Haunting Bombay

by Shilpa Agarwal

Shaking slightly, Maji propelled herself towards the door, then stopped and turned around. There were tears in her eyes. “Don’t speak of this ever again,” she said. “You are what is important to me. You. You. You. Why can’t you see that?”

  Pinky cast her face downwards. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I promise.”

  Maji forced herself to walk away from Pinky into the dark night, a vision of her other granddaughter rising up in her head. After all these years, there was that ache in her chest that never went away, that one spot that was not powerful, but weak, not courageous, but fearful. It was a stain of India ink that long ago marked her heart but, just in the past four days, had threateningly begun to spread.

  She remembered how she had driven down to the windswept ocean with Jaginder, their priest Panditji, and Savita clutching the dead baby.

  According to the ancient Vedas, Panditji had informed them, the baby’s soul has not yet attained the worldly attachments that require a funeral pyre to burn away.

  And so their destination was not the cliffside crematorium atop Malabar Hill where Maji’s own husband had been reduced to ash, but the Hindu burial grounds along the Arabian Sea.

  As they had stood together just outside the grounds in a tight circle, they recited the ancient shloka, Ram Nam Satya Hai, Satya Bol Gutya Hai—Lord Rama’s name is the truth, the truth is salvation.

  Entwining the baby within the triangle of their arms, they had tenderly pressed velvety marigolds to her eyes and whispered their good-byes.

  MONSOONS & MIRACLES

  Cook Kanj was serving curry chawal the evening he found religion.

  Fried spinach-and-onions pakoras floated in a saffron-colored sea of chickpea flour, curds, and toasted ajwain. Normally, this dish— a family favorite—brought a hint of lightness to Cook Kanj’s grim countenance. But not today. His frown only deepened, lips puckering as if having been accidentally scorched. He peered into the pot and cursed. The curry had turned out too watery. And no amount of heat had thickened it. Nor had adding extra flour. It was dinnertime and Cook Kanj was out of options. Although he was not overly religious, he prayed that moment for a miracle of sorts.

  “Extra, extra sugar in tomorrow’s puja halwa,” he promised to the gods as he stood ladling watery curry onto stainless-steel plates. “Fine. Fine. Don’t thicken my curry if you want to play those tricks. Just make them not notice, nah?” he beseeched silently as he slowly lowered the plate under Jaginder’s nose.

  Jaginder’s eyebrows smashed together in a brief moment of surprised displeasure.

  And then a monsoon cloud burst over Maji’s bungalow.

  Tufan and Dheer raced out to the driveway and stood there, arms outstretched, until their kurta pajamas turned translucent, accentuating Dheer’s plump belly and revealing an army of moles marching across Tufan’s backside. “Jantar Mantar, kaam karantar, chhoo, chhoo, chhoo!” they belted out as if they were magicians who had wondrously disappeared the heat, sweat, and sun.

  Jaginder scampered to the verandah and jabbed a thick finger into the downpour. “Step one foot inside with your soggy bodies and I will give each of you two sound chantas!” he threatened in order to hide his sudden pang of jealousy at his sons’ carefree elation. Once he had been able to stretch his arms to the sky and think the world belonged to him.

  The earth and sky embraced with the ferocity of lovemaking. The wind moaned and whipped, clattering shutters, gusting through the open door, and causing leaves and dirt on the driveway to dance in wild waltzing steps. Savita glanced up at Jaginder and noticed, with a faint flush in her cheeks, an unusual tingling in her breasts. Could it be possible that she once again desired this man, this very same man who was currently prancing on the verandah, issuing orders and casting out threats with equal severity? Feeling disturbed by this thought more than by her sudden arousal, Savita quietly slipped out of her chair and fled to her room.

  Nimish, too, felt heated: the courage that had tauntingly eluded him now mightily burst within him. The rains, of course, brought inescapable romance to the city. Lovely Lawate’s shuttered window, behind which he could sometimes detect a faint light, beckoned with the intensity of a lover’s gaze. Nimish adjusted his spectacles, muttering a quick “good night” to the vacated table before fleeing to his room.

  “Gulu, the Ambassador,” Jaginder’s voice pierced through the thunderous roaring of the sky, the metallic pelting of water against rooftop.

  “Sir?” Gulu appeared under a frightened umbrella that shrank back, shivering on its wiry frame.

  “The Ambassador,” Jaginder repeated, now swinging into action. “Don’t worry, I’ll drive it myself.”

  “Where are you going Papa?” Tufan squeaked as the Ambassador’s headlights bore down on him.

  “To pray,” was all Jaginder said before plopping himself in the front seat and revving the engine. Gulu unlocked the green gates and reluctantly pushed them open, watching the Ambassador struggle its way onto the waterlogged street with all the apprehension of a father sending his daughter off on her wedding night.

  Kanj and Parvati were nowhere to be seen, having cast aside their household duties and stolen away together under the inviting monsoon shadows. Only Kuntal remained, wet towels in hand. Nimish had slipped out the back door, emboldened by the pouring rains, cloaked by the darkened sky. Tentatively at first, then with heart beating in his chest, he crept to the wall that separated Maji’s bungalow from the Lawates’. The rain pounded in his ears, blood rushed in his legs, desperation in his heart.

  Just days before, he had been surreptitiously leafing though Sir Richard Burton’s translation of the Ananga Ranga, an ancient text on sexuality between husband and wife. The text proclaimed that eating tamarind enhanced a woman’s sexual enjoyment, a revelation that caused him to close the book’s weathered pages with trembling fingers. Had his mother ever consumed tamarind? Nimish searched his memory for such an incident, but remembered that Savita diligently stayed away from all things sour, including tamarind chutney, saying that it corrupted her womb. And Maji? Her obese and masculine body draped in widow-white clothing was so far from anything remotely sexual that it made Nimish shudder to think of how his own father was conceived. But Lovely, Lovely sat under the tamarind tree and deliberately ate pod after pod in October and November when they were in full fruition. He could almost taste the sweet sourness that clung to her lips, painting them a saucy reddish-brown.

  While Jaginder roared off in pursuit of salvation, Savita perched in front of her mirror, searching for answers. Right away she noticed two things.

  Her eyes were glistening, the kohl lining smudged underneath like a bruise.

  And, her sari blouse had grown visibly tighter.

  She wiped her eyes, blaming the moisture in the air for the first change. She could not understand the sudden shine in her eyes. It was as if the rains had washed away the layers of hardness from her face, the tiny wrinkles of resentment that spun out from her eyelashes. Savita slid the sari palloo from over her shoulder and cast it to the floor. Her blouse, sewn to perfection by the tailor only days ago, now cut into her ribs. The sleeves held tightly past her elbows where they flared out with silver embroidery. Six metal eyelets strained down the front. Savita carefully undid the clasps, taking in surprising gasps of air as the blouse was released. Bra falling to the ground, she held her breasts in her hands.

  Her nipples protruded outwards, pointing directly at the mirror. Bluish veins rose under her skin like a map. For a moment, she became acutely aware of the deafening noise of clouds bursting, the frantic shiftings of the bungalow as it strained under the deluge, and her sons’ jubilant shouts. Suddenly remembering her husband, Savita’s eyes fl ickered to the door for a second, briefly hoping that it was latched.

  And then, just before the electricity gave way, her mirror revealed one more thing.

  Jaginder was nearly as good as his word. Soaked to the bone, he sat on a wooden chair, eyes upon a wall. There upon a mantle shelf, covered
with a white crocheted cloth, Mother Mary and Jesus gazed from picture frames haloed by the ethereal glow issuing from brass candleholders. A crude wooden crucifix hung, tilted slightly, on a nail above.

  “Channa and peanuts too, man?”

  Jaginder looked up. A fleshy woman wearing a floral knee-length dress stood over him. Her hair was bobbed, face devoid of makeup. A mole on her chin wavered at him with its three overgrown hairs. Without waiting for a reply, she slapped down a full bottle of daru along with a stained glass filled with ice and a bottle of Duke’s soda. “Yes,” Jaginder grunted, handing her the cash.

  The woman, the enterprising owner of this particular auntie-ka-adda, snapped her pulpy fingers. Almost instantly, a young girl, her pretty teenage daughter, appeared with a plate of channa roasted lentil and peanuts. Jaginder stole a glance at her and placed another bill on the table. A basket of fried fish and cigarettes appeared within moments.

  Now sitting with his drink in hand, Jaginder tried to remember how he had driven the Ambassador through the soggy streets, along the crashing coastline to the suburb of Bandra. He had barely been able to make out the clusters of stucco houses with their long sloping clay-tile roofs in the downpour. The palm trees nestled in between the homes swayed and snapped like ferocious guard dogs. He had driven by a cemetery littered with gravestones and cement crosses. One cross stood out in the front, obviously to mark the grave of a once-prominent Christian villager. Now all that remained were the initials I. N. R. I.—the inscription for Jesus of Nazareth King of the Jews that the Romans had put on Jesus’s crucifixion cross—to hover above the villager’s departed spirit for eternity.

  How he had ended up at this particular adda, Jaginder couldn’t recall. It was as if the Ambassador had led him there of its own accord. He could not stop himself from going; his fascination with the lower class people in the adda and their refreshing brew seemed to take away all his troubles. He berated himself for sinking so far, for trading away his honor and respectability, for sneaking off in the middle of the night or under the torrential wings of the monsoon because he was too shamed to own up to his habit.

  He had ended up here at an adda in Bandra belonging to an intrepid middle-aged Christian woman known locally, and famously, as Rosie Auntie. Besides serving absolutely pure liquor, on which her honor depended, Rosie’s adda provided a merry family setting with a religious backdrop that somehow made it all feel like God himself was joining in the fun.

  “To the monsoons’ arrival,” Jaginder exhorted Jesus and then tossed back a long gulp. Rosie promptly arrived bearing another half-pint and fresh attitude. Then she sauntered over to the next table threateningly. “No money, man, then out you go!” she yelled at the frightened patron.

  The door opened; the rains gusted in with feverish intensity. A low cheer went through the crowd as a regular staggered in, squeezing water from his hat and theatrically slipping in the puddle it made. He was a thin man, with a large wormy mustache and a wave of hair that remained impossibly oiled in place despite the rains. Rosie ushered him to the nearest table where he was immediately absorbed into a round of cards as if his companions had simply been waiting for him to take his turn. A fresh plate of roasted peanuts was brought forth by the teenage daughter, Marie, who wore a pretty pink frock and a matching bow in her thick, black tresses. Her dark eyes sat quietly in her face, accentuated by long lashes and the beginnings of a loss of innocence.

  “Peanuts? Bas?” the regular flirted with her. “What else can you give me?”

  The girl left and returned with fried fish and her mother.

  The regular scowled and ordered a round of drinks.

  The rooftop began to leak over Jaginder’s table. Palm trees thrashed above. Water from the road glistened on the floor like a snake. Little Marie raced back and forth to the tables, tray delicately balanced on her hip. The regular became louder and suddenly reached for her backside. A scream was followed by the sharp scrape of chairs being pulled back.

  Jaginder watched fascinated, thinking How lucky that guy is to be free with his emotions, to be out of control. His life at the bungalow was so restricted, reserved, futile.

  Rosie arrived at the scene, hips knocking back furniture that had not been pulled out of her path. “Shameless child!” she roared, expertly cuffing her daughter on the head. The girl fled the room, the tiny gold cross around her neck glinting in the candlelight.

  “Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!” the regular pleaded and slurred, his hands waving like surrender flags above his head.

  “Mr. Sorry again, eh man?” Rosie roared. “Hey Jonny! Hey idiot-son-of-mine!”

  Jonny promptly arrived from the back room where he must have been lifting metal drums of brandy to pass the time. Sporting his best menacing grimace, he strode through the room, the purple crucifix on his arm flexing with pleasure.

  “No need for dadagiri Jonny,” said the regular’s card partner, pumping his arms in front of him as if to slow down Jonny’s formidable progress.

  “No need! No need!” the regular screeched like a parrot. Though it was clear that he was a repeat offender, he appeared no less frightened by the spectacle of Rosie’s bodybuilding son. Even his wormy mustache had shrunk under his nose as if to take shelter.

  “OUT!” the son grunted in his best James Dean voice. He was wearing a tank top and knickers, below which stuck out two skinny legs like twigs giving him less the thuggy look he aspired to and more the appearance of a chocolate popsicle.

  “No need! No need!” the regular pleaded again, his hand over his head as if to shield himself from invisible blows.

  “Send him with Jigger, man,” the Auntie gravely sentenced, nodding towards the door. Jigger was the adda’s resident taxi driver who gently shuttled customers home after the evenings grew long. The son lifted the regular by his neck. The man cowered and pleaded, though in all his time at Rosie’s adda and despite all his offenses, not a hair on his body had ever been hurt. As drunk as he was, he knew that Rosie always took him back because he was, simply put, good for business. The other customers enjoyed the show, Jaginder included, alternately cheering him on to stand his ground and cajoling Jonny to beat him to a bloody pulp. Jonny half-dragged the man to the door where he tossed him onto the wet ground and dusted his hands as if having thrown out the garbage.

  The regular allowed himself to be taken into the taxi by Jigger and, from the safety of its interior, flashed a wide grin at the customers peering out through the door. Meanwhile, inside the adda, the mood had grown cheery. “Chalta hai,” the drunks bantered with each other as they ordered another round of drinks. “These things go on.”

  “The liquor went to the bastard’s head,” said the regular’s friend, tucking his cards into his breast pocket. “He’ll be back tomorrow with his long fingers.”

  Even Rosie seemed to have cracked a smile. In no time, Marie was back serving channa with a defiant tilt to her hips. Jonny had dissolved once more into the back room, recounting his exploits with unnecessary and unrealistic detail to his younger brother.

  Jaginder sighed with a forgotten contentment. Throwing a handful of sing-dana in his mouth, he bravely invited himself into the card game.

  The regular’s friends shot each other looks but grunted in approval. Jaginder ordered a round of drinks, watching Marie from the corner of his eye. There was something about her, her vibrancy that starkly contrasted with Savita’s chilly temperament and Maji’s commanding self-control. Yes, he thought, my daughter would have brought that same spirit to our home. Warmth. Vitality.

  He longed to touch her, to feel her carefree energy, her shining youth.

  Marie came by their table and Jaginder watched as his hand moved from his drink toward her, toward her slender waist. To touch another woman, a unmarried girl, was sacrilegious, yet he knew he was going to do it. Something deep inside compelled him, a wish to punish himself for his child’s death and his family’s deterioration afterwards.

  He reached out for both his salvatio
n and his condemnation.

  Rosie slapped his hand away. “Don’t you have any shame!” she spat.

  The adda fell silent, accusing eyes asking, Who is this big-big person? Why does he want to trouble us?

  Jaginder recoiled as if it were his face that had been struck.

  Oh God, what was I thinking?

  Marie smiled demurely, thrilled to have caught the attention of such a wealthy Sahib.

  Jonny grabbed Jaginder by the scruff of his neck and threw him out onto the street. “Salam, Sahib! ” he said tauntingly before strutting back inside.

  “She’s young enough to be your daughter!” Rosie shouted from the doorway.

  There was no humor, no show as there had been with the regular, merely a cold, sharp declaration that he was not welcome. He did not belong.

  “I have no daughter, I have no daughter,” Jaginder cried out, sprawled upon the wet pavement.

  At last, at last, he wept for his loss.

  In the sudden darkness, Savita could not be sure of what she had seen in her mirror. Slowly, she lifted her finger and touched the wetness at her nipple. She brought her finger to her nose and smelled a familiar sweetness on it. A spiral of pain pushed urgently from inside her breasts. She held them again, shocked by their fullness. Bringing her finger to her mouth now, she let the taste from her finger settle into her mouth. And then she knew. A low cry filled the room as Savita collapsed onto her vanity. Unbelievably, more than thirteen years after the birth of her last child, her breasts had filled with milk.

  The monsoons brought life to the parched earth but also miracles to its yearning inhabitants. This year as the rains burst overhead, their promise proved even worthier. Dheer and Tufan danced in the offerings from the sky until Kuntal finally settled them in bed with a convenient stash of chocolate. Nimish remained outside, by the wall, waiting for Lovely to emerge.

  Jaginder piloted the Ambassador through the standing water and spray, the wipers doing nothing more than agitating the flood gushing down his windshield. Water seeped into the car from below and through the open window, soaking his pants and shirt. The black clouds suddenly parted above, revealing a veiny and reddish moon, a reflection of his own bleary eyes. Anticipating the imminent return of his beloved Ambassador, Gulu awoke from a restless nap and peered through the gate for the familiar headlights.