And yet it was.
“You should go,” he was saying, his voice sounding faraway.
Pinky stood. There was a humming noise inside her, as if the stinging in her chest had traveled up, up past her throat and into her ears.
“My book. . . .”
She looked down, allowing the book to fall open to the “Ideal Boy” chart that was haphazardly stuck to the page. It jeered at her now, the photos of the knickered, little boy with fair skin and impossibly rosy cheeks.
Nimish took it from her.
Pinky continued to stare at her upturned palms, now empty of their treasure, his treasure.
“Go now,” he said, the kindness gone, replaced by subdued anger.
She could not leave his room like this, with the bite of his fury, with him thinking that she had purposely violated his privacy, with their relationship changed forever.
Yet, taking her steel cup of water from the table, she put one foot in front of the other and walked out.
The door shut behind her.
Pinky slid to the ground, sweat dripping into her eyes, tears falling out of them. The wall warmed with her heat, offering silent, stoic assurance. In front of her stood the shiny bathroom door. Once again, her eyes traveled up to the bolt.
Tufan once let slip that the door was first bolted at night the same year Pinky came to live in the bungalow—thirteen years ago, the year he and Dheer had turned one—but that was all he knew. The children, of course, had questioned the adults about it but stern faces and an occasional slap kept them from probing too deeply. Nimish was the only one who never seemed intrigued by the bolt, accepting it easily as he did most of his parents’ governance. He, in fact, was the one who scanned the papers for the time of sunset each day, taking care to slide the bolt into place a full half hour beforehand.
The bathroom was unlocked at sunrise by the housemaids, Parvati and Kuntal, who savagely beat the laundry upon the tile floor. Afterwards, the children, one by one, were allowed to take their baths, squatting upon a low, wooden stool with a bucketful of water and lota. The room was small, windowless, and flat except for a rectangular cement ridge that had been built around the faucet to keep the water from spreading out of the bathing area. It was so ordinary in the daytime. And yet . . .
New tears sprouted in Pinky eyes at her foolishness that night, at the unnecessary ruination. What else had he been keeping from her? What was behind this door? She was certain he knew. She approached the door, placing the steel cup upon the floor. She pressed her palm to the wood. The door appeared to sink into its frame as if protecting an internal wound.
She stretched her arm up, up to reach for the bolt but it was too high.
The confining space in the hallway seemed to pull her back, to hold on to her, but Pinky broke free and raced to find the old rickety kitchen stool. The floorboards squeaked in warning but she did not care if Nimish heard. She wanted him to come out of his room and see her. She wanted him to stop her. She thought of the ancient tale Rat-navali, of how the king had saved the princess as she strung a noose around her neck, he at last confessing, I can’t live without you.
If there’s anything truly dangerous, she thought, he’ll come out.
She climbed upon the stool and reached up; her fingertips touched the bolt. The metal felt cold, unnaturally cold. The bungalow shuddered in a sudden gust of wind.
The forbidden door.
Tears fell freely now. She glanced at Nimish’s bedroom door, but it remained firmly shut. Her heart filled with the poison of rejection, screaming out for a sign, any sign of his love.
She lifted herself up upon her toes, reaching toward the bolt. The door seemed to lean back, the bolt moving further from her. But she held onto it, held it for dear life, as if it were the only thing that could return him to her.
Nimish!
The floorboards lurched and the stool toppled over, but in that split second before she fell, she slid open the bolt.
The water pipes whispered all around her—all of them suddenly rushing, rushing towards the bathroom.
Pinky landed hard, knocking over the steel cup of water.
And then the bungalow’s shadows pushed her out of the hall, out, out, out as fast as her legs could run.
WATERY PRESENCE
Maji woke and turned her eyes to the window, noting the exact hue of the sky. Yes, it was dawn, not a moment before nor after. She felt pleased, the day had begun auspiciously. She noticed that Pinky lay sleeping in the bed and not upon her mattress as usual, and gently touched the smooth skin of her cheek.
Maji slid her legs off the bed and into a pair of worn chappals that were conveniently lined up on the wooden floor and then grasped for her cane. She stood up with great difficulty, arthritic knee joints crackling and popping at the sudden weight thrust upon them, and adjusted the widow-white sari she always wore. Then, shuffling around, she stole another glimpse of Pinky, huddled under a thin, cotton sheet. Despite the pain surging through her obese body, she smiled.
The sleeping child was the light of her life.
Yamuna, Pinky’s mother, had died as a refugee, crossing from Lahore into India during Partition. The military had disposed of her corpse, saying only that she drowned. The pain was breathtaking, like a vengeful blow from the heavens. There was nothing left of her possessions, her dowry, her brief life—except for Pinky. She was the tiny bit of Yamuna that was still alive on this earth. Maji remembered the day she had laid claim to her, the sun already fiercely scorching, crackling, in that desolate place, a full overnight train journey from Bombay. The tonga cart stopped just in front of an ugly dark olive building next to a factory where a huge pile of metal scraps had been dumped. Workers sifted through the metal, carrying it away piece by piece in baskets atop their heads. Nearby, a phalanx of black-limbed, pot-bellied children sluggishly stuck their scrawny arms into the dirt and trilled for their mothers. One walked towards her with hand outstretched, his body naked from the waist down, a talisman tied with a black thread just over his little penis.
Maji remembered hearing the clicking behind her and then the gait of the tonga cart retreating upon the makeshift road, the horse evacuating noisily as it was whipped to a trot. A falsay vendor passed by on his rickety bike, calling out in an empty, echoing voice. A silk-cotton semul tree drooped in front of the stairwell leading up to the second floor of the flat.
The door was already propped open for circulation when she reached the landing. As exhausted as she was, Maji was resolute, her eyes revealing nothing as they fell upon Pinky’s other grandmother whose thinning grey hair billowed behind her like a spider’s web.
Maji uttered a little prayer of gratitude for this child, marveling— still—that she was hers. She glanced through the windows, noting the hazy clouds outside that ineffectively hindered the sun. The monsoons would be here any day now to bring relief to this parched city. She tapped at the AC with her cane, turning it off, then shuffled slowly to the bathroom where she leaned over the shining Parryware basin. She concentrated on opening nasal and throat passages that had been infiltrated with phlegm in the night. Loud hawking and blowing noises like the trumpeting of an elephant ensued, and then Maji stepped back into the hallway visibly refreshed.
She started down the long hallway as she did every day at dawn, making her usual rounds within the lavish, one-story bungalow. Maji had started this routine when they first bought the bungalow from a portly, cigar-chewing Englishman who fled India, leaving his belongings and unscrupulous business dealings behind. She had spent the quiet mornings then discovering her new home, its cracks and crevices, the antique furniture, all of which now belonged to her. When the fascination had faded into a comfortable acceptance, Maji realized that she had actually come to enjoy this routine, this matriarchal stroll through the bungalow while her family slept. It was also her belief that a hundred rounds each morning allowed her to indulge in the cook’s homemade ice cream that evening, a hundred and fifty if he was serving the dessert
in a sea of rose-flavored sauce with pink falooda noodles on top.
The first doors she came to were on her left, grand paneled ones that led to the dining hall. She opened them, taking in the long teak dining table occupying the center of the dark, polished room. She began to think about the day’s menu, settling upon a combination of cooling foods such as yogurt with cucumber, cauliflower cooked with coriander, saffron rice, and green lentils. She walked past Savita and Jaginder’s room, her face sagging into a slight frown as she pondered her daughter-in-law. From the day she entered their household as a bride, Savita had proven herself difficult, lacking in what Maji considered the fundamentals: selflessness, respect, restraint. Just yesterday, in fact, Savita had flung a thali of uncooked rice into the ceiling fan after shouting at the servants. The basmati grains had rained down upon all those in the vicinity, including the unsuspecting priest who mistakenly attributed the shower to a divine blessing.
Maji sighed, passing the puja sanctuary on her right and, to her left, the etched glass doors of the ornate living room, throwing them open to allow the morning air to circulate. Then she cut under the corridor archway, inspecting as she went to check for signs of neglect. The floors shone, the walls were clean and bright, the brass handis were free of dust. Maji felt reassured.
She strode down the west hallway unhurriedly, her heavy step and swish of white cotton sari in tune with the rhythmic thumping of clothes being washed by the housemaids. And then, coming full circle to the front of the bungalow, she opened another set of glass doors and stepped into the parlor. Her gaze immediately went to the unsmiling photo of her late husband that hung near the entrance, garlanded with a sandalwood rosary. Although so many years had past, fifteen almost, she still felt a pang of loss in her heart. A film song floated into her head, the one her husband had murmured into her ear as he lay dying: Sleep, princess, sleep. Sleep and sweet dreams will come. In the dreams, see your beloved. He did keep this final promise, appearing in her dreams and sweeping her into the timeless past when her life did not carry the burden of so many losses.
The parlor was carpeted by two enormous, wine red Persian rugs. The far wall leading to the dining hall consisted of a series of carved wooden screens inset with sandblasted glass panels. The room was elegantly furnished with an array of fine, plush covered furniture and global curios. One table displayed a blue and white Cantonese Export porcelain candy dish, another a set of eighteenth century European ceramic bowls. A cabinet contained a shelf of silver inkwells and chalices, each brightly polished and set upon a lace doily. A Victrola Talking Machine stood in one corner, imported all the way from exotic-sounding Camden, New Jersey. It had a multiband radio, a turntable, and high-gloss cabinets for storing records. One of the housemaids had thoughtfully adorned it with a vase of fresh yellow roses.
Maji began her next round, moving at the same pace, looking forward to her dearest friend Vimla Lawate’s visit from next door so they could sit sipping chai and dipping salty muttees into mango pickle. Their daily chats were a respite from the hectic demands of running the bungalow. Maji made a mental note to ask the cook to replenish their stock of Gold Spot and pick up a box of fried jalebi dipped in syrup and immodestly dressed in edible silver.
Her thoughts went on like this, round after round, sometimes making lists, sometimes more meditatively reflecting upon the lessons on morality from the great epics, the Mahabharata and the Ramayana, sometimes snagging on a memory of her late husband or daughter. Maji always ended her rounds in the parlor, hoisting herself upon a cushioned, antique dais that may have at one point belonged to the raja of a small fiefdom before it was done away with by the British. The dais was heavily ornamented, its brass base overlaid by a dense mattress, a silken saffron cloth, and finely embroidered bolsters. Leaning against their solid girth, Maji offered a dignified, even regal presence while presiding over the sitting area where no business, domestic or otherwise, could take place unheard or unseen.
“Kuntal,” Maji called out to the housemaid, her legs painfully tucked lotus-style in front of her, “bring my morning tonic.”
Kuntal appeared with a small silver tray in hand on top of which was a tall glass tumbler of boiling-hot water mixed with fresh lime juice and honey. Though she was in her midthirties, she still carried herself like a shy, plump girl. Maji reached out and gingerly grasped the rim with her thumb and middle finger, the other fingers splayed out to protect them from the rising steam. She took a sip and sighed, her stern mouth sinking in a sea of flesh. It was then she noticed that Kuntal lingered.
“Is something wrong?”
Kuntal bit her lip, she did not like to be dishonest with Maji whom she deeply respected, revered even. “No, nothing Maji. I just didn’t sleep well last night.”
This was not entirely a lie. What she did not say was that she had discovered the bathroom door had been unbolted this morning, that there had been an overturned steel cup alongside the kitchen stool, that she had hastily summoned her elder sister Parvati, and that Parvati had said, No, don’t tell Maji, not just yet. They had beaten the laundry in the bathroom without incident and pinned it up in the back garden. The clothes now hung, crucified, to lines of jute, bleeding their dampness into the air.
The Mittal family’s laundry used to be sent out to the dhobiwallah to be cleaned. But as Maji grew more and more obese, she became concerned with the indignity of a strange washerman rubbing soap into the crotch of her gigantic undergarment. So when Parvati and Kuntal were hired in 1943, the expectation was that, in addition to the full array of housework, the household’s laundry would be done at home by them too.
Relieved to find work, they had taken on this task without complaint. Over time, though, as they became an indispensable part of the household, the sound of Parvati’s wooden paddle hitting the clothes echoed through the bungalow each morning, infiltrating its inhabitants’ dreams with loud smack-smacks of resentment.
Maji inspected Kuntal’s face more closely. No, something was definitely wrong. She decided to let it be for the moment because the rest of her family was at last waking up. The bungalow stirred to life, filling with the sound of running water, the clanking of Cook Kanj in the kitchen, the gradual crescendo of voices. She rocked back and forth until she could dislodge her legs, then laboriously stood and hobbled to the front gate where Cook Kanj met her with a with a thali of rice and curried vegetables in her hand. Though she rarely left home because of the crippling arthritis in her knees, Maji never missed a day of giving alms to the famous hopping sadhu who came by the bungalow every morning.
The sadhu traveled on one foot, the other bent like a triangle at the knee, completely naked but for a small loin cloth that immodestly flapped upwards with every hop. He had traversed the same route for twenty years, becoming an object of veneration for the pious, local debate for the men, and endless fascination for the neighborhood children. He possessed nothing more than three white stripes of ash painted across his forehead and a small group of devotees who followed him around, one of whom scurried ahead to sweep dung and debris out of his path. The sadhu’s hopping leg was muscular and distended with blood while the other one had simply withered away from neglect and had to be tied via prop system to his shoulder. He received the alms from Maji, gave his blessings, and ceremoniously hopped away. Maji felt at peace.
By the time Pinky emerged from the bedroom, the first shift of breakfast was already laid out on the table. Patties of aloo tikkis were piled upon a plate with spicy mint and sweet-sour imli chutneys, and a bottle of ketchup. There were thin slices of toast smeared with softened butter, chunks of fresh fruit, and chai. Jaginder was popping the aloo tikkis into his mouth at an alarming rate while scanning the Hindi-language NavBharat Times. Savita sat next to him, simultaneously heaping more food upon his plate and taking delicate bites of guava sprinkled with rock salt. Nimish, who was the only one of the boys allowed to read at breakfast, ate while using his elbow to prop open a book, Hindoo Holiday.
Nimish of
ten expounded on complex topics at the dining table, which earned him irritated looks from his father, proud smiles from his mother, and sharp elbows from his younger brothers. After Nimish reached adolescence, Savita had declared him off-limits for general slapping and other disciplinary actions such as ear-pulling and nose-pinching that involved his face. You mustn’t jiggle his brain cells out of place.
What rot, Jaginder had replied, judging by the nonsense that comes out of his mouth, he could use a bloody shake.
Nevertheless, he obeyed the injunction against slapping his eldest and instead, much to Dheer and Tufan’s dismay, augmented his disciplinary efforts toward the twins.
Dheer was chatting away now, expounding on the composition of various street snacks. “Bhelpuri should be served in a malu leaf cone with a squeeze of lime and enough imli chutney on top to make it sweet,” he said, his voice strained with longing for the sour tamarind paste amply mixed with sweet dates, sugar, and wrinkled bedagi chilies.
No one appeared to be listening.
Tufan ate sullenly next to unopened stacks of comics, including Palladin, Annie Oakley, Roy Rogers, and The Lone Ranger.
“Oh, wah, look who’s decided to get up finally,” Savita remarked, spotting her niece in her pajamas.
Pinky’s face fell. After unbolting the door the previous night, she had thrown herself into bed with Maji, holding onto her hand and imagining the worst. Exhaustion and tears finally overwhelmed her and she fell fast asleep. Now in the morning, she felt a little better. The family was sitting as always, eating their breakfast. She stole a glance at Nimish.
“Good morning,” he offered quietly before returning to his book.
Haunting Bombay Page 3