Haunting Bombay

by Shilpa Agarwal

  “They’ll be all boarded up now for the monsoons,” Nimish said. “You won’t find a place to stay.”

  “I’ll take care of that,” Maji said. “If we go tonight, we’ll reach there before the rains.”

  “I want to see Pratapgad Fort! That’s where Shivaji slashed open Afzal Khan’s guts with his steel talons and killed him!” Tufan shouted, reenacting this event by retracting his hand into a claw and sinking it into Dheer’s fleshy belly.

  “Oh the strawberries!” Savita cried out, slapping Tufan across the head. “What I wouldn’t give for a Mahabaleshwari strawberry!”

  “And their sesame chikki too,” Dheer added.

  “I’m taking Pinky,” Maji said, her tone firm. “Just Pinky this time.”

  “It’s not fair, you always do things for her!” Tufan whined.

  “Just Pinky,” Savita huffed before storming away, feeling once again that biting hardness in her heart. “Always just Pinky.”

  Maji made slow progress to the platform at Victoria Terminus, painfully leaning upon her cane and half-dragging her feet forward. The station, built during the imperial reign of England’s Queen Victoria, rose from the ground like a grand cathedral. Its majestic carved stone and stained-glass exterior gave way, however, not to silent altars and slowly crucified gods but to the deafening roar of humanity in a hurry.

  The expansive station interior swelled with the din of hundreds of thousands of people coming and going, punctuated by the clacking of trains. Pinky walked alongside her grandmother, holding her hand tightly as they made their way through the maze of stairways and platforms, weaving past the laborers carrying luggage atop their red-turbaned heads and past the blank-eyed beggars lifting and lowering their hands like mechanical dolls.

  Just inside, a hand-painted board listed the train departures and arrivals: Punjab Mail to Agra in the north, Gitanjali Express to Calcutta in the east, and Kanniya Kumari Express to Cochin in the south. A train pulled in at the adjacent platform. Even before it had stopped, a ratty contingent of street boys slipped aboard and scurried to the pantry car in hopes of finding heated sandwiches, cellophaned sweets, or bottles of soda. A rush of bodies jostled at the compartment entrances with luggage, small children, and bulging parcels held balanced upon their heads.

  At their platform, the smells of stale urine and the pungent grime of unwashed bodies infiltrated the sweet cardamom scent of tea steaming from round, clay kullarhs that were sold through iron-barred openings in the fuggy second-class compartments. While Maji and Pinky waited, Nimish and Gulu pressed themselves into the crowd, elbowing their way into a reserved compartment. They reappeared flush-faced a few moments later, successful in their bid to stow the luggage away under the seats and ensure that everything was in order. Pinky held two stainless-steel tiffins, each of the three stackable, enclosed sections had just been filled by Cook Kanj with something warm and aromatic. Potato-filled parathas lined the top, karela sabzi shrunken and tied like tiny green packages occupied the middle, and boiled potatoes accompanied by lemon and salt pickles in the bottom of the tiffin.

  Half-leaning with one hand pressed on Pinky’s head, Maji hobbled to their compartment and settled into her seat with a sigh. Nimish reached in from the window and grasped Pinky’s hand.

  “Here,” he said, handing her Sketches from My Past. “I think, maybe, you might find it helpful.” His eyes were soft, gentle.

  Pinky clutched the book tightly to her chest, reigning in her emotions. Then she stuck her head out of the window, waving good-bye.

  Closing her eyes for a moment, Pinky wiped away a dampness. When she opened them again, from the edge of her vision she caught sight of a woman in red climbing up from the tracks and onto the platform. Despite the fact that the wheels had already begun to creak forward, Pinky witnessed the action with a clarity so sharp it was as if everything was unfolding under the lens of a magnifying glass.

  The mysterious woman walked through the crowd, past the chai-wallah squatting down to pour a cup of tea, past the piled luggage of a harried traveler who had missed the train, and past families leaning against their rolled-away bedding on the stone floor, playing cards and sipping chai. Her fiery red palloo with shiny metallic needlework along the edge, one end of which was tucked into her mouth to keep it from flying away, hovered in the air behind her like wildfire.

  The woman strode past the red-coated, Nehru-capped porters betting on better tips from the first-class compartments and through a pile of debris that a sweeper had collected, leaving only a bit of residual dampness to mark her passing. And then seeing something, she stopped. Her sari palloo glowed brighter, almost blindingly bright.

  Nimish and Gulu, unaware of the woman approaching them, turned to go.

  The woman slowly raised her face towards the departing train, allowing the palloo to slip from her head. Pinky gasped. She knew that face. The woman’s eyes caught Pinky’s, boring into them with a gaze so heavy, so full of aching, that Pinky began to lose her balance, her nose skidding across the greasy glass window.

  And then half-lowering her eyelids and smiling as if suddenly satiated, the mysterious woman pursued Nimish and Gulu, her fingers splayed as if to grab theirs from behind.

  Slowly, almost hand in hand, the unlikely trio made their way back home.

  BORDERS:

  1960

  The face is what one cannot kill. It is what cannot become a

  content, which your thought would embrace;

  it is uncontainable, it leads you beyond.

  —EMMANUEL LEVINAS, ETHICS AND INFINITY

  Any human face is a claim on you, because you

  can’t help but understand the singularity of it, the courage and

  loneliness of it. But this is truest of the face of an infant. I

  consider that to be one kind of vision, as mystical as any.

  —MARILYNNE ROBINSON, GILEAD

  AN INAUSPICIOUS SIGN

  Pinky and Maji arrived in Mahabaleshwar at dawn. The morning mist rose from the canyons, illuminating lush valleys of green and glistening waterfalls. The sky was a crystalline blue, the hue of the heavens.

  They stayed in a vegetarian-only bungalow near the market, sharing a room that smelled faintly of Flit insecticide. Breakfast consisted of tea, toast, and gooseberry jam. After baths and a visit to the Krishna temple, known locally as Panchgana, Maji reclined in their room and snacked on chana jor garam, flattened flakes of black gram flavored with an abundance of red chilies and a drop of lime.

  “Come,” she said, patting the bed. “Come rest.”

  “I’m not tired,” Pinky said, thinking of the mysterious woman at the train station. Who was she? And why had she followed Nimish and Gulu out of the station? She had not been a beggar of any sort, this Pinky knew instinctively. Yet there had been an unmistakable hunger in her face. A yearning. Beware of inauspicious signs when you first start a journey, Maji had always counseled, for they are warnings given by none other than Lord Ganesh to remain at home. But Pinky had not gotten off the train. She had ridden silently, falling into a restless sleep while in the adjacent bunk, Maji snored soundly.

  Even now, Maji had already fallen asleep. Pinky pulled Sketches from her satchel and held it to her chest as if to recall the moment Nimish had grabbed her hand at the station and given it to her. She opened to one of the bookmarked pages: Once when gazing up at stars, counting them one by one, Binda pointed to an especially bright star and said, “That is my mother” . . . and I understood then that the mother who is called away by God turns into a star and continues to keep an eye on her children from above.

  Pinky’s throat constricted.

  He understood her.

  Even if he never would love her.

  In the late afternoon, Maji and Pinky walked the grounds in the shade of the jamun trees. The oval berries had ripened from pink to a crimson black, ready for picking. Soon Pinky’s tongue had turned a deep purple.

  “Dried jamun’s very good for the digest
ive system,” Maji said, patting Pinky upon the head.

  Pinky looked up at her grandmother. Her normally stern mouth had relaxed into a semblance of a smile. “The hills are good,” she said with a sigh.

  “Maji,” Pinky said tentatively, “I saw a girl at the station in Bombay, I thought I recognized her.”

  “A school friend? You should spend more time with your friends.”

  “No, she was older, perhaps even married but I don’t know her name. I could describe her to you.”

  “Hmm,” Maji said, gazing up at the trees. “Did I ever tell you the tale of the monkey and the jamun tree?”

  Pinky sighed. As with everything else about her, Maji’s communication was highly regulated, consisting of a series of one-way transmissions: prayers to the gods, commands to the servants, reprimands to Savita, advice to Jaginder, and stories—whether from the Sanskrit epics or the Panchatantra animal fables—to Pinky and her cousins. And every ancient story had a lesson, a enigmatic relevance to their present-day life.

  “A monkey lived in a jamun tree,” Maji warmed up. “He was happy but had no friends –”

  She gazed at Pinky to see if she was listening properly.

  “Maji,” Pinky interrupted, “how did you bring me back to Bombay? You never talk about it. I want to know.”

  Maji paused for a deep breath. “I heard you cry,” she finally said, “the moment I arrived at your father’s flat. You lay upon the bed, eyes shut, fists in tight balls, mouth wide open—” What she did not say was that Pinky’s tiny face, the crevices around her neck, elbows, wrists, and knees were dotted with red pustules that oozed liquid. It was as if her entire body was weeping.

  Maji had placed her palm upon Pinky’s scalp and felt God’s merciful presence in her. This child, this beautiful little child. She wanted nothing more than to cry.

  What have you done to treat her skin? she had asked Pinky’s father. There had been little money to spend on a doctor so instead, they had soaked her in a bucket with a drop of the disinfectant phenol.

  Her sickness started just after Yamuna’s passing, he said. At the mention of his wife’s name, he began to weep once more.

  “I massaged you then bathed you in boiled neem leaves,” Maji said continuing along the path, overripe jamun fruit squelching underfoot.

  She had gone into the tiny kitchen where she drew water from a clay vessel and washed her hands over the low sink. The fact that her daughter had never inhabited this cold, dark flat gave her some comfort. Nearby, a sack of coarse red wheat from America, cheaper than homegrown Indian atta, leaned against a wall. A half-empty jar of Kotogem vegetarian ghee stood on the counter. Maji opened a tightly lidded circular tin that lay next to the cook stove and took out a steel cup of turmeric. This she mixed with the last bit of chickpea fl our in the household and a little water until it became a thick paste.

  Pinky’s father and his mother watched her in shock. Who was this woman who came into their home as if she owned it? With Yamuna’s death, Maji’s ties to them were tenuous, uncertain. Yet her willfulness left them speechless.

  Pinky’s cries filled the flat with a sense of urgency.

  Maji sat upon the bed and removed Pinky’s cloth nappie and top. Then she held the naked baby to her bosom. Pinky stopped crying. Her eyes opened and she looked into the face of her grandmother.

  I’m here now, Maji whispered. There’s no need to cry anymore.

  She placed Pinky upon a sheet and, dipping her fingers into the paste, began to gently rub the yellow substance onto her skin.

  “Afterwards, I held you to me and we both fell asleep,” Maji said.

  “But how did you bring me back?” Pinky asked. “Didn’t my Papa want me?”

  Maji sighed.

  She had stayed overnight, announcing the next morning that she was leaving and taking Pinky with her.

  How dare you? Pinky’s other grandmother had growled, summoning up the courage to challenge her. We have been respectful because of your loss but this, this is outrageous.

  Maji remained calm. The child needs proper care, care that she isn’t getting here. I can give her that.

  She doesn’t need anything from you! the old woman shouted, grabbing the baby and holding her tightly. We’ll never agree to such a thing.

  Pinky began to wail.

  Stop, please! her father cried out. He had lost so much in the past weeks, his home, his business, his prosperity, his wife. How could he let his child go? Yet he knew that Maji would care for her, give her top schooling, marry her to a most suitable boy from a highly educated, wealthy family. Maji could give his child more than he ever could. She could secure Pinky’s future. For her sake, how could he not let her go?

  I entrusted my daughter to you, Maji said, her voice unwavering, entrust yours to me.

  I won’t be cheated of my grandchild!

  She’ll never be deprived of anything, Maji countered, her powerful presence radiating through the flat. And then, slowly as if laying out a trump card, she added, I will help you, too. I can help you get settled. I will send money.

  Pinky’s father fell silent, weighing this pact: his only child for much-needed money. Somehow, somehow it was not enough. He touched Pinky who looked so strikingly similar to Yamuna, her long eyelashed eyes, her slender nose.

  Okay, his mother said shrewdly, handing Pinky over. Pay off this factory now and give us ten thousand rupees every year always.

  No, Pinky’s father said, ashamed that he had sunk so far, he—the son of one of the most esteemed businessmen in all of Lahore. No! This is not right! This is not about money!

  He reached for his daughter.

  You’ll get remarried, you’ll have other children, his mother said matter-of-factly. This money, however, will not come twice.

  Maji gritted her teeth, the loss of her daughter so acute that it took her breath away. How easily she could be replaced in their hearts, in their home. I’ll wire the money as soon as I get back.

  And then, without so much as a glance, she turned and walked out into the daylight with Pinky, her chappals kicking up a cloud of dust that seemed to swirl around them, fusing them together, an unexpected wholeness within two shattered histories.

  “Your Papa did want you, beti,” Maji said, breaking the long silence. “He wanted you very much but he knew that I could give you a better life. And so, for your sake, he let you go.”

  That night, Pinky dreamed of plunging down the waterfall in Mahabaleshwar’s lush canyons, the icy water roaring in her ears. In the next moment, she was boating in Venna Lake, Maji straining as she rowed them beyond the tourists, to the farthest edges. The water was murky, green plants swayed menacingly just underneath, the spiky leaves reaching out toward her. The boat rocked violently and Pinky fell. For a moment, there was no sound, just a long, lonely sensation of hollowness. Then she surfaced, gasping for air. She discovered that she was swimming in a brass bucket in the bungalow’s bathroom, the ghost throwing rotting jamun fruit at her from above.

  And then a hand pushed her downwards, so unexpectedly, so fast that Pinky did not have time to cry out. She struggled, staring up at the water’s surface, just a few merciless centimeters above her. Just beyond it she recognized a face with a mole-flecked cheek, the face of the baby’s ayah.

  She woke up screaming.

  “What is it?”Maji asked urgently, holding Pinky to her bosom.

  “It was her,” Pinky moaned.

  “Wake up, you’re dreaming!”

  Pinky opened her eyes. Sweat dripped from her face, her heart pounded furiously in her chest. It was the ayah, she realized. She was the woman at the train station!

  “Drink some water,” Maji said gently, tipping a cup to her mouth.

  Pinky threw herself against her grandmother, holding onto her tightly. “I don’t want to go back! I don’t ever want to go back!”

  “ Oh pho, beti, I knew that coming here would be good for you. But the monsoons will be arriving any day. Already the cotta
ges and buildings are covered with kulum grass. Tomorrow, the whole area will be closed.”

  “I don’t care!”

  “You are growing fast now, becoming a young lady. Already there is marriage interest. You must learn to control your emotions.”

  “I don’t want to get married!” Pinky blurted out. “I don’t ever want to leave you!”

  “Is that what this is all about?” Maji chuckled softy as if hit by a realization. “I was married at fourteen, just as the monsoons arrived. Your grandfather garlanded me as the first auspicious drops drim-drummed on my head. I knew then that Lord Ganesh had blessed our union. And your mother’s wedding —”

  Maji fell silent. “Times have changed now,” she said in a strangled voice.

  Pinky began to cry.

  “Enough now,” Maji soothed, reaching for a bottle of mustard oil. “You must be coming down with a cold from the chilly night air. Lie down and I’ll rub some oil on you.”

  Pinky blew her nose. She had to find some way to reveal what she had seen at the train station, some way that her grandmother would believe her. “The baby, the one who drowned, will you tell me about her?”

  Maji’s face tightened as she continued applying oil in long, hard strokes along Pinky’s neck and shoulder. “We do not speak of such things.”

  “But we speak of my mother, why not her too?”

  “Why bring such sadness?” Maji sighed. “The past cannot be changed even if we desire it.”

  “But what happened to the ayah?”

  “ENOUGH!” Maji shouted, heaving herself from the bed so that the bottle crashed to the ground. “Don’t mention her to me, to anyone in the household. Do you understand? I’ve tolerated this nonsense about ghosts. I’ve brought you all the way here but I will not stand to have my ears, my home defiled by the mention of her.”

  “But, I saw—”

  “UNDERSTAND?”