The Age of Shiva

by Manil Suri

  Biji, on the other hand, cloistered herself on such occasions, and had her dinner sent to her bedroom. She tried to restrain us from showing ourselves as well, but Roopa and I (not poor Sharmila, who was too timid) usually managed to escape. Afterwards, we would hear Biji vent her outrage at Paji. “Night after night serving food to unpurified men. I’m sure the cook is fed up, what if he quits in protest? Will you have me in the kitchen then, boiling cows’ feet for them?”

  Provoking Harilal wasn’t the only reason—Paji was genuinely interested in the culture of his guests. “The Muslims might have been invaders, it’s true, but look how incomplete we’d be without them. Imagine if we had never known what a biryani tasted like or died without seeing the Taj Mahal.” Matters of religion didn’t bother him—in fact, he was eager to cultivate the acquaintanceship of Muslims to emphasize his secular outlook. “Ram or Rahim, it’s all a bloody hoax anyway,” he’d say (though never to his Muslim guests, many of whom were quite religious). “If you’re going to squander your time, what difference does it make whether it’s in a mosque or a temple?”

  Perhaps the one aspect of Muslim culture of which he was a true aficionado was qawwali. The inconsistency in this, the fact that such devotional songs should be at odds with his disdain for religion, never seemed to occur to him. Paji had one friend in particular, Salman uncle, with whom he often went to qawwali recitals. These events usually started late at night, and Salman uncle came to our house for dinner first, bearing gifts of almonds and raisins or the crumbly Persian vermicelli sweets that I loved so much. He enjoyed dressing in a stately silk sherwani for the occasion. The tunic ran all the way to his knees and was fitted with a stiff embroidered collar that brushed against his beard. His pajamas would be the tight-fitting kind, the white folds clinging closely to his legs, and on his head he wore the dark velvet cap that in later years came to be known as a Jinnah hat. In the summers, he hennaed his beard—to keep it cool, he said. Roopa and I took turns running our hands over it as if we were stroking a furry orange pet. Sharmila was intrigued by the color, but ran away each time we tried to coax her into petting it as well.

  Salman uncle was the only one of Paji’s Muslim guests with whom Biji seemed to be at ease, with whom she actually deigned to sit, even talk, at the dinner table. The main reason for this was his wife, whom he sometimes brought along. Yasmin auntie couldn’t have been more different from the womenfolk of the rustic Muslim laborers who worked for Biji’s father in their village. Not only did Yasmin auntie let her hair fly loose, or hold it in place with the flimsiest of scarves, but she also dressed in the most eye-catching outfits for which she went frequently to Lahore or Karachi on shopping trips. Her exquisitely tailored kameez had the sleeves cut to the precise length most fashionable at the moment, her salwars ballooned out or tightened up around her legs depending on the current trend, and some of her sandals had heels high enough to rival the ones the British memsahibs wore.

  Biji turned all girlish and giggly in Yasmin auntie’s presence, like a teenager with a crush. She was reticent when first introduced, but smitten from their very first meeting, by the end of which they were chatting and laughing like old school comrades. We were amazed to see the transformation in Biji—gone was the reserve and the comportment of the zamindar’s daughter (maintained with all her Hindu lady friends), to be replaced by a startling impishness. We never saw enough of Yasmin auntie because Biji spirited her away as soon as she arrived, monopolizing her all the way to dinnertime behind closed doors, when they reappeared, scented with exotic attars and perfumes. Once, I peeked into the bedroom and saw Biji wobbling in Yasmin auntie’s sandals, attempting to walk across the floor.

  As a gift for one year’s Eid festival, Salman uncle presented Paji with a complete outfit like the one he enjoyed wearing to qawwalis. Paji tried it out at once—the sherwani, the Jinnah hat, the tight pajamas, even a pair of gilt-inlaid shoes that came to a point at the toes. He emerged from his bedroom looking resplendent in the ensemble—like a nobleman from a Mughal court, or, as Salman uncle put it, “like someone whose ancestors had Persian blood.”

  It was true. We had never noticed the resemblance between Paji and Salman uncle before—they were about the same height and build, had the same aristocratic cheekbones, and standing together in their identical sherwanis, could have been mistaken for brothers. Biji, we could see, was quite alarmed at the sight. “Will you grow an orange beard next?” she asked Paji the morning after.

  The next time Yasmin auntie came, she brought silk dupattas for my sisters and me, and an outfit for Biji as well. “Put this on and tonight we’ll all go to the qawwali,” she directed. Of course, Biji demurred at first, but it was clear her curiosity would win out. “I’ll try it, but just for a moment,” she said.

  It was a salwar kameez, but one quite unlike the baggy type Biji wore about the house. The yellow color was one she would have never selected herself—it set off her darker skin strikingly, making an even more daring statement than orange or red. The kameez was cut snugly around the waist and stomach, pushing her bosom up, making her figure stand out. Sequins of tiny mirrors formed a pattern around the neck, they ran glittering down the arms and were inlaid in the dupatta as well. Biji stood in front of the mirror, looking at herself this way and that, pulling on the material to get the wrinkles out, tossing her dupatta carelessly around her neck.

  “And now for the final touch,” Yasmin auntie said, uncapping a lipstick from her purse and bringing it to Biji’s mouth. But this was going too far. Biji drew her face out of reach and pulled the dupatta off.

  “I’d love to join you, but I can’t.”

  Our faces fell, because without Biji’s company, we would have to stay home as well. Yasmin auntie, however, understood better than us that this was simply a ploy on our mother’s part. She proceeded to administer the flattery and cajoling Biji craved, but never received from Paji. “What a shame if nobody saw you in that salwar kameez.” “I was so looking forward to sitting together, the two of us.” “It’s only on special nights that women are allowed, you know.”

  It didn’t take long for Biji to announce she’d come, “if only not to disappoint the children.” She slung the dupatta over the nape of her neck, so that the two strands cascaded down her front, then looked at herself in the mirror again and wrapped one end fashionably around her throat.

  Paji let out a “Wah!” of appreciation when he saw Biji’s transformation, a reaction which so pleased her that she let him put his arm around her shoulders. I will always remember seeing the two of them descend arm in arm down the steps, like a Muslim couple on the day of Eid, dressed in their finest.

  The qawwali was being held beyond the cantonment, on the other side of Mall Road—the mostly Muslim side, which we rarely frequented. We clopped along the gaslit roads, through neighborhoods that got progressively poorer, enveloped by the tonga’s horse and old leather smell. Salman uncle explained the Sufi origins of qawwali to us, but I was too absorbed in the houses passing by to listen. I had expected them to be painted green or blue or some other conspicuous color to proclaim their Muslim identity, but there was little to distinguish them from houses in other parts of the city. The women in the courtyards also looked the same—they went about stirring pots over charcoal braziers, dressed in the usual baggy salwar kameez that everyone wore. Wouldn’t it be wonderful, I thought, if up close, they were all wearing makeup like Yasmin auntie?

  At the hall, what fascinated me inside was all the white. The ivory white ceiling, the lights blazing down from it, the musicians in their spotless kurtas, the snowy sheets covering the dais and flowing down to carpet the entire seating area. I sat on a sheet in the ladies’ section against a white cottony bolster, my head covered by the dupatta as Yasmin auntie had instructed us all. A woman came around with a tray and served us glasses of frothy white almond milk.

  There were several groups of singers (“qawwals,” as Yasmin auntie called them) who performed in turn. The lead qawwa
l sang out each new verse to the tune of a harmonium, and then the rest of his group responded with the same lines, clapping lustily along. All around in the audience, people swayed to show their appreciation, or rose to offer money, or raised an arm and cried out “Subhan-allah.” Biji squirmed around initially, and looked vainly around the room to see if she could spot another Hindu lady. She tried to pull her dupatta low over her forehead to cover her bindi, but relaxed soon after, when she realized nobody was watching. I remember being lulled to sleep by the sparkle and flash of sequins in Biji’s kameez, as she and Yasmin auntie swung in unison from side to side in tune with the clapping.

  Biji never wore the salwar kameez again. The increase in communal friction made it unsafe for Hindus to venture into Muslim localities, like the one where the qawwalis were held. Salman uncle and Yasmin auntie came a few more times to our house, but moved to Karachi soon after, which they said was more cosmopolitan. Years later, while rummaging through an old suitcase, I found the salwar kameez—Biji had brought the outfit along on the train to India when we fled Rawalpindi.

  We did hear from Salman uncle three years later. A letter from Karachi somehow found its way via the Delhi refugee administration to Paji. “Both Yasmin and I are in good health,” Salman uncle wrote, saying that he was planning a trip to Delhi that December to visit his brother Manmad. Manmad had been one of the refugees crossing in the other direction, leaving behind his burned-down cloth factory in Ghaziabad to flee to Karachi. However, he had missed India too much and returned a year later to take his chances in Delhi. “I’m looking forward to introducing my two brothers in Delhi to each other—I know you’ll be good friends. Perhaps Manmad can even show you where the best qawwalis are.” Yasmin auntie, he said, would also come on a future trip—she had already started buying up a collection of new salwar kameez for Biji in Karachi.

  Both Paji and Biji kept waiting for the follow-up letter, which never came. There was no return address on the letter we had received, nor an address for Manmad, and we were never able to contact Salman uncle again.

  ALTHOUGH INITIALLY it was harder, Paji did manage to build up a circle of Muslim friends in Delhi over the years. He even set up a special Hindu-Muslim group in Darya Ganj to foster such relations. He was able to renew his passion for qawwali, and Biji had to get used to having Muslim guests for dinner again.

  In contrast, there were never any Muslims invited to Dev’s house. Mataji would chat with Mrs. Ahmed over the wall, and Hema would sometimes include Mrs. Ahmed’s son Rahim in a game, but the socialization seemed to end there.

  On the day of the Eid festival, the Ahmeds sent over glasses of almond milk. “Don’t drink it,” Mataji shouted, running across the courtyard to pull a glass away from Hema’s hand before she could have a sip. “How many times must I tell you, they’re Muslim, they might have put a curse on it.”

  Mataji took the glasses into the kitchen and started emptying them one by one, pouring the milk down the drain. “I hate to throw it out, but what else to do? This way they won’t be offended when I return the glasses, and also we can be safe.”

  chapter eight

  THE DAY BEFORE KARVA CHAUTH, MATAJI TOOK SANDHYA AND ME TO THE fair that had sprung up along the market street on the other side of the station. Every available nook seemed to have sprouted a stall, complete with cloth and bamboo walls and strings of colored lights. Mataji guided us expertly through the throngs of people, inspecting the mounds of vermilion and pooja ingredients, haggling over the boxes of sweets, making us try on bangles and gilt-edged slippers before buying them for us. “A small gift for my bahus,” she told us. “It’s the least I can do in return for making my sons live longer.”

  The “Chauth,” it had been explained to me, referred to the fourth day of the waning moon, when wives fasted for the longevity of their husbands from the first sign of dawn to when they sighted the moon. It was the longest and most arduous of all fasts, since even a drop of water could void it, and it occurred usually in October, when it was very hot. “Sometimes you can’t see the moon because it’s obscured by the clouds,” Hema said, trying her best to scare me. “Then you just have to go on fasting—even for days if necessary. I really hope that doesn’t happen to you.”

  At first, I thought the name was “Kadva,” or “bitter,” to reflect how exacting this ordeal was. But Sandhya clarified that it was “Karva,” not “Kadva,” which referred to a symbol of good luck, a sort of earthenware pot. “Be sure to buy a karva if an old woman selling pottery comes to your door on that day,” she sang, “Because if you don’t, she’ll capture his spirit in it and steal your husband away.”

  As the day of the festival drew closer, I noticed a change come over Sandhya. Her features, which were usually set in an expression of stoic perseverance, began to relax, even blossom into the occasional smile. Her hair broke free of its utilitarian bun and fell in shimmering cascades to her shoulders. Strands of jasmine appeared in it, and sometimes a hibiscus flower bloomed next to an ear. Green glass bangles clinked around her wrists, and the nails on her hands and feet acquired a coat of lustrous red. One morning, I heard her singing in the bathroom; another time, I caught her humming in the pooja corner. Even her rice turned less clumpy. It was as if she was becoming younger, more carefree, more radiant as time went by—as if she was reverting to the incarnation of a bride.

  Arya noticed it too, because he seemed to linger every morning after she had touched his feet for her pooja, and just stare at her. There was never a kiss or any other outward show of affection, only this mutual gaze that mesmerized the two of them. Hema would caricature it for me when it happened by hanging her tongue out and rolling her eyeballs as if they had come loose in her head. At night, the long waits outside the bedroom door before Arya turned off the light inside multiplied from once a week to twice, then four times.

  Perhaps it was the fact that I was the new initiate and she the experienced sister-in-law that made Sandhya’s attitude towards me soften. I noticed it in little things—a sentence spoken when it was not absolutely necessary, a glance towards me without wariness or reserve, even an orange peeled for me when she peeled one for Mataji. “I used to be nervous, too, about the fast, but now it’s my favorite day of the year,” she volunteered one morning. “We’ll go over all the steps beforehand, so you’ll have nothing to fear.” Hema got very jealous when she saw the two of us discussing the ceremony. She went around complaining that nobody talked to her anymore, wondering darkly if it was because the bahus were plotting a conspiracy.

  In all my years of growing up, I had never seen Biji keep the fast. Paji had probably forbidden her because of the way it held women subordinate to men. I was unfamiliar with the steps Sandhya demonstrated for me—the right foot balanced on a grinding pestle, milk carried in a glass as an offering, the round sieve, the type used to sift flour, held up towards the moon. “Why should it be only women?” I wondered aloud. “Why don’t husbands keep the fast for their wives as well?” It was as if Paji was inside, making me blurt out the words. “Shouldn’t Dev be practicing these steps? And Arya as well?”

  “I wouldn’t know. It’s not for me to say,” Sandhya replied, her expression suddenly cold, her voice taking on a tone of formality.

  She spoke to me again later, as we put away the sieve and the pestle. “Without Arya, I don’t even know if I’d be alive. So it’s not just that I’m fasting for his life, I’m also fasting for mine.”

  WHAT WORRIED ME MOST about Karva Chauth was Paji’s attendance that evening to witness its conclusion. Sandhya had explained the sacred origins of the fast, how this was an opportunity for women to worship the mother goddess Parvati. Although I was not devout, I did not mind participating in such religious ceremonies. Whether listening to the mythological tales Biji used to relate, or singing songs at the temple, or making an offering to Lakshmi at Divali, it was easy to enjoy each observance as a cultural activity without pondering its deeper meaning. Paji, though, with his profound aversion to
religion, was different. Like someone allergic to cats who starts gasping and wheezing at the mere sight of a feline, his face would turn purple and his eyes bulge when exposed to worship of any kind. He would tell us how as a boy he tied up his laces tight with such impossible knots that his shoes couldn’t be taken off outside temples and he could escape going inside.

  Even worse than the religious aspect of the ceremony, I was expected to touch Dev’s feet before breaking the fast. “Some people just graze the ground in front, but it’s the toes that one’s supposed to touch—not the nail, because that’s inauspicious, but the part just beyond,” Sandhya had instructed. “And remember, everyone will be watching, so be sure to touch both feet.”

  I hadn’t quite reconciled myself to the idea of performing this act. Why should I be bending down in front of Dev? Was he Gandhiji, that he should be bestowing a blessing on me? Why, to return to the question disturbing me all along, was I fasting for him in the first place? The way to go through with the whole affair, I had decided, was by thinking of it as a social custom—a harmless curiosity that Dev’s family engaged in. One that didn’t signify anything more, one that I could execute while taking my mind on a stroll somewhere. But what would Paji’s philosophers say? How would I pull it off with him there?

  The previous week, a letter had arrived for me from Paji. I instantly recognized the precise economy of the lettering in the address, inscribed in the dark blue ink he got from the stationer at Connaught Place. Even though the mailman made his final delivery by four in the afternoon, I found it only at night, propped up against the pillow on my talai.