Civil Lines

by Radhika Swarup

  ‘We,’ interrupted Ajay. He straightened himself up, smiled confidently at Pradeep, and patted him on the back. Pradeep shook him off. ‘We were just discussing a cricket match.’

  ‘Cricket?’

  Pradeep nodded. This was the age-old ritual of omertà playing out, and I knew what their response would be before I repeated my question, ‘Cricket?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ajay insisted, and as I stared, he said again, ‘Yes, yes, yes. This man says Kohli is the best batsman to ever have played for India, can you believe it?’

  ‘Ajay…’

  ‘I mean it, Siya. I think I was quite restrained in my reply, all things…’

  But he was destined not to finish his sentence. The others came hurrying in from the garden room, and stood surveying the scene before them. The men were still standing inches away from each other. Ajay had a smile plastered on his face, but Pradeep looked upset. For all his falling in with Ajay’s speech a moment ago, he looked like he was on the verge of an outburst.

  His face was flushed; his hands balled up into fists. He was looking straight at Maya, his features distraught, and said, ‘That’s it, Didi, I can’t take this anymore.’ His words were more spittle than any genuine articulation, each word hurled out with great force, and I turned back to see if anyone else had comprehended any better than I had.

  Maya stepped forward. ‘Now, Pradeep…’

  Pradeep turned to Maya and looked at her earnestly. ‘I told you, Didi, didn’t I? I told you I wouldn’t stay if Ajay Sir spoke again…’

  It was obvious the pair had discussed Ajay. There would have been another mention of Saloni, another perceived insult, and Maya would have stepped in to soothe Pradeep’s nerves. His eyes bored into her, but she was still nodding in her placating manner, like when she had been in the habit of telling me as a child that my fears were unfounded. I’d fallen face forward one day at school, slicing open my knee. She had been right behind me. It had been break, I think, when the entire school spilled out into the lawns behind school, and I had tripped on the tarmac leading up to the lawn.

  Maya had been in front of me, and eager to go off with her friends, but she had heard me fall and had returned to my side. The cut was gaily bleeding, my hysteria setting in, and children were gathering all around us to point and offer counsel. Maya would nod at all she heard, nod at my tears, and as she worked with a handkerchief to stem the flow of my blood, she would nod again, telling me my injury wasn’t so bad, that she had suffered worse herself, my sensible older sister, trying to make me disbelieve the evidence of my own eyes.

  Now she nodded at Pradeep’s complaints, and I knew Ajay had reprised his teasing. I watched him as he leaned back against the wall he had so recently been pinned again, one leg crossing the other, as if he had no care in the world. There Pradeep was, nearly crying in his despair, telling my sister that though he was grateful to Maya for all she had done, he couldn’t continue to live under her roof, and Ajay tilted his head, as if he were a removed but well-meaning observer of the spectacle.

  My blood boiled. ‘Ajay!’ I called, my voice sharp, and he immediately straightened himself out. ‘What’s all this about?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he replied, as Pradeep glared at him. ‘We were just having a chat…’ Pradeep laughed out loud, a brittle sound, and Ajay nodded his head vigorously, ‘Yes,’ he added, the shameless villain, ‘we were just talking about cricket.’

  There was a low growl from Pradeep, a warning battle cry, and Maya looked to me beseechingly. Help, she mouthed, and I nodded. ‘Come with me,’ I said to Ajay, ‘I have an errand to run, and you can give me a lift.’

  He whistled in the car. The tune escaped me for an age, which added to my irritation, as instead of discussing his altercation with Pradeep, I focussed on trying to identify the song. It was definitely a Hindi number, and old, from the black and white era, and I dimly remembered a pomaded hero swaying through the streets as he sang the song. I shut my eyes to concentrate, and still the song escaped me. Had there been a heroine in the song? I couldn’t remember one, but I distinctly remembered crowding around our old black and white TV set for Saturday morning’s music hour. Antakshari, the programme was called, and we had grown up in the days of terrestrial TV, when the sole national media broadcaster focussed on family friendly television at all times. There were no scantily clad models on TV, no risqué music videos, no clashing in-laws. I had definitely seen the song on TV in my childhood, the music repeated every weekend, but the lyrics continued to elude me.

  It was endlessly tantalising, a memory out of reach, like a soap bubble trailing into the ether as I chased it. Ajay’s whistling slowed as we reached a traffic light, and he turned smilingly to me. ‘How I loved that song as a child. Dev Anand,’ he said, as the song finally flashed in my head, ‘so happy, so handsome. So carefree.’

  I shrugged.

  ‘How long you’ve been away,’ he said. He was looking at me, his eyes serious, for once not bent on a joke, and I looked down. His hand was on the clutch, and he had rolled his sleeves up. I could see the hair on his arms, and I turned away.

  ‘Well,’ I said, as the light changed and he shifted gear, ‘I really need to understand what happened with Pradeep.’

  ‘Oof,’ came the reply. ‘The man is too sensitive.’

  ‘You’ve been needling him,’ I said. ‘You know he’s not happy about your interest in Saloni.’

  ‘Come on, now,’ he retorted. ‘Here you women are, acting like feminists, when all you care about is protecting poor Pradeep’s feelings. A girl comes in, intelligent, ambitious, and eager to work, and I admit I teased Pradeep in the beginning.’ The car came to a stop in front of a parade of shops. ‘He did well marrying her, and you know it, but after Pradeep erupted, I dialled down the ribbing. I, for one, would be proud to have a beautiful, intelligent woman by my side.’ Ajay looked out of the window, where a parking attendant offered him a chit. He took the chit, nodded, and rolled up the window, ‘But this Pradeep. This big, strong man, well he prefers to keep his jewel hidden.’

  I had a sudden thought. ‘You like her.’

  ‘No,’ he said, his words harsh. ‘I do not like her. I admire her, yes, and I do think she’s wasted on that oaf, but I have no romantic designs on her. I, I…’ and here he dashed his hands against the steering wheel. The horn blared, a school of crows flew off the bonnet, and Ajay grunted. ‘And I’m surprised at you, Siya. Taking his side when he’s being so unreasonable.’

  ‘It’s not so simple,’ I said, struggling to defend myself. Nothing he had said had been wrong, and all the anger I had built up deflated. ‘There’s Shanti to think of too, and she is like family.’

  ‘Shanti,’ he mused, ‘another woman shielding a man.’

  ‘I know,’ I began, then stopped. He was right, Pradeep’s conduct was indefensible, but there it was. Another car pulled up next to us, and the parking attendant hurried to the driver. They conducted their business, and then the attendant peered through our window. He seemed unable to decide if we were having a quarrel or an assignation. He eyed us for a few minutes, and then, as another car pulled up, he moved smartly in its direction. I turned towards Ajay, who had his hands firmly around the steering wheel. His knuckles showed white. ‘Anyway,’ I asked, attempting levity, ‘since when did you become such a feminist?’

  Ajay nodded, smiled, laughed, waving away a half-clad child who came round asking for money. He lifted his hands to run them through his hair, and I noticed his knuckles remained pale. ‘My father,’ he said. ‘My handsome, suave, successful father has been cheating on my mother for as long as I remember.’

  ‘Ajay…’

  He nodded, but his face remained trained in front of him. ‘He was discreet in the beginning. We sometimes ran into his conquests. At a restaurant, in the cinema, in a parking lot. He was never embarrassed when running into them, introducing them to us as “friends”, and it didn’t strike me for the longest time that he appeared to have more female friends th
an male ones.’

  He clapped his hands. I smiled, and he took up his narrative again. ‘But then, I suppose the pretence grew tiresome for him. It’s gotten to the stage now where he openly boasts about his “girlfriends”. My poor Mum sits at home, eating herself fat, and that man talks about the diamonds he is buying his latest little plaything.’

  ‘That’s horrible, Ajay.’ He shrugged, but didn’t reply, and as the silence stretched between us, I asked, ‘Why doesn’t she leave him?’

  ‘Because, Siya,’ he said, adopting the same slow, pained enunciation he had used when talking about Pradeep, ‘she has no options. She has no money of her own, no job, no assets. I offered to have her move in with me, but she just laughed at the thought. I live in a one bedroom flat in a very nice part of Delhi, but that’s just it, a bachelor’s pad. I told her we could move, but she wouldn’t hear of it.’ His hands were clasped around one another, and I saw his skin lighten with the pressure. He laughed once more, a mirthless, cheerless sound. ‘Her parents think it’s just a phase Dad…’ Ajay paused, returning his hands to the steering wheel. A sound emitted from his throat, low and guttural, as if he was trying to expunge something unsavoury. ‘Sorry, my father. My father. Well, my mother’s parents advise her to hold firm, and part of me can’t even blame them. They’re middle class, and ageing, and they worry perhaps about my mother losing all the comforts she is accustomed to. But then again, perhaps they just don’t want to have to shoulder her burden.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Ajay.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ he said, his response rapid, almost as if it were instinctive, but then he paused. He nodded, lifting his hands from the wheel, holding his palms out for inspection. ‘I’m not sorry,’ he added, ‘I live on my own, I visit my parents like a good boy every weekend, and when my father tells me how well he’s doing, and how much money he’s spending, I slap him on the back and congratulate him. He wants me to join him in his business, you know.’

  ‘Oh Ajay,’ I said, feeling the uselessness of my words, but he shrugged. He pointed to the shops in front. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘get your work done otherwise our attendant friend here will be calling the police to report lewd behaviour. Cavorting in a car, no less,’ he guffawed, as I frowned. He pointed at the parking attendant, who was looking towards us, and clapped his hands. ‘Oh well done, well done,’ he called out as he left the car. He went up to the startled man and shook his hand. ‘Thank you,’ he told him, ‘for making sure India minds its morals.’

  XXI

  Pradeep was gone by the time we returned. Saloni was too, and it was a wan-faced Shanti who gave us the details. ‘I tried,’ she said, wringing her hands. A dishcloth hung over her shoulder, her eyes were ringed with kohl, and it was clear she had been crying. She looked at Ajay for a minute, then addressed me, ‘Baby, you know I never wanted any of this. I wanted him to be happy, for Saloni to be happy, for them both to help you and Maya baby out. But,’ and here she fixed Ajay with a slow stare before shaking her head.

  This was all alien to her, for all her histrionics at home, she was essentially a docile creature, used to following tradition and respecting the status quo. She was always deferential with visitors, holding herself back in the shadows, and though Ajay had tried to befriend her, cracking jokes, making fun of himself, she had preferred to maintain her distance. Her actions here, placing the blame of Pradeep’s departure on Ajay’s shoulders, was like the reversing of her natural order.

  ‘I tried to talk to him, baby,’ she was saying. She came up to me, putting her hands in mine. ‘I really did. I told him to be reasonable, but he wouldn’t listen. He said he couldn’t bear it any longer.’ She didn’t elucidate further, and her eyes didn’t return to scrutinising Ajay, but her inference was clear.

  ‘He’ll see sense,’ I told Shanti. ‘The two of them needed a honeymoon anyway.’

  Ajay laughed, we both turned to him, and he hurried off to the library. ‘It might be the best thing for him,’ I told Shanti. Her hands were still in mine, and I gave them a squeeze. ‘It will be,’ I insisted. ‘It’ll give him some time to cool off. And,’ I added, ‘it’ll give him some time to get to know Saloni. He’s a good boy, Shanti,’ and she finally nodded. She looked at me, cupped my face in her hands, and lifted herself on tiptoe to give me a kiss. ‘You are a good girl, baby.’

  Sonia’s next feature was on Chitra Kashyap. A high-achieving Delhi teenager, she always aced all her exams before failing to attend her board exams one morning. Her parents went to her bedroom and found she had hanged herself in her bedroom using her bed cover. The police was called in, the school informed just as the other students were filing in for their examinations, the distraught parents were dosed up with sedatives, and for days no one knew the cause of the suicide.

  Chitra’s mother mandated nothing be touched in the unfortunate girl’s bedroom, but as Delhi’s dust laid quick siege to the place, the maid was finally allowed in to dust the room. It was she who uncovered the suicide note tucked under Chitra’s pillow, and not understanding its importance, put it into her dustpan to be discarded. Chitra had forever been writing on long sheets of paper in her close, spidery writing, scrunching up her notes and hurling them into her dustbin, and this missive laid neatly to rest under her pillow had been mistaken for another such, until Chitra’s mother entered the room and noticed the sheets lying on the maid’s dustpan.

  There had been no sign of upset, no failed romance, no tempestuous friendships, and at the end, no reason they could discover that explained her actions. Until Mrs Kashyap recovered the discarded suicide note left by her daughter, with the words that would burn into a nation’s conscience: ‘I know I’m going to fail.’

  It had been a task getting her to agree to the interview in the first place. All the national papers had hounded her for weeks, but Sonia had told her she had a child sitting board exams herself, and this had thawed some of Mrs Kashyap’s reserve. ‘I understand,’ Sonia had repeatedly told her. ‘The late nights, the never-ending revision, the unhealthy emphasis on that one set of exams. The Facebook posts on sleepless nights; the Instagram snaps of unmade beds and messy desks. My son’s skin,’ she had complained, feeling her lack of grace. Her son was still alive, and out playing with his friends, but she ploughed on. ‘It turned almost grey, he’d seen so little sun,’ but this mention of the pressure India’s children were under brought an invitation. ‘Come, then,’ Mrs Kashyap said. ‘They’re going to write about her anyway, all these news-hungry sharks. I might as well talk to someone who understands what it’s like.’

  Sonia had come in with flowers, had hugged an unresisting Mrs Kashyap, and had made all the right noises as the bereaved mother removed Chitra’s note from the plastic casing she stored it in. She watched Sonia as she read, mouthing each needless, memorised word. ‘There was no question of failure,’ she cried as Sonia looked up. ‘There was never any question of failure with Chitra.’

  ‘Had she been under much pressure?’

  ‘No, no,’ came the reply. ‘She was always a happy child. No trouble, no boys, no late nights, nothing. She was always very cheerful. She would come in from school, eat her fruit, and sit down to study. I never had to tell her to revise.’

  ‘She put pressure on herself, maybe.’

  ‘No, no,’ came the stout reply, the words repeated over and over again. ‘There was never any pressure.’

  ‘What were her hobbies?’

  Mrs Kashyap narrowed her eyes. ‘Hobbies?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sonia. She could have changed the topic, but this story had consumed her. Her own son had needed waking up every morning, and constant prodding to return to his books. There was always a football match, or the messages that lit up his phone to distract him, but here was this girl, who rose on her own, who spent her days at her desk, but had felt certain she was doomed to fail. ‘A sport, maybe; badminton or tennis. A local friend she could take evening walks with. A favourite show on television,’ but Sonia was met with a stony stare
.

  ‘She was happy,’ Mrs Kashyap maintained. ‘There was no sign of unhappiness.’

  Sonia winced. She knew her next words would be seen as an attack. ‘Was there an overachiever in the family who Chitra might have been aspiring to emulate? A parent, a sibling, a cousin?’

  ‘We’re all academic,’ replied the mother. ‘I have a PhD in Sociology, my husband is a Professor, her brother studies at IIT. But,’ she repeated, as she had done over the course of the interview, ‘Chitra was bright. She was happy. She never complained about any pressure.’

  ‘No, no,’ agreed Sonia, but as she got to writing her piece, she couldn’t help thinking of the toll India’s exams took on its children.

  ‘No pressure,’ her mother had kept on saying, over and over again, as if it was a mantra, and Sonia knew she was sincere. Mrs Kashyap had expected her bright daughter to perform, and her daughter had performed. She had never shown any sign of struggle, but her parents hadn’t appreciated either how stifling her environment had been.

  This was what India’s schooling was doing to its children. The population was vast, the number of minorities claiming seats enormous, and for the rest, for the simply bright or the middling, and for those without the funds to access universities abroad, the chances of gaining a good education were vanishingly small. Exam results in the nineties were often not sufficient. You had to score near perfect marks, and everything else—friendships, hobbies, social skills—slipped by the wayside in the pursuit of the best exam results. Tutors were engaged, career coaches consulted, and students spent the best part of two years studying; studying when they should have been sleeping, studying when they should have been playing, studying when they should have been held hostage by their hormones, and studying when they should have been learning about themselves.

  She wrote, then, Sonia, as her son finished his board exams. She wrote as he received and celebrated his mediocre exam results. She wrote the most sombre piece she had ever written, missing her deadline twice, and when Maya first read it, she forwarded it to me.