by Shobhaa De
Anjali told me to speak to her—“As a friend you should tell her not to look so whorish. And did I tell you, she now smokes through a foot-long holder? People in their group were saying that Gul and she are also fooling around with drugs—sniffing coke. You should stop her.”
“I’m not her keeper. She might tell me to take a jump.”
“Try talking to her anyway.”
“Why don’t you—I wasn’t the one who introduced her to Gul.”
“Don’t blame me for that—Gul is, or rather was, just a client. We get all types.”
“Why did you say ‘was’?You mean you’ve fallen out so soon?”
“We’ve actually been doing work for him for some time. But finally we sacked him—he didn’t pay our bills. It was all terribly messy. I asked Murty to go to his office and sit there till he paid up. Poor Murty, he went there and Gul’s goons roughed him up. Murty told us one of them pulled a gun. It was awful. K told me to just forget the whole thing—write it off.”
“And yet, you continue to socialize?”
“That’s different.We don’t invite him to our home, but if he happens to be at the same party—what do you expect us to do—run? But, my dear, that’s not why I called you. K’s in trouble.”
“What?”
“We were raided a couple of days ago. I can’t tell you how traumatic the whole thing was. About a dozen ugly men just walked into the house with warrants and all but stripped the place down—including my Krishna’s mandir. I kept screaming, ‘Look everywhere. Do what you want in the other rooms. But leave my Krishna alone.’ One of them laughed and said,‘All businessmen tell us that—and do you know how many times we’ve found key evidence and incriminating documents in the puja room? We’ve even confiscated murtis made of solid gold.’”
“Did they find anything? Is the whole affair closed?”
“They didn’t find very much. K is very careful about money matters. But they found gold coins and jewelry in Babaji’s room. Unfortunately Babaji had forgotten to tell us that he’d kept some things in the cupboard, so we were very surprised when they opened it and found all that. Apart from the gold in his room there was one other thing that made me die of shame.You know K and Murty often watched blue films. It was innocent fun. Whenever they felt bored they’d switch on one of these. K used to pick them up at Frankfurt. And he’d bring back a few other sexy things—again just for fun. We used to laugh at the latest ‘inventions’ and compare them to last year’s. Nobody actually used them or anything. In fact, at one party we’d strung up all these fish-tailed condoms and other thingies all over the bar as a joke! But they were all lying there in Murty’s room. Along with some foreign exchange—a ridiculous amount—just small change, really—maybe thirty or forty dollars. That was careless of Murty—but it was too late. Those fellows pounced on these things.Then they started gossiping among themselves, cracking vulgar jokes. It was very humiliating. And can you imagine their cheek? They were there for over fourteen hours, so they used all our loos and kept asking for tea and coffee. K told me, ‘Be nice to them even if it kills you. Give them plenty to eat and drink. Don’t antagonize them.’ I told the cooks to feed them constantly. They made such a mess of our beautiful home.Tore up the garden, wrecked the marble in the patio. I nearly had a nervous breakdown.”
“What happens now? Has Kumar fixed things?”
“Well, he has been going up and down to Delhi to talk to his contacts. They all tell him, it’s difficult to hush up things after the raid has taken place and incriminating documents found. Let’s see how it goes. But the friends I’ve told about it laugh. ‘Join the club,’ they say. It’s quite a status symbol these days, I suppose. But I can tell you it isn’t worth the agony.”
“But what about Kumar’s business—has that been affected?”
“It’s too soon to say.”
“I suppose Babaji is blissfully out of the whole thing. Why wasn’t he arrested?”
“He was out of the country at the time. His disciples in California had organized a major celebration. Babaji couldn’t refuse—besides he likes the weather there and his allergies behave themselves abroad.”
“That’s all very well—but in the meantime you got screwed thanks to him. When does he get back?”
“We don’t know. We’ve called several times. His disciples here are getting restless and his animals are missing him. I try my best to cheer them up. Babaji had given me some holy water for them. A couple of birds died after drinking it—I don’t know why.”
“Maybe it was poisoned.”
“Nonsense. Now, my supply is nearly over. But some of his devotees say that all I have to do is take ordinary water in a silver vessel and pray over it repeating Babaji’s name. Then I have to place the vessel near his chappalls and seek his blessings. Automatically, the vibrations charge the water and it becomes holy.”
“I think you have gone completely mad. How can you believe in such shit?”
“This is all a matter of faith, my dear. Had it not been for Babaji’s presence in our house the day those fellows raided us, we would have been in even bigger trouble. K and I both know it was Babaji who saved us. Now my worry is about K’s health. He tries not to show it but the raid has affected him. We went for a thorough investigation and he has been recommended an open heart job—two of his arteries are blocked. These days that’s not considered serious at all—but we have to go to the States for it—the problem is our passports have been impounded.”
“Oh dear! All this is très compliqué. Where does it leave Murty?”
“That’s another problem. He has nowhere to go as you know. Legally, he isn’t our responsibility. K might even agree to get rid of him—right now he is far more worried about his own health. But Murty isn’t willing to let go of his golden goose.”
“What do you mean—‘not willing’? Just kick the runt out.”
“It’s not all that easy. Haven’t you heard of a word called blackmail? He has told K very plainly not to try any funny stuff with him—or else.”
“Maybe he’s only negotiating for a bigger slice of the cake. Why can’t Kumar pay him off? Can’t they arrive at a sensible settlement?”
“Difficult. Murty is a greedy little bugger. He wants to milk K dry—pardon the pun.”
“How about trading him for some camels—didn’t you tell me a Sheikh wanted him for his harem?”
“Murty is far too smart for that. He will not let go till he finds another K. Also, K is still attached to him in his own way. He may say anything, but I don’t think he’ll let go all that easily himself.”
“I have a brilliant suggestion—why don’t you find a bride for Murty? Sounds like a cruel joke—but you have to safeguard your own interests first. Talk to K—let him convince Murty. I’m sure you’ll be able to find a rich enough girl to palm off on him. He’s reasonably good-looking, and smart where business is concerned. He’ll be able to manage her money and you’ll get him off your hands.”
Anjali thought for a moment, then said, “It’s an idea worth pursuing. Let me talk to K.”
The whole of the following week I felt uneasy. I thought it was my period coming on and tried to carry on as normally as possible. It was during this time that I read about Babaji’s arrest in the papers. He’d been caught trying to bring in a suitcase full of gold at the airport. When I phoned Anjali, she was very agitated. “He’s being framed. I tell you—the whole thing is a frame-up. He is a saint. A God. And they are treating him like a common criminal. I haven’t stopped crying. Handcuffs—can you imagine him in handcuffs? Never mind, these people will have to pay for their sins. Even Jesus Christ was persecuted. This is a great test. Babaji is totally innocent and he’ll prove it. I know who’s behind this—all those enemies jealous of his success. But Babaji is pure. He didn’t resist when those animals pounced on him. He just laughed. He kept on laughing—mocking them. But do you know what they said, ‘He is high on drugs. That is why he is laughing.’ Imagine! High on dru
gs! That man is high on life—he doesn’t need drugs. But how can these sinners see that? They even charged him of smuggling drugs into the country. And you know what they suspected of being a drug—the holy powder he distributes to his disciples. Prasad, nothing more than prasad—a little sugar with something else that only he knows. Perfectly harmless stuff—and they’re calling it drugs. K and I have been so upset by all this. K’s contacts don’t want to get involved in this case.They say it’s too dangerous and feel they might get implicated. We’ve been told that it’s a conspiracy, but nobody is saying who’s responsible. The one person who can help is Gul. Everybody has told us to approach him. He has all the underworld fellows in his pocket. But K doesn’t want to be obligated to him. I also feel funny about contacting Ritu. I don’t even know whether they’re still together. How can I ring her up out of the blue and ask for a favor?”
“There is something like ‘for old times’ sake.’ Give her a ring and see what she has to say.What’s the worst you’ll hear—‘Sorry, but it’s not possible.’ So what? Take the chance and call her. If you want to set up a meeting, I don’t mind coming along. Let me know.”
CHAPTER 16
SOON AFTER THE WHOLE BUSINESS OF BABAJI’S ARREST I MISSED MY period for the first time in my life. At first, I thought, “Oh well, every woman faces some irregularities sometimes—this is one of those freak things.” But when I was three weeks overdue and feeling sick and had vomited off and on for a couple of days I decided something was wrong. But I really didn’t know what to do or who to call—certainly not Mother; she had enough problems as it is. And I couldn’t bear to go and see our family doctor either—a filthy old man with overactive salivary glands and a deformed forefinger. After much deliberation, I decided to phone Swati in London—surely she would know and suggest what to do next.
There was of course no question of discussing it with the husband—we never talked about such things. In fact, the first time I got my period after marriage, there was so much awkwardness that I began to wonder whether I’d be asked to shift into the adjoining room till I was declared “clean” once more. No, talking to the husband was out. The first question my sister asked me when I phoned and told her the problem was: “Have you had your urine examined?”
“Of course not—should I? What for?”
“Well, you could be pregnant.”
“Are you crazy! That’s impossible!”
“Why, have you taken a vow of celibacy or something?”
“No. Not that. But how could I be pregnant?”
“Like everyone else—you know—the birds and the bees?”
“I don’t think that’s likely—but since you’ve suggested it—I might as well check it out.”
“Could it be Krish?”
“KRISH? Don’t tell me! Oh my God! Now that would be the bloody limit. Heavens! How sickening—imagine producing a little Krishlet!”
“Don’t wait. Do it tomorrow and let me know.”
The result turned out to be positive—and I practically died. How was I going to break it to the husband. If my sister could’ve come up with Krish—wouldn’t the husband? I phoned her again in a panic. “What am I supposed to do now? I don’t want the bloody baby. I’ve never wanted one—Krish’s or anyone else’s. I don’t even know what women are supposed to do when they find themselves knocked up. Should I get myself into a clinic? Which doctor? How do I explain it to the husband? And the mother-in-law—she’ll guess like a shot. She’s a hawk, always watching me.”
“You’d better tell your husband. For all you know, it might even be his—unless you haven’t been sleeping together for years.”
“No, I don’t think it could be his.You know, we only do it rarely, and we’re very, very careful. And what if the kid speaks Bengali from the womb and looks like Krish? But maybe I should tell him. After all, as you say, it could be his. I guess I’ll just have to tell him and get rid of it. But tell me, just in case I’m in big trouble and the husband refuses to help, are there any of your medical friends here who can help me out?”
She gave me a number and I wrote it down. For two days I didn’t call the number. Then finally, when I was almost at breaking point, I dialed. And was given an appointment for the following week. During the week I found an amazing shift taking place in my attitude to things. To begin with I found myself noticing children, something I’d never ever done. First it was an idle, cursory kind of curiosity (“so this is what they’re all about”), and then I actually felt some strange, new emotion—what was it—tenderness? Our Gurkha had produced three children in the past whose presence I had barely noticed: they could have been kittens or puppies—wiggly little things that wailed all day and peed all over. Then, on Thursday, the Gurkha announced that his wife had delivered another baby. On an impulse I told him I wanted to meet the mother and the child. He looked very surprised but also pleased.
We went to his tiny, ill-lit room and found the mother lying on a heap of rags.The family’s latest addition was sleeping close to her, on a smaller heap of rags. She made an attempt to get up when she saw me but I waved her down. That done, I didn’t know what I was supposed to do next. Coo to the baby? Pat the mother? Offer money? Congratulate the father? I stood around awkwardly asking meaningless questions about the mother’s health. Just then the baby woke up and the mother turned to pick her up. She offered the thing to me to hold and I almost jumped. At the same time I was ashamed of my reaction. It must have seemed awfully graceless. So I gingerly extended my arms and waited. Once the baby was placed in them it felt easy—there was absolutely nothing to it. The creature fitted perfectly into the crook of my arm and it stopped yelping. It was a pleasant feeling and I found myself rocking back and forth making peculiar noises in my throat.
When I came back to my room, I started to feel a little annoyed with myself.Was I weakening in my resolve to get rid of the kid? Did I really enjoy the experience? Had I changed? I must’ve imagined this, but even my body felt different. The breasts were tender and sensitive, and felt heavier, fuller. I quickly looked at myself in the mirror—my face seemed wider. I tried to picture how I’d look pregnant. I would not be a pretty sight—I saw myself with a bloated belly and pendulous breasts, my thighs dimpled with fat, blue veins criss crossing my torso, the navel flattened out and funny. Why couldn’t baby-making be easier or at least more aesthetic? How could any woman come to terms with a gross, disfigured body? And the birth itself—the pain, blood and slime.Who needed that? I recalled meeting a svelte actress at a party who had confessed that she was all for babies—if she could get them through a vending machine. I’d identified with her totally. What a distasteful process it was—and with a lifelong responsibility attached to it. Despite all this there was certainly some sort of “stirring” within me. Could’ve been just a guilty conscience. Or the novelty of the experience. But I was far enough gone to allow myself the luxury of dreaming about a baby I didn’t really want. And then the other problem cropped up. Was it fair, I asked myself, to go ahead unilaterally on something that after all did involve two people? On the one hand, it was my body, but someone else (which of the two?) had also played a part in this mess. Again, I felt it would be injudicious to go ahead and drop the baby without informing the husband.What if he found out on his own and jumped to the wrong conclusion (there was an equal chance that it was his)? Was it worth the secrecy and stealth? Besides, things had been pretty good between us since my return. I felt close enough to confide in him. It turned out to be a bad decision.
The husband was incredulous to start with. “How did it happen? When?Where?” He behaved like I’d been bitten by a poisonous snake rather than impregnated.
“It can’t be mine, anyway!” he said, after blustering a bit.
“What do you mean by that? It could well be ours—we haven’t exactly abstained I might remind you.”
“You don’t have to remind me about anything. I’m sure it isn’t mine. Now you’d better ask yourself whose child you’re car
rying. Poor Krish—I suppose you’ll palm it off as his. But I have my doubts even about that.”
“That’s a filthy, cheap remark! ‘Poor Krish’—I really love that! What makes you feel so sympathetic toward him all of a sudden? Or is it some brotherhood that I don’t know anything about? Who the hell else’s baby can it be?”
“How would I know? These days you are up to all sorts of tricks. You might call your activities ‘theater-related’ but I don’t trust you. If you could screw around with my friend Krish, right under my nose, you could be screwing the whole town. Adultery is an addiction—it’s only the first time that’s difficult. After that, it’s only a matter of one fuck here or there—isn’t that right?”
“You are being detestable. What’s got into you? I thought we’d ironed out our differences, I really believed we were finally on to a good thing. I must be crazy but I thought you’d be happy with the news. That your mother would be happy too.”
“My mother—and happy about your producing someone else’s child?You must be out of your mind! Do you think she’s such a gullible fool? She has lived life.”
“If that’s how you feel—fine. I had planned to terminate the mess anyway—so why don’t we change the subject? It will all be over this time next week.”
“Fine, fine, fine. But my fine lady it’s not all that easy. You may walk into some clinic and get your dirty little secret removed. But how do you think I’m going to live with this? I’m not prepared to forget about the whole thing and pretend nothing’s happened. Why should I? I don’t trust you any longer.”
“What are you trying to tell me?”