Tasha-di was sobbing, she was up and by Maya’s side and holding her, and my sister was smiling bravely. I thought of the spurned scholarship, and of a rejected Kunal. I thought of the children Kunal had had and that my sister never would. I thought of all the articles that had been turned down because Ma had fallen ill or had been in need. I could have been there. I should have been there to share the burden, but I would never have been able to be in Ma’s house and breathe.
I looked at my sister, who was exhaling softly. I had thought her the favoured child, always loved, always close and precious, always consulted and petted and cherished, but I saw now how suffocating Ma’s love was, and how it had limited Maya.
My sister had never been in search of a big life. She had never courted the sun, but she had deserved some light of her own.
Raja Singh didn’t disappear from our thoughts, but other problems came to dominate the day. The print store called with their usual monthly reminder; we would need to send in the next issue’s proofs by the end of the week.
‘End of the week!’ Sonia laughed when she arrived at the office. ‘Next issue!’ She, in some ways, had been hit hardest by the fire. She had scaled back her commitment to The Satirist while her son sat his board exams, but had returned to work brimming with ideas. She had dreams of spin-off publications; magazines aimed at millennials, and others for students and for the global traveller. The fire represented for her the final, inalienable shattering of her deferred dreams. ‘That’s it,’ she groaned loudly, her head hitting her desk, and Maya rushed to her side.
‘Siya tried,’ she began, ‘she approached Raja Singh yesterday to try to interest him in investing in us.’
Sonia looked up at this. Ajay, who had been playing with his new camera, set it down and cast me a fleet look. He rose, as if to walk towards me before changing his mind. He remained by his desk, shuffling behind his chair, his hands dangling impotently by his side.
‘And?’ asked Sonia.
‘And nothing,’ replied my sister. ‘That man…’
Ajay was moving in an instant, rounding the corner to where Maya was. ‘I knew it,’ he growled, ‘that man’s reputation. Why?’ he added, turning to point at me. ‘Your sister was shaking all the way back home.’
This was news to Maya, who came towards me. ‘Did he try something with you too?’
‘Too?’ asked Sonia. ‘Who all has he touched?’
I looked at Maya. Ma’s life following her run-in with Raja Singh had been shrouded in secrecy, and neither of us knew how to broach the topic. This had been Ma’s story, a topic so painful to her that she had retreated from the world and had tried to cloister her offspring, and we both shied away from the thought of uttering the words—rape, assault, harassment—even though we hardly knew which precise label applied.
‘No, no,’ I was saying, just as Maya said, ‘Ma,’ and we both fell silent. No one else spoke.
No questions were asked, partly because the others hadn’t known Ma, and partly because her daughters’ presence precluded them from forensic analysis. We didn’t look at anyone, the daughters of the victim, feeling an unreasonable discomfort at her ordeal.
‘Maya,’ Sonia said at length, ‘I’m so sorry. That man has a terrible reputation,’ and as my sister didn’t reply, she repeated limply, ‘I’m so sorry.’
Maya looked straight at me. ‘Did he try anything with you?’
‘No,’ I said, feeling pathetic. He had been too close, he had been inappropriate, but mercifully nothing else. Nothing worse. ‘No,’ I repeated as she stared. Ajay was looking our way, and I said again, ‘He was a bit creepy, but he didn’t so much as lay a finger on me.’
‘Your poor mother,’ Sonia was saying, ‘your poor, poor mother.’
We sat in silence watching the room grow dark before Sonia thought to ask about the outcome of my meeting. ‘What did Raja Singh say to you? Will he invest?’
I thought of my quick exit from the office. ‘No,’ I replied, and Sonia smiled bravely.
‘It was always a long shot, I suppose. But,’ she added, looking around at her desk. It was normally cluttered, full of post-it notes she stuck on every surface to remind herself of the trajectory of her articles, ‘There’s no point in fooling ourselves anymore.’ There it was again, her brave nod, her maternal look conveying stoicism to a tremulous child. ‘It was a worthy initiative, The Satirist, but there’s no way we will be able to keep it going.’
‘No,’ I agreed. I’d run out of money. ‘I,’ I began, when Saloni interrupted.
‘I’m sorry, Didi,’ she said in her diffident manner, ‘how much would it cost to print next month’s magazine?’
Sonia emitted a brassy sound. ‘Next issue, girl,’ she hooted, ‘we have no articles!’
‘Still,’ Saloni persisted. ‘How much does it cost?’
I thought hard. ‘Maybe we can use cheaper paper for one issue.’ I tutted and hit my forehead with my palm. ‘Of course we can’t. This is to be the first proper paid issue.’ I looked around the office; took in every worried face. ‘We can’t,’ I said, shaking my head at Saloni. ‘We can’t afford to print. It’s foolish to pretend we can bring another issue out.’
It was Saloni who came to our rescue. The very next morning, in she trudged, holding a pink satin envelope. It was luridly bright, luminescent with a blueish pearl-like tinge, like the envelopes of cash guests thrust into the bride’s hands at weddings. This she proudly tucked into my hand, asking me to open it. Only Maya and I were downstairs, going to the office more out of routine than from any real purpose, and I looked at my sister as Saloni proudly nodded. I rose to see Pradeep in the doorway, his hands folded in greeting.
‘What is this?’ I asked, pretending to complain, but Saloni’s excitement was infectious. The envelope bulged, but it was impossible. ‘What is it, Saloni?’
‘Just open it, Didi,’ Saloni instructed, and I lifted the envelope’s flap to find myself staring at a bundle of cash. I looked up at Maya, who had come to stand next to me. ‘But,’ I started, frowning, and then, ‘how,’ and ‘why,’ and as Saloni laughed to see my stupefied face, I finished with, ‘but what even is this, Saloni?’
Saloni was engulfed in laughter and didn’t reply. I looked to Pradeep, who blushed voicelessly at my scrutiny.
‘I thought,’ said Saloni, who was slowly regaining control over her features, ‘that we had to get the new issue out. And we weren’t going to let the magazine die for the sake of a few rupees. ’
Maya had taken the envelope from my hand, and was totting up the notes. ‘It’s well over a hundred thousand,’ she told me.
I was blubbering now, ‘How did you even get this?’
‘It’s ours,’ said the girl simply.
‘Ours?’ I asked, and Pradeep came into the room.
‘I’m sorry, Didi,’ he said, his hands clasped together. ‘We wanted to help.’
‘But…’
‘Please, Didi,’ pleaded Saloni, ‘don’t be angry,’ and as I tried to worry out how the pair could think either of us angry about the gesture, she continued, ‘we had some money saved up.’
The money they had saved up emerged to be the gifts they had received at their wedding and the money they had saved from their wages. It represented all the hopes the couple had intended to one day crystallise. ‘Saloni!’ I cried, registering my protest, and I sighed to see her wince.
‘I’m sorry, Didi,’ she said again, ‘but I couldn’t bear the thought of The Satirist shutting down for the sake of one issue. And this is the issue where we’ll finally start to make money.’ She blushed at the collective word. Saloni didn’t look at me, continuing to speak as if to ward off a reprimand. ‘You have done so much for all of us. And the magazine means so much to the both of you and, well,’ here she looked up at her husband, and finally at me, ‘it means a lot to Pradeep and me too.’
‘Oh, Saloni.’
‘Didi, there’s nothing stopping us from publishing our next issue.’
I was taken by her enthusiasm, but Maya rang the dull note. ‘Nothing, no,’ she agreed, ‘nothing but the copy.’
I returned the envelope to Saloni. We would use the last of my savings instead, and bolster the sum through our household budget. The house remained a problem, as did the garage, but Saloni’s belief infected me. The magazine felt to be on the cusp of independence; it deserved a final push. ‘The next time,’ I said, ‘you have a flash of genius, please discuss it with me. Imagine draining your savings for this.’
A call was placed to Sonia, who had emptied out her desk. ‘We’re in business,’ Maya called, her voice ringing with delight. ‘That funny, quiet, brilliant Saloni has saved the day!’
Our next stumbling block was the content of the magazine itself. All the sponsors had months left on their contracts, but we had no actual articles to populate the magazine with. I had an old article of Benjamin’s that I hadn’t used, and Puneeta could be relied on to turn something around quickly, but beyond that, there was nothing.
We were sitting in the garden room. Tea was drunk, the parlous state of the nation’s politics was discussed, when Sonia suddenly said, ‘I know what we can write,’ and looking at Maya, she said. ‘We can make your mother our lead story.’
‘My mother?’ Maya asked, and then, as if in need of clarification, she added, ‘Ma?’
‘Yes,’ nodded Sonia. ‘Your mother. She was a trailblazer. A woman journalist in a world where men have always wielded the pen. The person who first breathed life into The Satirist. We’re going to tell her story, warts and all. We’re going to sing her praises, talk of her failings, and we are not…’ She looked around the room sternly, as if daring us to disagree, ‘We are not going to shy away from the topic of her abuse.’
‘I don’t know,’ hedged Maya.
‘I have a daughter too,’ said Sonia calmly. ‘She’s clever and passionate and idealistic and so keen to make the world a better place.’ She paused. ‘She has drive, that girl, and dreams, and I want to make sure there aren’t any limits placed on her ability to achieve them.’
We nodded, all of us, my pragmatic aunt, my fatalistic sister, the banner-waving Ajay, and the die was cast. The next issue was to focus on Ma’s story.
XXVII
Civil Lines hummed that rushed, frenzied week. We were always behind schedule. Ajay had to go out for shoots with a camera he was still getting to know. Sonia and Maya were busy with their lead story—Sonia focussing on Ma’s career and Maya’s feature dealing with the founding of The Satirist and Raja Singh’s assault.
I had never seen Maya as involved in an article before. Her process was always an immersive one, and I had always thought her akin to a character actor when she wrote a profile or a social commentary. She seemed to inhabit the skin of her subject, appeared to feel their triumphs as equally their pains. In the case of the mother she had been both treasured and hemmed in by, her focus bordered on the obsessive. Always quick to empathise, in writing the story of Ma’s life, she saw Raja Singh’s attack as an assault on her freedoms too.
She woke early, she skipped meals, she seemed to forget how to make small talk. One day, I found her looming over my desk in the office. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said to me, ‘we need to report the assault to the police.’
And it was I who now urged restraint, I who took her to the living room upstairs and poured her a glass of water. It was I who told her that the assault had taken place nearly two decades back, and that the police, never the most proactive in the first place, would be loathe to mount an action against a well-connected figure on behalf of a deceased woman. Maya shook her head. ‘The letters, Siya,’ she told me with a wild look in her eyes. ‘The hope in the beginning, the plans, the articles planned. It was just like when we were setting up The Satirist. And then,’ she gulped, gathering her breath and her thoughts. I lifted the glass of water to her lips, and she took in a deep draught. ‘And then…’ She trembled, shivering even though the room was hot. ‘And then…’ She shut her eyes, took in a deep breath. ‘That letter, Siya, it ended everything.’
I sat down by her, putting my hand in hers. The loss had been hers too; the wounds hers as much as they had been Ma’s. ‘I know,’ I told her, feeling useless. ‘I know.’
I began to worry about the legal ramifications of Maya’s article. We were potentially laying ourselves open to charges of libel, hearsay and defamation, and when I voiced my concerns, Sonia was quick to agree. ‘Perhaps we should seek legal advice.’
Maya blushed. ‘My aunt,’ she said, her voice uncharacteristically indistinct, ‘Kitty Bua is a lawyer.’
‘That’s great,’ nodded Sonia. ‘Is she a local?’
‘No,’ replied Maya, ‘Well…’
I saw where this was headed. ‘Kitty Bua,’ I broke in, ‘lives in Mumbai.’
‘Oh,’ said Sonia. ‘Ok. Of course,’ she said, casually, so matter-of-factly that I could almost believe the thought had just struck her, ‘But you know that Kunal lives in Delhi, right?’
Maya didn’t say a word. She didn’t look up from her bare desk, and so it was left to me to respond. ‘Kunal who?’
‘You know,’ she replied, nodding avidly, as if the act would spur my comprehension. ‘He was at college with us…’ She looked at Maya, but getting no encouragement, said, ‘He was with Maya and me, and we all…’ once again a look was cast at an unresponsive Maya, ‘we all sort of hung out together.’
Maya spoke in a tremulous voice. ‘You’re in touch?’
‘Yes,’ Sonia said. ‘He came along for the magazine’s launch. I don’t know if you saw him there.’
Maya shrugged, a something or a nothing, but her face burned up and I knew she was consumed with the thought of him. ‘That’s a great idea,’ I told Sonia. ‘We need honest advice, and it seems like your friend will be best able to provide it to us.’
‘But Kitty Bua…’
‘Kitty Bua,’ I said firmly, ‘is in Mumbai. There’s no harm in contacting this Kunal guy.’
The die was cast, Kunal was called, and a meeting was arranged for the following morning. In the meantime, we proceeded as if the article were to pass muster. Drafts were written, Saloni’s red pen ran ragged through them, edits were submitted, and still the magazine wasn’t finalised. There was more clear space than I would have liked. I thought to contact Benjamin for another article when Ajay piped up. ‘I can,’ he suggested, ‘put in a photo essay I’ve worked on. Homelessness in Delhi.’
This was such a surprise to all of us that the room burst out laughing. ‘A photo-essay on homelessness?’ I called, ‘You?’ and he shrugged.
‘I had some free time,’ he told me, but as I shuffled through the photos, a different story emerged. Ajay had been observing a young family living on the streets and had captured them through the seasons; surviving Delhi’s harsh winter, huddling under plastic sheets during the monsoon deluge. The children grew in his photos, their hair bleaching with the sun and poor nutrition, the girl growing taller and more obsessed with grooming as the weather turned warmer.
‘Do they know you’re doing this?’
‘Yes,’ he said, offended. ‘Of course. I’m not a stalker, you know. In fact,’ he said, proudly, ‘they were quite happy with the attention. They took me in, showed me their bags and all their contents. They gave me gram flour sweets on their birthday. They’ve become minor celebrities in their community with their own paparazzo.’
He spoke with a quiet pride I hadn’t seen in his work before. ‘This is good,’ I said, and as he shook his head, I said, ‘no really, it is. It belongs in the National Geographic or something like that. You sure you want to print it in a rag magazine like ours?’
‘If you want it,’ he said, as if it didn’t much matter to him. Then he added under his breath, ‘At least it means you won’t have to run to that Benjamin fellow.’
The following morning, Maya woke earlier than me. This was par for the course; she had always been an early riser, and Ma’s article
had only made her more restless, but her energy felt frenzied this time. Her movements felt more staccato. There was a rushing around, the pulling open of wardrobe doors, the smell of perfume sprayed on wrists, and the sound of skittish footsteps taken on high heels.
By the time I ventured out into the first floor sitting room, Maya was ready. ‘You didn’t wake me up for my walk,’ I complained blearily before I took a proper look at her. She was washed and clothed, even though it was before nine in the morning, and had worn a salwar kameez. Our usual attire for the mornings was tracksuits, though we usually changed into jeans for the office, and it was a revelation to see Maya in a freshly ironed salwar kameez, her dupatta trailing beneath her as she sat.
Neither of us wore salwar kameezes much when we were growing up; Ma’s increasing insularity had meant we didn’t socialise much. I hadn’t seen Maya’s outfit before, and wondered if it was one she had saved for special occasions. ‘You didn’t wake up, sleepy head,’ she laughed, and I realised she was talking about our walk.
‘But I didn’t hear…’ I pointed out, but she just carried on laughing, and I knew she was bent upon joy. There was a lightness to her voice, and a dewiness to her skin. Her hair felt at once fuller and more lustrous. The whites were still visible, but somehow, they didn’t detract from her attractiveness. She looked girlish and skittish and radiant, so different from the haunted Maya I had seen over the past week, and I hoped, hoped beyond hope that Kunal was as anxious about our meeting that day.
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