She came over to my desk as I read the piece. ‘She’s not pulling any punches, is she?’
I read out the passage Maya pointed to: Chitra Kashyap was the child we all want our child to be. She was bright, determined and driven. Cheerful and responsible, she woke early to study, and stayed on top of her homework and her other commitments, but as I looked into her final months, I saw that Chitra hadn’t had any commitments outside her schoolwork. There had been no space in her schedule for distractions. There had been no boyfriend. There had been no evening walks with friends. There had been no trips to the cinema or the bowling alley. There had been no sports, no drama, no swimming, no tennis, no teenage tantrums. There had been nothing but work, nothing but the cliff-hanger of the board exams to work towards, and in the end, when Chitra’s doubts—redundant as they had been—began to set in, there was no outlet for her to take comfort in.
Citra’s story is a tragedy, and we will tell ourselves it will never happen to us. We can point fingers. We can blame the parents. We can blame Chitra’s personality. Chitra’s story is essentially one of a lack of resilience. But if we bother to introspect, we will see that it is also a shameful indictment of a country that measures achievement not in terms of skills or kindness or long-term dedication, but in terms of the marks earned in a solitary set of exams our children spend their childhoods working towards. Where is the space in such a system for late bloomers? Where is the space for imagination, for creativity, for the mavericks, for the artists, for the innovators? Where is the space for a wobble, and where is the space for recovery? We are training our children to be factory workers—scientists, sure, highly paid coders or doctors or lawyers or bankers, sure, but not individuals. Chitra’s tragedy is our tragedy too, and more than that, it is the story of India’s failure to imagine more than one path for our young.
Maya was looking at me, smiling her small, sad smile. I sighed. ‘That poor, poor family.’
‘That poor, poor girl,’ insisted Maya. ‘The pressure these children are under…’
I nodded. All the time I was away, the news on India had largely been positive; the growth, the rising tourism numbers, the infrastructure being developed, the rockets launched into space, and I had thought our development had been even. I thought life was improving for all, for the rich as much as for the poor, for the rural poor as much for their urban brethren, for the young as much as for the old, but I had been wrong. India’s development had only brought its divisions into sharper focus. The immigrant labourers were as vulnerable for exploitation as before, and the futures of India’s brightest still balanced as precariously on a single event as they had always been. It was heartbreakingly thin, the gap between success and failure, the chasm between want and plenty, only that the gulf grew larger as India grew richer.
‘Do you remember,’ Maya told me, ‘that time when we had tried to bake a cake?’
‘When?’
‘Oof,’ Maya replied impatiently. She waved her hands at me, as if to spur my recollection, and I nodded in hazy memory. We had gone into the kitchen one afternoon as the rest of the household took its post-lunch nap, opening cupboards we forgot to shut, spilling milk and sneezing through clouds of flour, and turning the heat in the oven too high. We had smelt the cake burning as we waited for it to rise.
Maya laughed. ‘Do you remember how blazing hot it had been when we opened the oven? The cake had been burnt to a crisp in minutes.’
I cupped my face as I remembered our shock. The heat of the oven had hit us as we pulled open the oven door. We hadn’t bothered with oven gloves, and every part of us felt like it was on fire—my silver pendant, Maya’s teenage spectacles, our nails and hair and very faces.
She nodded. ‘That’s the environment these poor children are growing up in. They burn without knowing how they suffer, and their parents don’t know either until a child loses his or her life, or until you come in from the outside and see it’s not normal and it’s not needed, this pressure, this unhappiness, this relentless emphasis on paper perfection.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘but it won’t make for easy reading.’
‘So?’ I had never seen Maya this combative. She rapped her knuckles on my desk. ‘A child has died. Is it the worst thing if Delhi’s readers pause to think for a moment before returning to their lives?’
The article came out, and as with Sonia’s piece on the labour chowks, was the one we led with. Ajay’s accompanying cartoon showed a girl playing at teaching a doll to read. Sonia had quickly become our lead writer, with Maya focussing increasingly on the editorial function, on theme and layout and timing.
She made me change the column I had already written to a tongue-and-cheek look at India’s progress from a newcomer’s perspective. I wrote about the strides the country had been taking on the economic and cultural stage, and alongside each of my points, Maya added a statistic that revealed the whole truth behind India’s unequal progress. Next to my paragraph about increasing GDP, she printed statistics on the country’s more modest GDP per head. Next to my paragraph about the number of billionaires India now boasted, she printed statistics about the number of people living below the breadline. Next to my paragraph about the appeal of Bollywood’s modern movies, she printed statistics on the number of rapes committed by India’s repressed and entitled men.
Her own political column focussed on the derisory response by Delhi’s politicians to Chitra’s suicide. Maya was our ringmaster, and powerful as Sonia’s article was, it was given context by Maya’s careful choreography of the entire issue. She had aspired to emulate Raja Singh’s talent, and as I saw her take control of The Satirist, I sensed that his genius lay within her grasp.
Sonia worried Mrs Kashyap wouldn’t like the article. ‘It’s not easy reading,’ she fretted. ‘And I worry she’ll think my tone too judgemental,’ but a week after a copy of the magazine had been sent to the Kashyap household, Sonia received a call. ‘Good morning, Mrs Kashyap,’ she said, raising a hand to silence the noisy newsroom. ‘No, please, Mrs Kashyap,’ we heard her say, and we worried that Chitra’s mother had been offended by the reporting. ‘No,’ she was saying, ‘no, no,’ and as I got up, ready to comfort my colleague, she spoke again. ‘No, please, Mrs Kashyap,’ she said. ‘It was my pleasure. I wanted Delhi to know how hard school is for our children.’
Sonia didn’t speak for a good while after she rung off. She took herself off to the garden room, where she remained for an age. We debated joining her, but it was clear she wanted to be alone. Shanti hovered outside, part curious and part worried, and when Sonia eventually emerged, it was obvious she had been crying. We fell silent, waiting to gauge her mood before talking. She sat down on her chair. ‘She didn’t read it until yesterday,’ she said.
‘She read it yesterday.’ She paused, wincing, smiling, then nodding once more. ‘She threw it in the bin after reading it, but retrieved it this morning. She read it again, once, twice, sharing it with her husband, who sobbed as he read.’ Tears fell unchecked down Sonia’s cheeks. ‘She told me he hadn’t cried since the funeral, but that he wept on reading the article. He hadn’t spoken much in the weeks following Chitra’s death. He had busied himself with all the admin surrounding their daughter’s last rites, and then had thrown himself into work. Anytime she asked him how he was he told her he was fine, and that he was busy with work. She told me she couldn’t explain why my article had unlocked so much emotion in him, but he had cried, cried without shame, cried without knowledge almost, and all while reading what I had written.’ Sonia looked up at us, her eyes moist, her face shining with her tears. ‘She thanked me,’ she said, ‘over and over again she thanked me.’
Mrs Bhatnagar had an opinion to express on Sonia’s article too. She corralled me early one morning outside the house, and I knew she had been waiting for me. Maya had been too busy for her morning walk, and I had been late setting off, and it gave me a small pleasure to know that Mrs Bhatnagar had had to wait out in the street in Delhi’s rising
heat.
‘Siya,’ she cried upon sighting me, waving a copy of my magazine in her hand. Pleasantries were dispensed with entirely. ‘I wanted to talk to you about this soo-cide article.’ She huffed as she ran up to me, her face the colour of a ripe tomato, and as I professed ignorance, she repeated vociferously, ‘Soo-cide, soo-cide, Siya, you know, that horrid article about that poor dead girl.’
‘Ah,’ I said, walking at a smart pace, ‘Chitra Kashyap.’ I knew what she was going to say before she said it. She had greeted me with a pursed face, like so many childhood teachers when I had failed to complete an assignment to their satisfaction. Siya doesn’t follow instructions, I read on endless terse report cards, and the look I spied on Mrs Bhatnagar’s face, spent and frustrated, was materially the same.
‘Yes, yes,’ said the woman impatiently, ‘her.’
‘It was a sad story.’
‘That’s my point,’ said she. ‘What was the point of writing such a piece?’
‘But…’
‘I’ve told you before,’ continued Mrs Bhatnagar, pulling up her sleeves. She didn’t quite bare her teeth, but her annoyance was clear to see. ‘This sort of reporting does India no favours.’ We had reached the market, and stood in front of Mr Seth’s shop, where a woman came out carrying a copy of The Satirist. Mrs Bhatnagar scowled. ‘And who is it who wrote the soo-cide article, anyway? I’ve seen her name attached to several of these doom-and-gloom articles.’
‘Well,’ I began, but Mrs Bhatnagar was wagging a stubby finger at me. ‘Wasn’t she the one who wrote about those silly labour chowks too?’
‘Yes,’ I replied proudly. The next month was to be our last one offering the magazine for free. We were quickly running out of money. My reserves were all but depleted, and though we were all working without pay, we were unable to so much as afford new printer cartridges. The magazine would have to start bringing in money. I saw another customer come out carrying a copy of the magazine and exhaled.
This thing did have potential after all. We’d lose some free-loaders, we’d lose some critics like my irate companion, but the true readers would persist, and hopefully, they would grow. And we would finally be generating revenue.
‘This is not done,’ Mrs Bhatnagar was saying. ‘The rest of the magazine is negative too.’ She lay a sweaty hand on my sleeve, and as I started at the contact, she carried on, ‘Listen to me now. The magazine is displayed in hotels and in shops visited by tourists. It really is not helpful for outsiders to be seeing India in this light.’
‘The readership of the magazine,’ I explained patiently, ‘is a Delhi one. We write articles suited to the needs of our market.’
Someone else exited Mr Seth’s shop, another potential advertiser. This person now approached me, asking me when was a good time to talk. ‘Now,’ I said to her as Mrs Bhatnagar huffed. ‘Now is a perfect time to talk.’
‘You refuse to listen to me?’ Mrs Bhatnagar called. I smiled as I walked off, giving her a cheery wave, but her final words came in a quick barrage, ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
XXII
It was some weeks, a month or more perhaps, since Pradeep and Saloni had left, and we had gotten accustomed to functioning without them. Ajay picked up supplies on his way in to work, Tasha-di and I helped out with the copy-editing, and though some things slipped, we told ourselves we managed pretty well.
I hadn’t asked Shanti how the couple was doing for fear of prying. Shanti didn’t mention them either, and I suspected both sides felt a little bit of embarrassment about how matters had ended.
I did frequently wonder about Saloni, though. In some ways, she had the smaller adjustment to make. She had grown up in the village, and unlike Pradeep, would still have local friends, but all I had seen of her, from her quiet observations to her unfailing ability to pinpoint any weakness in our articles, convinced me that she was not meant for domestic life. She had always been respectful when in the office, always mindful of her position as Shanti’s daughter-in-law, but this didn’t stop her from running her red pen through huge swathes of Sonia or Puneeta or Maya’s work. She was serious and honest, and conscientious with it, and utterly, intractably determined. Her marked-up pieces were handed back in with deference but no apology, and I wondered how she now occupied herself. Was she working or was she tending to her father-in-law’s debauched house? Did she ever think of The Satirist, and of the mock outrage we greeted her redlined pieces with?
Sonia’s May issue focussed on local elections, and the entire house buzzed with poll analyses and predictions. The latest battle to break out in the newsroom was over Maya’s desire to go interview a renowned astrologer. He had predicted six of the last seven election results, apparently, and though Sonia and I thought her frivolous, she refused to budge.
‘India remains a deeply devout country,’ she told us, ‘There is a reason why so many still consult astrologers. They are asked to weigh in on everything; auspicious times for a wedding, advice on whether to move cities or take a job.’ I laughed, and Ajay, who had looked up from his work at the noise, nodded.
‘Perhaps,’ he said to Maya, ‘I should go with you and ask when we will get better printing equipment for the magazine.’
‘Patience,’ advised Maya, though his point was well made. The magazine continued to be printed in the garage which also functioned as Ajay’s photo studio. The situation wasn’t ideal, and one we intended to change. ‘Please,’ Maya was saying, ‘we will fix your space as soon as we start generating an income.’
‘I’ll take that on faith,’ he rebutted, but he rose, driving her to the astrologer.
It was while they were gone that Pradeep and Saloni returned. We had no prior knowledge of their arrival, and neither, it appeared, did Shanti, as the first we heard of anything was a loud shout from the old retainer. ‘Deepu,’ she called out repeatedly, Pradeep’s old childhood nickname, which was soon followed by a torrent of tears. Other indistinct noises joined hers; a sniff, a shuffle, a laugh, and Tasha-di and I ran out to investigate.
Shanti was squatting in the hallway, her head in her hands, her mouth distended with emotion. Pradeep sat next to her, trying to maintain his composure, but failing miserably. He gave into his mother, meeting her embrace, and as she stroked his head, tears streamed down his face. Saloni stood, slightly removed from the tableau, watching as mother and son talked. It was she who first spotted me.
‘Namaste,’ she mouthed, bowing her head, and I responded in kind.
Pradeep sensed our movement and looked up. ‘Didi,’ he said, rising to his feet. He appeared to search for the right words to say, and after a few aborted attempts at speech, he followed his wife’s lead and folded his hands together.
Shanti rose too. ‘Baby,’ she said with gleaming eyes, ‘Pradeep has come back.’
We didn’t pry; it was clear that both Pradeep and Saloni were embarrassed by their dramatic departure and abrupt reappearance. We fell into our routine of old; Pradeep working as our chauffeur, and Saloni helping out with the copy-editing. Ajay behaved too, patting Pradeep on the back and telling him he was happy to see him.
We did, of course, wonder what the couple’s weeks in the village had been like, and whether their stay with Shanti’s husband had brought them closer or exposed the differences between them. Shanti was uncharacteristically tight-lipped, and though I was on the lookout for glimpses into the family’s interaction, nothing was apparent. Saloni remained deferential to her mother-in-law, and restrained in her husband’s presence. She was quiet and professional in the office, limiting herself to responding to interaction initiated by the rest of us.
It was Pradeep who, one morning, caught up with Maya and me on our walk, and said, ‘Didi, I’m ashamed of how badly I behaved.’
‘Come on, now,’ Maya replied, ‘we’re happy to have you back.’
‘No, no,’ he insisted, refusing to be comforted. ‘I wouldn’t listen to your advice.’ He folded his hands miserably. ‘Forgive me.’
‘Pradeep…’
Maya spoke again, ‘What made you change your mind?’
He smiled. ‘It wasn’t until we were in the village that I saw how happy she had been here. She would race down to the office in the mornings, and there I had been, thinking it was Ajay Sir, when it was her work. Even in the village, she would mope around, spending her money on all the newspapers she could buy, running to any TV set that showed the news. She was happiest when she was learning, and it was then that I saw that she had been happy here.’
‘Pradeep…’
His hands were folded again. ‘I was horrible,’ he said contritely. ‘Please forgive me.’
In the garage too, amity prevailed. Ajay no longer complained about Pradeep’s presence, and the driver, for his part, was mindful of when Ajay was in the space and working on his pictures. I suggested to Maya that perhaps the couple’s break had been good for them, but she advised restraint. ‘Everyone is on their best behaviour,’ she counselled. ‘Let’s see how long it lasts.’
The flare up in the garage came, not from a breakdown in relations, but from a short circuit. A fire started late one evening in early June in the garage, and by the time we became aware of it, much of our magazine equipment had been destroyed.
I slept soundly, as I always did, but was roused by Maya shaking me awake. ‘Quick,’ she said, barely pausing to speak before she ran. ‘Call the fire department.’
I raced after her in my stupor, not registering her instructions. We smelled the smoke before we left the floor, though my brain remained sluggish. Maya ran into the kitchen for dishcloths, handing one to me to hold over my mouth. ‘Call the fire department,’ she cried, shaking me into action, and I ran to the library’s phone while she rushed outside.
Civil Lines Page 19