She gave him his shirt.
‘Do you know my name, Ravan?’
He shook his head. ‘Don’t you want to know?’ She had a way of thrusting her chest out from time to time which left him confused and a little uncomfortable though he couldn’t say why.
‘I asked you a question.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes what?’
‘Yes, I would like to know your name.’
She caught hold of his hand. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
She pricked his index finger with the needle in her hand.
‘Ouch,’ Ravan yelled in surprise. ‘Why did you do that?’
‘To tell you my name.’
She pressed the tip of his finger hard till a big drop of blood gathered on it. His yelp had brought Parvatibai out. She stood in the door to the kitchen. He tried to withdraw his hand but his aunt held it fast. He had the odd feeling that she was doing it deliberately to provoke his mother.
‘The name’s Lalee. I’m the red running in your veins. I’m the red of the lipstick and the red of the paan I chew. I’m the red in the sky at the Gateway of India as night is about to fall.’ She put his finger in her mouth and sucked it.
He squirmed with an embarrassment that was mixed with a strange undercurrent of pleasure.
‘Let go of my hand.’ He was sure his mother was watching him.
‘I’m Lalee,’ his aunt whispered, ‘and you are my lal. Do you know the meaning of lal?’
‘It means red.’
‘Yes but in Hindi it also means son.’
Ravan jerked his finger away and slipped into his shirt with an excessive show of haste.
‘See? You are Lalee’s lal.’
‘I’m not your son.’
She squeezed his finger again, much harder this time. The drop of blood returned.
‘I need money,’ Shankar-rao came into the kitchen one day and told Parvati. ‘My expenses have gone up. I have a sister to look after. I’ll need at least ten rupees a day.’
Parvati Pawar. It had crossed her mind since that Thursday over a month ago when her husband had brought home his sister, to break Shankar-rao’s left leg, then the right; the left hand, then the right; to rip open his stomach, remove his intestines and use them as a rope for her and Ravan to climb out of the window and down to the bottom of CWD Chawl No. 17 and never to return; to pick up the wooden bat with which the maid beat the dirt and the life out of clothes and split open Shankar-rao’s head, no, change that, she would have liked to treat her husband’s head as her sari, or Ravan’s shirt and shorts or any piece of cloth and work on it all day and all night for weeks till there was no wood left in the bat. She had had other thoughts, some less violent but more malevolent than others. She had always known that she had two children and of the two Ravan was the older.
She did not have high or low expectations of life; she did not think of her lot as a good, bad or indifferent hand that fate had dealt her. Life was a given, you did your best which in Parvati’s case meant her damnedest best and that was that. She would not admit it because the honesty of admission could often mean that you had given up, but sometimes in the middle of her recent sleepless nights she was unable to lift her hand or turn on her side or sit up because her husband’s last move had broken her spine and spirit. Was it because Shankar-rao had thrown down a card that she had never seen before? Yes and no. It certainly had not occurred to her that her husband would wilfully destroy his home and so wantonly confuse their son. She had no truck with what Shankar-rao did outside his home but what was Ravan going to tell his friends or anyone who asked about the visitor? That she was his aunt? Chawl No. 17 and every other chawl in the CWD complex knew by now of Shankar-rao’s sister. Parvati’s own customers would enquire after her, start a conversation with her and linger at the door. All the neighbours starting from the children sniggered and smirked when they referred to the aunt and the women gloated over what they considered Parvati’s much-deserved comeuppance. That was all right with her. She could take it and like all scandals, this one too would lose its novelty and be forgotten.
Men and women carry on with each other. They always have and are not about to discontinue one-night stands, flings and affairs. Their neighbours might be incensed, their sense of morality deeply offended but that was natural. If you lived in a chawl, maybe it was the same almost anywhere else, you had to reinforce each other’s hypocrisy. It was bound to rile them that Shankar-rao, and not they, had got himself a companion and was brazen enough to install her at home. You had to hand it to Shankar-rao. He had been prone to disappear at night occasionally, and sometimes when he had gone to pick up the newspaper, he had stayed away for an hour or so. But that was the extent of his contact with the outside world. He didn’t have a job and he was not flush with money. Parvati didn’t remember too clearly what he looked like but never mind who his sister was, or where she came from, he had got her and the other men in the neighbourhood were envious that they hadn’t. But what was Ravan going to make of the woman, his father and his mother? Most of all, himself? She believed that like it or not, children inherit the sins and practices of their parents. Mind you, she was not even touching upon the nocturnal shenanigans of her husband and the woman.
Parvatibai had no imagination or rather she had no time to indulge the flights and options that a febrile imagination offers. The words surprise or astonishment are of course inadequate to describe her reaction to the newcomer but that was not what got her down. If she felt defeated before she had a chance to retaliate, it was because she had no idea how to react. Like Ravan and all the other pigheaded optimists of this earth she suspected that there was a right and effective response to any situation but it continued to elude her. Without breast-beating or self-pity, she had asked herself what she could do. She had not considered physical disfigurement of her husband as a deterrent in a raffish moment of light-heartedness. She knew that she would do almost anything to protect and save her home and her son, within what she considered reasonable limits. What did she consider reasonable? Shankar-rao was physically stronger than her but she could take him unawares. As a consequence she could be thrown into jail and Ravan would very likely be out on the street. Violence was no solution just as taking her case to the courts wasn’t. She didn’t have the money to hire a lawyer. Besides she didn’t think men, which is what judges were, would listen favourably to her dilemma. Appeal to the finer instincts of the sister? She didn’t think that there was much fineness there anyway. And she was never in two minds about one fact: the intruder was blameless. If Shankar-rao was so hell-bent on being made a sucker, who but a saint or a fool would resist taking advantage of him? Would someone please tell her, she was willing to pay him or her for the advice, how to get that woman out of the house? Her husband wanted ten rupees a day, that was three hundred rupees a month. Give or take some, that was about the size of her monthly profit margin.
Parvati answered her husband in her usual level voice. ‘We don’t make that kind of money. If you need more money, the only alternative is to take up a job.’
Parvatibai was much mistaken. There were other alternatives.
Two mothers? One for bread and butter and one for jam? Lalee’s lal, he liked the sound of that phrase. I too am red, Ravan thought. Red as the stop signal at the traffic lights. Red as the loincloths of the boys in the Sabha gymnasium, red as a parrot’s beak, red as, red as … he ran out of reds. He hated going out every night for a walk but that was because of his mother, not his aunt. He had not heard his father and aunt fight after that first day.
‘Lal’ his aunt called him. There was something funny about the way she sat. It made him feel furtive and he had to turn his eyes away. She always sat with her legs spread apart. But it was not just that. He would not have said this aloud or even to himself but there was something about the way she carried herself, stood with her hands on her hips, talked, pulled up her sari, walked or just looked at you that made him feel uncomfort
able. He recalled how Shobhan’s sister, Tara, adjusted her body-movements, the lilt of her behind, the tension in her neck, the way she threw her pallu over her shoulder or flicked her tongue over her lips when she was eating sherbet or ice-cream but it was always for the benefit of her boyfriend, Shahaji Kadam. It was the same with the girls from the top floors, their come-ons were directed at specific people. With his Aunt Lalee almost anything that moved got the same treatment. She was never really relaxed. Even her involuntary habits had a studied element to them. You were always aware that she knew that you were watching, and was doing whatever she was to provoke you or to make it a point to tell you that she was not doing it for you but for somebody else.
‘How’s your finger, Lal?’
‘Which finger?’
‘You’ve already forgotten? The one that was bleeding.’
‘Oh that? That was weeks ago. It’s fine.’
‘What a shame. If it was bleeding, I could have sucked it and painted my mouth red.’
‘Yuck, I can’t stand the smell of blood.’
‘I love it. I’m a vampire. Come here.’
‘Not if you are going to pierce a needle into my finger.’
‘Can’t bear just a little pain for your Lalee, Lal?’
Red as, red as what that song said, lal lal gal. Red as cheeks.
‘Come here, you beastly little boy.’
He loved the names she called him and all the nonsensical epithets she used. He sat down next to her on the floor. In the daytime she sat on the durry while Shankar-rao got the bed, but at night it was the reverse. He didn’t feel shy or awkward because his mother wasn’t around. She was out very often these days. What she did was fill the tiffin boxes by four o’clock, leave them just inside the door, serve tea to his father, aunt and him and then stay out till 8 o’clock at night.
‘What?’
‘I’ve got something for you but if you don’t want it, forget it.’
‘For me?’
‘Haven’t you got a present ever before?’
‘Sure. Ma buys me my school uniform at the start of the year. When I was a good boy she used to buy me all my schoolbooks. And she buys me clothes for Diwali.’
‘Those things are not presents, silly. Books and uniforms are things you need. Presents are given just like that. For no reason at all except that it may be someone’s birthday or marriage. Or because you love someone and feel like showing that love.’
She pulled out a box wrapped in brown paper from the space she had appropriated for herself under the bed and handed it to him.
‘I can’t take it.’
‘Why?’ She almost screamed at him. ‘Why?’
He was cowed down by the anger in her voice. He stared at the floor and answered softly.
‘I’ve got nothing to give you.’
That elicited an even more unexpected response. She drew him close and kissed him on the cheek. She was delighted that he looked more surprised and pleased than she had expected. She kissed him on the lips. He went red.
‘Lal lal gal. Look how red your cheeks are. Maybe you’ve got red wine in them. Gifts are not a tit-for-tat competition. Open your present. Quick.’
He tried to peel the tape off carefully so that the brown paper would not tear. Aunt Lalee was not so patient. She stuck her nail into the paper and ripped it. He opened the box. He had never seen, heard of or imagined a shirt so red. And yet right there in front of his eyes folded immaculately inside the box was a red so beautiful he wouldn’t dare to wear it for fear of creasing or dirtying it.
‘For me?’
‘No. Your Aunt Lalee’s going to wear it. Stop wasting time. Let’s see how it looks on you.’
She made Ravan take off his school shirt and wear the new one. Oh, the smell of a new shirt. He kept sniffing at it.
‘Only dogs do that, Ravan. Smell their armpits, their coats, between their legs. Stand up straight and let me button you up. Look at you, you look like a red prince. Ravishing. All the women in the chawls are going to leave their husbands and throw themselves at your feet. You can’t afford to reject a single one because she’ll instantly commit suicide.’
‘What absolute nonsense.’ Ravan smiled shyly. He had not got so much attention from his mother as far back as he could remember.
‘You call it nonsense? If the sight of you drives your Aunt Lalee plain crazy, can you imagine what must happen to mere mortals like the women in these chawls? Star material, Ravan, sheer star material. One of these days a film director’s going to be passing this way and he’s going to spot you by chance. That’s the end. We’ll never get to see you again. You’ll be the new Shammi Kapoor, Dev Anand, Dilip Kumar, Rajendra Kumar. You won’t look at us. People will mob you. The only way we’ll get to see you is on the screen.’
‘Take off that shirt.’ His mother was at the door.
Ravan wasn’t quite sure how, but he knew he had betrayed his mother. Why couldn’t she have come a little later and allowed him to enjoy his moment of glory. She was such a spoilsport. How long had she been standing there watching him? Had she heard everything? His Aunt Lalee had such a way with words. She made even the most far-fetched things seem real. But when she talked about Shammi Kapoor, she touched something deep within him, a sacred and devout spot where the flame of adoration burnt eternally. Shammi Kapoor, his hero from Dil Deke Dekho, the man, he could even be a god, for whose sake he had committed a theft that had deprived him of his schoolbooks and earned him his mother’s rage and thrashings.
Just a couple of minutes before, his Aunt Lalee had conjured up a vision of him, Ravan, as the greatest star of all. His movie was being premiered, there were hundreds of thousands of people mobbing him outside the Broadway theatre (he would have preferred Liberty but he had not seen it, not even from outside and couldn’t incorporate it into his vision), people from the CWD chawls were screaming his name but he couldn’t hear them because there was nobody in that crowd who wasn’t chanting Ravan, Ravan. He saw his Aunt Lalee for a second but the mob was cradling him on the tips of their raised hands and passing him on straight into the theatre. Shammi Kapoor and Asha Parekh were waiting inside. They touched his feet and then hugged him. ‘Ravan,’ they said, ‘we were big stars and we had swollen heads. But you’ve brought us to our senses. You are the greatest. You are our master and we are your slaves.’ He would have liked to exchange a few words with them but the audience was clapping and hollering for him. As he was propelled into the auditorium, Shammi Kapoor called out to him, ‘Ravan, one request, one request from your greatest fan. Please honour it. I’ll be indebted to you all my life. Your red shirt.’
Ravan started to unbutton his shirt. He stopped and said, ‘No, I won’t take it off. You are jealous of my friendship with Aunt Lalee. In all these years you’ve never given me a gift. Aunt Lalee’s been here for barely three or four months and already she’s given me a shirt. Not an ordinary shirt but a red one, the colour of Aunt Lalee.’
His mother went into the kitchen. If she was angry, disappointed or let down by her one and only son, she did not show it. Aunt Lalee drew out a small ball of cotton from her vanity case and then a brocade purse whose plastic gold thread was tarnished to a dirty black. Inside were ranged ten tiny glass bottles with glass stoppers. Aunt Lalee examined each bottle individually and then opened one. A heavy, stupefying perfume emanated from it. His aunt tilted the bottle gently and wet the cotton. A relentless wave of nausea started to build inside Ravan. His head reeled and his legs felt like butter on a hot day. The vapours from the bottle filled his head and glazed his eyes. Lalee rubbed the cotton swab on Ravan’s wrist and then behind the ears. Ravan blacked out. He was hit by a tidal wave. A 400 m.p.h. sneeze threw Ravan up in the air. His head jerked and his limbs were flung in all directions.
Aunt Lalee’s purse shot up in slow motion. Ravan was still dancing up there in mid-air. A series of rapid-fire sneezes would not allow him to touch the ground. The purse started to lose height. With the precision of
a practiced football player, Ravan headed the purse once more into space. It rose, it lurched, it emptied its contents. The bottles disengaged themselves. They tinkled like crystal in a chandelier and splintered on the floor. Ravan’s red shirt was now wet with ten overpowering perfumes. The fit of sneezing was, if such a thing was possible, much worse than before.
‘You … you … you,’ it took a while for his father’s sister to find her rhythm, ‘you shit, you arsehole, fool.’ She lit into Ravan with the flat of her hand, her fist and knee. ‘Do you know how much those attars cost? And those priceless bottles?’
‘Don’t raise your hand against my son again,’ Parvatibai interrupted Ravan’s dismemberment, ‘ever.’
‘Can you see what your stupid son has done? Is your bloody father going to replace the perfumes or the perfume bottles?’
‘The poor man’s long dead. And even if I could, I wouldn’t. As for my son I wonder why you were trying to win him over. A little too young for you, I would think.’
Parvatibai had to admit that that was uncalled for. She could not quite fathom Shankar-rao’s sister’s relationship with Ravan. Of course she was playing him against his mother, but there was more to it. Ravan, Parvatibai sometimes got the feeling, was her only human spot.
Parvatibai unbuttoned Ravan’s shirt and got him out of it. ‘Put on your shoes and sweep the floor. Make sure you collect even the tiniest fragment. Then mop the floor and have a bath.’ She turned her attention to her husband who was wearing his latest acquisition: an expression of false bravado on his face. ‘I want to have a word with you. Inside.’
‘She and I have no secrets,’ Shankar-rao parried and looked at his sister for approval. ‘Say what you want in front of her.’
Ravan and Eddie Page 21