He finished off his piece by saying he deeply regretted not attending her rally yesterday, that the idiots on the organizing committee had messed up the schedule - and that I needn't think he would flinch from accepting total responsibility during this tragedy.
I could find nothing to say to this monumental piece of conceit, but Gudia aunty stepped forward and said, with a magnificent toss of her head, 'Excuse me, sir, but please don't think that Pushpa Pande died because you let her down so badly, in front of over ten thousand people! Madam was too tough for that. She died because she was medically ill, grievously ill.'
To do him credit, TB flushed instantly, looking intensely embarrassed. He started to say something but there was a slight commotion at the gate just then, and I turned around wearily, wondering which other VIP had showed up to milk this highly photogenic situation for all it was worth.
Then I heard a hissed whisper.
'Hain? What's he doing here?'
'Come to do afsos, of course,' said a voice behind me. 'To offer his sympathies. It's good manners. But he could have avoided, especially after the latest rumour.'
The scrum at the entrance parted to let the tall, lithe figure through. He came striding in through the temple square, a white rumaal tied around his forehead, the sleeves of his kurta rolled up to just below his elbows, a large leaf pattra, heaped high with marigolds in his hands. Behind him scurried Bunty Sisodia, talking shadily into his cell-phone, looking around suspiciously, like some kind of hired bouncer. What was he so worried about, that his buddy was going to get stabbed to death in the enemy camp? I thought resentfully, even as my heartbeat started its familiar military beat of dhung-dhung-dhung, dhung-dhung-dhung.
Zain stopped at the centre of the square and looked around, his eyes tense under the white bandana. There was a resolute, almost defiant set to his jaw. He looked a little haughty as he stood there, scanning the crowd, refusing to acknowledge the whispers around him, which were now really loud.
And then, all at once, he spotted me.
He started forward, his eyes glowing almost painfully, but before he could say anything, the wizened old gentleman in the wheelchair cut in neatly and spoke up, his voice rather shrill as he addressed TB and me.
'Bibi, we are very sorry to hear of your loss. We loved Pushpa jiji like an elder sister. She was so loving to our children! Got them all admission in good schools - even the girls! And last year, we needed a loan for our grandson's nikaah, no small sum, and she gave it to us, and would not hear of us repaying it! She was chief guest at the wedding. A great lady - a great loss.'
'Uh, thank you, sir,' I said faintly. 'I didn't get your name?'
The little old gent adjusted the cuffs of his exquisitely tailored achkan and said, 'We are Master Kamruddin of Saheli Boutique.' Then he added, almost automatically, 'The perfect fit, ready whenever you want it!'
I choked, my eyes going instinctively to Zain's to see if he remembered. From the faintly amused, rather rueful expression in his eyes, I could tell he did. Suddenly, I didn't feel so miserable any more. I smiled at the little tailor and managed to say, 'Thank you so much, sir, she always spoke most highly of you.'
Zain threw me a reproving glance that spoke volumes as I uttered this total whopper of a lie. Master Kamruddin shook his head sadly, said 'Great lady, great loss' again and was wheeled away.
Not knowing whether to laugh or cry, I turned to face Zain, but just then Munni, Tawny and TB took an almost synchronized step forward which brought then right in line with both of us. Zain's face shuttered over instantly.
'Hello, dear,' Tawny acknowledged him. His jovial voice had a rather cool edge to it.
'Adaab,' Zain replied politely, handing him the marigolds.
All of us just stood there, in a tense semicircle in the middle of the temple square. Behind us, the mourners were keeping up their chant of Till the sun and moon remain, louder and more vigorous now, probably for the benefit ofTB. The press, thrilled at the possibility of getting a shot of the Neck to Neck or Necking opponents together, had gathered behind us, the lenses of their cameras glinting in the hot sunshine.
Zain's jaw tightened. He looked more grown-up than I'd ever seen him. He looked around at my crack team, the press, the crowd, the Top Brass, then he shrugged and turned determined dark eyes on me.
'Sarojiniji,' he said formally, a tiny pulse jumping at the base of his throat. 'I just wanted to offer my condo--'
But I didn't let him finish.
With an exquisite sense of relief, of laying down a burden, of bursting out of a cold, dark well into hot, bright sunshine, I threw myself into his surprised but incredibly steady arms, laid my head against his superbly muscled chest, and sobbed like my heart would break.
***
There was a gasp, a loud, clearly audible mass gasp, as if all the people in the temple square had had a glass of ice-cold water flung at them at the same time and sucked in their breath together.
But Zain was totally cool. He held me gently, so gently, patting my half-mad-full-crack hair. I never knew Zain could be so gentle. And when I was done dribbling snot all over his nice white kurta, behaving like a hysterically overwrought, disoriented moron, he kind of handed me back to TB, who told him, in a cool level voice, as he patted me awkwardly, 'I think you had better leave now, young man.'
Zain nodded but continued to stand a few minutes more, looking down at me as I hiccupped in a pathetic, watery kind of way.
'Bye bye, Moti Nagar,' he said gently. 'Chin up, okay? I'll see you soon. Take care.'
And he turned on his heel and strode out, curtly telling the press people to move out of the way, please. This is not some bloody new year party.
I would've raced after him, I was so disoriented and demented, but the TB held me firm, murmuring into my ear, 'Pull yourself together, child. We've finally spoken to your mother. Her phone was switched off because she was on a flight to Delhi. She'll be here shortly. Now, sit down and try to compose yourself.'
Which, I must confess, made me feel much, much better. I allowed myself be to be led back to the whirling dhurrie and didn't budge till Ma came to get me.
It was late afternoon, the funeral was over, and I was sitting in front of the TV in Saket Bhavan, mindlessly surfing channels. It didn't matter which one I switched to, they were all showing the same thing: Sorrow, shock and scandal mock freedom fighter Pushpa Pande's funeral! All the under-employed TV channels who do 'breaking news' stories every time the first cousin of a minor celebrity breaks into a prickly heat rash, were having a blast with the little footage they had managed to shoot of the 'embrace'. Love and War! screamed their headlines. Freedom fighter's memory desecrated! Granddaughter cuts off nani's nose at funeral! Indian politics reduced to a mockery!
It was breaking news on every single channel.
NDTV featured red-faced Pragati Party spokespersons bleating weakly about childhood friendships and a new, civilized way of fighting elections that didn't necessarily involve vilifying the competition. This didn't go down too well because they were instantly asked about all the mudslinging, allegations and counter-allegations that had gone on in Bittora for the past two weeks.
Aaj Tak's panel was talking about whether the influx of so many young people was destroying Indian politics. It featured half a dozen geriatric MPs, all agreeing with each other, saying the same thing again and again. Would you want a young, inexperienced doctor to operate on you? No! Would you want a young, inexperienced lawyer to fight your case? No! So why would you want a young, inexperienced MP, whose hormones were totally out of control, to represent you? Politics was not a sport, argued the oldies, where youth had a natural advantage. Take it from us, they declared, all these young people, who think erection is more important than election, are going to rip apart the moral fabric of the country!
Thumka TV had harassed-looking election commission officials saying there was nothing in their code of conduct that forbade a romance between competing candidates for a Lok Sab
ha seat.
Star News kept replaying a two-minute piece where Karan Sethie was being chased by their reporter, who was shouting, 'Sir, what do you have to say about the incident at Pushpa Pande's funeral today? What about your brother-sister agenda now?' In reply, Karan Sethie promptly accelerated his pace, flung 'No comment, no comment' over his shoulder and hurried towards his car so fast he tripped and practically fell into it through the open door. They kept replaying the shot of him falling down.
CNN-IBN had dug up the Hyderabadi Muslim cleric - the one with the 'Conversion through Love' agenda - and he declared that he was proud that Zain was following his (the Muslim cleric's) preachings. 'He's got that girl under his thumb,' he gloated, waggling his own thumb at the camera. 'See how she threw herself at him!'
'I told you you had feelings for him,' Ma said from behind me, as they replayed the footage of me bawling my eyes out in Zain's arms for the nth time. 'If you'd dealt with them earlier, instead of trying to deny them, this wouldn't have happened.'
I zapped off the TV, turned around and glared at her.
'Excuse me, but if you'd showed up earlier, I wouldn't have been driven to fall into the arms of the only person there whom I knew from childhood,' I replied.
Her eyes danced. 'Oh, was that your criteria?' she asked as she swooped down on me and gave me yet another thorough hug, squeezing the air out of me, rubbing my back and practically inhaling my hair. 'You picked Zain because he's the person you'd known the longest? How logical!'
'Yes,' I said, somewhat indistinctly. 'And also because everybody else there was just so thrilled about Amma's impeccable timing. I could totally tell they were gloating!'
'Jinni,' Ma sighed. 'That's not fair. A lot of those people loved Amma. I know Jugatram did. And Gudia too. And... if she had to go, this was a good time to go, right? Can't you forgive them for looking at the rather fat silver lining?'
I shook my head, my eyes full of tears. 'How can you say that? It's so cold.'
'I believe death is just the beginning,' she said gently. 'Amma's in a better place now. I know she is.'
I threw up my hands, tears spilling from my eyes. 'Ma, don't! Please. Don't go all new-age spiritual now. I'll throw up. I really will.'
'Okay, I won't,' she said as she hugged me again.
'Ma! I can't breathe...'
'So don't breathe,' she said unrepentantly, not letting go.
'Ma,' I said again, after a while.
'Okay, okay,' she sighed, releasing me. She pulled back, looking at me, then reached out to stand my hair up in random peaks. 'Love the cut, by the way,' she said, tilting her head to one side. 'You look like a rosebud.'
'If you'd let me cut it short when I was young, I could've looked like a rosebud sooner,' I pointed out grumpily, as I finger-combed my hair back to the way I liked it. 'Instead of spending most of my life looking like the pigtailed warrior Obelix.'
'Most of your life is in front of you, Jinni,' Ma said gently. 'Do with it what you will.'
'Ma!' I groaned. 'I told you. Please don't go all philosophical on me!'
'Then you don't,' she said firmly, giving me a hard little shake by the shoulders. 'You don't go all sad old woman on me!'
I tried to push her away. 'You should've got here sooner,' I said abruptly. 'Wasn't your daughter's first election more important than grading papers in Ontario?'
She let go of me suddenly, her lower lip quivering.
'Oh, Jinni.' She sighed. 'If I'd showed up, all the fights would've just started again.'
Well, she did have a point there. She would have made Amma and me feel like axe-murderers for every rupee we spent that crossed the EC limit of twenty-five lakhs. She's like Bauji in drag. Only, much prettier, of course.
'And you didn't even get to meet Amma,' I said sadly.
Ma looked a little smug. 'Oh, I wouldn't say that,' she said. 'We had a long chat the night before your rally. I called her on my way to the airport. She knew I was coming, you know. She was all excited about surprising you.'
Really, I thought with a twinge of irritation. It seemed like all Amma had done was keep secrets from me.
'So, did you talk about me?' I asked.
Ma chuckled. 'Alwayj thinking about yourself,' she said, doing a spot-on Amma imitation. 'No, we talked about me. And made peace on a lot of different issues.'
'Good for you,' I said, with a sigh.
'Anyway,' said Ma, 'don't beat yourself up about behaving impulsively in the temple, Jinni. You did what you felt compelled to do. And Zain did what he felt compelled to do. Otherwise, he'd never have showed up there in the first place. Either way, it's okay - one of you will become MP and the other one can help him.'
'Or her,' I muttered, not even bothering to comment on the impossible sunniness of this future scenario.
'Or her,' she agreed. 'It doesn't really matter, baba. Stop fretting about it. Now, tell me what Amma and you talked about before she died.'
I smiled.
'Thank god,' Ma said, swooping down on me with yet another fervent hug. 'I thought you'd broken your smile. There it is, big and wide and as scary as ever.'
'She said not to let Katrina play her in SKAA,' I said.
Ma gasped. 'Because she's Muslim?'
'No.' I rolled my eyes. 'Because she's fat. And she told me to read Bauji's diaries whenever I get confused. She said you had them.'
Ma went very still. 'She said that?'
I nodded.
'In that case,' she said, her voice deceptively casual, 'here's one of his diaries which I happen to have in my bag, and I think you should read it, right now.'
She stood up as she spoke, and rummaged through her boho sack-like handbag. Then she held out a limp, brown leather-covered diary. 'It's one of his last ones,' she said. 'Written in 1991.'
'Oh,' I said as I took it from her carefully. 'Amma did say he left them to you, not to her. It seemed to be a bit of a sore point.'
'Yeah... well.' She shrugged. 'I don't know, Jinni, they had a complicated relationship.'
'What's in it?' I asked as I gingerly turned over the yellowing old pages which were filled with shaky, spidery handwriting.
'Lots of stuff,' she said, still in that carefully casual voice. 'General ramblings - some prayers, his grocery lists, letters from all kinds of people - and, of course,' she rolled her eyes, 'Sarojini Naidu's poetry.'
I laughed. 'Bangle Sellers?'
She nodded. 'And Palaquin Bearers. Lots of them. But there is one right here,' she reached for the diary and opened it to a page somewhere in the middle, 'that I particularly want you to see.'
I took the diary from her curiously - there was a strange, unsteady note to her voice - what was this poem that she wanted me to read so badly?
It was a long poem, taking up more than two pages, even in Bauji's tiny, cramped handwriting.
I started reading.
AN INDIAN LOVE SONG
by Sarojini Naidu
HE
Lift up the veils that darken the delicate moon of thy glory
and grace,
Withhold not, O love, from the night of my longing the joy
of thy luminous face,
Give me a spear of the scented keora guarding thy pinioned
curls,
Or a silken thread from the fringes that trouble the dream
of thy glimmering pearls;
Faint grows my soul with thy tresses' perfume and the song
of thy anklets' caprice,
Revive me, I pray, with the magical nectar that dwells in
the flower of thy kiss.
'Wow,' I said. 'It's tinkly, lyrical porn.'
'Jinni, don't be facetious,' Ma said sharply. 'It's Bauji's diary. Just read, okay?'
So I read.
SHE
How shall I yield to the voice of thy pleading, how shall I
grant thy prayer,
Or give thee a rose-red silken tassel, a scented leaf from
my hair?
Or fl
ing in the flame of thy heart's desire the veils that
cover my face,
Profane the law of my father's creed for a foe of my father's
race?
Thy kinsmen have broken our sacred altars and slaughtered
our sacred kine,
The feud of old faiths and the blood of old battles sever thy
people and mine.
'Ma,' I said, stopping again. 'This is so lame.'
'It's lyrical!' she replied, her face straight. 'Romantic. My father had a romantic soul...'
'He was crushing on old Mrs Naidu,' I said, 'She must've been, what, thirty years older than him? That's sick.'
'Uff, Jinni, he appreciated her poetry,' Ma said, prodding me impatiently. 'How much you can talk.'
So I shut up and read.
HE
What are the sins of my race, Beloved, what are my people
to thee?
And what are thy shrines, and kine and kindred, what are
thy gods to me?
Love recks not of feuds and bitter follies, of stranger,
comrade or kin,
Alike in his ear sound the temple bells and the cry of the
muezzin.
For Love shall cancel the ancient wrong and conquer the
ancient rage,
Redeem with his tears the memoried sorrow that sullied a
bygone age.
The poem spilled over onto a third page, so I had to turn a leaf to read the last two lines.
And when I did, I discovered a black-and-white photograph, carefully taped onto the back of the page. Two worm-infested looking children, aged about five or six, scowling into the camera from the branch of a mango tree, their skinny legs dangling, the sun in their eyes.
Under the picture, Bauji had written, in a shaky, painstaking attempt at calligraphy:
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