in their hands, one could guess that their wishes were fulfilled by the bountiful deity, Venkateshwara of Chilukuru.
Ramya joined a slow-moving queue that wound round the temple proper twice. It took almost an hour to get into the inner chamber and have the darshan of the deity. The priests bade the devotees to move on as hundreds more were waiting in the line-up. When she at last came out of the temple, which was abuzz with frenetic activity, her heart was heavy. India was changing, there was no doubt of it. It was sloughing off the slumberous covering of decades-old socialism, but Ramya wasn’t sure what was emerging, and if the capitalism the country was embracing was of the right kind.
Something was lost at Chilukuru — irrevocably. Maybe, it was India’s ancient sense of spirituality. What had taken its place was the stranglehold of superstition dedicated to material well-being. But who was she to grumble? Judging from the sheer number of devotees who were blessed by the gods, the new India was receiving divine sanction.
For her, Chilukuru had changed forever. Maybe, that’s how it was with everything in life. Change was the only constant factor. (Who said that?) And sometimes there was no going back.
On the final day of her stay in India, she returned in the evening after a strenuous round of last minute shopping — buying pickles, spices, condiments, spares for her pressure cooker and a hardy mixer-grinder designed to deal with the demands of south Indian cooking.
The cook Savitramma handed over a package saying a woman had dropped by when Ramya was out. Ramya tore open the package. Inside there was an autographed book and a note written on a small loose sheet of paper, inserted into the book like an improvised bookmark:
Dear Ramya,
Just thought that you might like to have this book more than me. Books are not my thing, they never were and never will be.
Have you written anything lately? I hope you become an author and realize your dream. I will definitely buy and treasure the books you may write!
Sorry to have missed seeing you
Your friend
Nikki Lodha
Who could Nikki Lodha be? It reminded her of Nicki Lauda, one of the car racing idols of Prakash. But this had nothing to do with Prakash or his macho interests. The handwriting was vaguely familiar. Surely it was not … Ramya called the number scribbled at the bottom of the notepaper.
“Hi! Nikki speaking.” It was the unmistakable voice of Monica, nee Maunika, aka Nikki.
“Monica!” Ramya said. “How are you! It’s ages since I’ve seen or spoken to you.”
“Good. Good,” Monica said. Her voice had the easy confidence of the well-to-do. “I’m sorry about your father. Sujatha told me you were in town.”
“Thank you for Rushdie’s book. Is Lodha Amar’s last name? I didn’t recognize it.”
“Certainly not. Amar’s business l
ost a lot of money. We divorced, and I remarried,” Monica said, and laughed. Her laughter sounded like the tinkling of rapturous bells. When her husband couldn’t provide for Monica, she had the gumption to dump him and move on. Monica always knew which side her bread was buttered. Or which side of the bed was better.
The snow is falling thick and fast. According to the forecast it’s going to get progressively worse, and may even turn to icy rain. The weatherman is expecting an accumulation of ten centimetres, and has warned drivers to be careful. Though it’s ten in the morning, the day looks so grey and sodden that it could be mistaken for dusk.
Ramya starts the engine, and lets it idle for some time to warm up the car. She doesn’t have to do it for long, as she always parks her car in the garage. Ms. Peggy abhors cold weather like her mistress.
Prakash always left the car sitting overnight on the driveway. He was that kind of a man — too lazy to put the car away in the garage. The next morning, already late for work, and not dressed properly for the cold, he would shiver and dance around the car, trying to brush off the snow.
But of late, it isn’t cold that’s bothering Ramya. Even in the middle of the night she wakes feeling hot. Is it only the furnace thermostat that’s acting up? Or is it the dreaded M word? The unspeakable word. She doesn’t want it coming now, on top of everything else.
Subbu-Auntie’s funeral is set at 11 am. Ramya gives herself an hour, though the journey to the funeral home shouldn’t take more than forty-five minutes in the worst of weather. She moves the lever to drive, and eases the car out of the garage.
She stops at a Rabba outlet to pick up some flowers before she takes the highway. The traffic isn’t very heavy, so she has lots of time to spare. The bad weather has kept many indoors. She heads to a Tim Hortons drive through where she buys herself a double-double and a lightly buttered and toasted poppy-seed bagel. She needs to fortify herself, the stress is making her ravenous. What a contradiction! Hardly an hour ago, she was blaming stress for her poor appetite. She sits in the parking lot, with the heater on, sipping coffee and munching on the bagel. The shop food tastes so much better than what she’d made for herself. She’s become an indifferent cook, adding another item to the list of changes which have occurred to her personality of late.