by Manil Suri
I kept up my vigil every day that week, then decided to extend it, just in case the letter had been delayed. April turned to May, the postman made his rounds twice a day, but what I was waiting for never came.
chapter seventeen
AFTER SANDHYA, I THOUGHT I WOULD NEVER AGAIN BE ABLE TO BEAR the sight of Delhi. What took me back finally, was another wedding. During the very first year of her Ph.D program, Sharmila fell in love with a professor in her college.
She could not have picked a more unsuitable match. Dr. Munshi Afsar was not only eighteen years her senior, but also a Muslim. There were even indications, Roopa wrote (in the volley of missives she fired off from Madras), that unlike the qawwali connoisseurs it was Paji’s hobby to befriend, this was someone who was a devout fundamentalist. That he prayed five times a day and donated most of his income to the mosque, that tucked away in some shady locality near the Red Fort was a secret household where he maintained not one but two former wives.
Biji was beside herself with fury. She put the blame squarely on Paji, for this, her worst nightmare. “If you keep bringing wolves into the house, encourage your daughter to play and eat with them, why be surprised now when one of their tribe carries her away? I’ll never forgive this until my dying day.” Of course, the number of things for which she could never forgive Paji till she died was by then already too long to list.
In a way, Paji was to blame. “It was his beard that I couldn’t resist,” Sharmila wrote in an embarrassingly overwrought letter she sent me together with her professor’s photograph. After Roopa’s allegations, I had been expecting the inflamed red eyes of a fanatic, the lecherous grin of a polygamist, but Dr. Afsar turned out to appear quite mild, even shy, his face somehow pulled back from his glasses as if he was trying to hide behind the lenses. Roopa, obviously, had allowed her imagination to get the better of her.
“Every time I went to his office, I was reminded of the beard Salman uncle had back in Rawalpindi,” Sharmila wrote. “The one you and Roopa took turns stroking each time he came to take Paji for qawwali. The one I was tempted to touch, but was always too scared. What I really want Munshi to do is dye it orange with mehndi like Salman uncle used to. Except now I’d caress it with my lips instead.”
For Paji, it was one thing to profess the secular outlook he had cultivated over the years, quite another to abide by it where his own daughter was concerned. He refused to give a blessing for the match. He was careful to never allude to Munshi being a Muslim, couching his objection in the age difference instead. As Sharmila’s attitude hardened, so did his own, until the day came when he forbade her from continuing her contact. Which wasn’t really practical, since in addition to being her sweetheart, Dr. Afsar was also the mentor for her thesis.
What broke through the impasse was the death of Paji’s idol. Nehru’s leadership had been under a cloud for more than a year and a half, ever since the humiliating 1962 Chinese attack. Our troops had been so poorly prepared that in the face of the massive invasion, some of them simply fled. Having displayed their might, the invaders quickly declared a cease-fire and left. Paji watched in dismay afterwards as newspapers pilloried Nehru for having trusted China as a friend. The HRM seized the opportunity to denounce the prime minister’s secular ideas as well. Suddenly Nehru’s seventy-plus years began to show. He survived a stroke in the first month of the year, but not the heart attack that burst his aorta in May. The ultimate insult was yet to come—instead of the secular funeral he had decreed, religious leaders forced an elaborate cremation with full Hindu rites to be held.
With the death of his hero, something seemed to die in Paji as well. He sent me a long, rambling letter, filled with gloom and sorrow at the passing of India’s golden age, at the end of hope and happiness and perhaps democracy itself. “Just wait a few months and see—these same scavengers who are vying with each other to praise him in the newspapers will soon be clawing and nipping away at his legacy. There’s no one left to lead us into the future, nobody to uphold the ideals under which this country was born.”
Perhaps it was this demoralized state of his that made him agree to Sharmila’s Hindu-Muslim match. Or perhaps it was simply a sentimental response, a melodramatic tribute, to keep Nehru’s ideal of secularism alive. Paji promised he would be there in person with Biji to see Sharmila wed.
When I first glimpsed Paji standing on the railway platform, he appeared unchanged from four years ago. His hair was still black, his mustache neatly trimmed, his bearing that of a colonel’s, even though he had never been a military man. But then he started walking towards me, and I noticed how he moved more slowly and deliberately now, as if debating the necessity of each step. The idealism that shone in his eyes had faded, replaced by a milkiness that dated him even more than his sixty years. “Welcome home,” he said, not only to me but also to Dev, and his words seemed free of guile, sincere. I almost wished that Dev would try to touch my father’s feet again—it would have been reassuring to verify that one could get a rise out of Paji still.
We drove to Darya Ganj—Dev had wanted to be in Nizamuddin, but had changed his mind when he heard that Roopa was coming and would be staying with my parents as well. Biji was waiting for us all alone—she told me she was so angry with Paji that she had stopped accompanying him anywhere. Rage seemed to suit her well—enlivening her eyes with a healthy glisten, invigorating her cheeks with a wholesome flush. Her entire body appeared limber and well-exercised, as if she had been performing calisthenics in preparation for battle. “I don’t even know how I will face the neighbors, much less my friends after this. If your Paji thinks I’m going to give my blessing by attending this travesty, this mockery of a wedding ceremony, he’s mistaken.”
But attend she did, not only in a red wedding sari but even with lipstick on her mouth, for perhaps only the second time in her life. Munshi’s family was boycotting the occasion, so it wasn’t clear whom she was trying to impress. The “travesty” itself took only a few minutes, it was the hour-long wait for the couples before us that seemed interminable. Munshi had suggested the idea of marrying in court—a wise one, since it preempted the fight bound to ensue over whether to have a Hindu or a Muslim ceremony. We almost got thrown out though, when Roopa’s twins Dilip and Shobha decided to mount the benches—a constable appeared from inside the courtrooms to quiet them down.
They were cute, these children—they even managed to twist the expression on Biji’s lipstick-covered mouth from a fume into a smile. What shocked me was how even Paji enjoyed their antics. He let them climb all over him and swing from his neck, calling them his darlings, kissing their foreheads. Where was his antipathy, his proscription against children now? How could he have performed such an about-face after insisting that I scrape out my womb?
We were finally called into the small chamber outside which we had been waiting. The clerk dipped the nib of his pen into a pot of ink before handing it first to Munshi, then Sharmila. Once they had signed, he picked up the register to examine what they had written, as if searching for an error that would allow him to annul the contract. Then, gauging our status by the clothes we were wearing, he decided on English as the language in which to recite his memorized pronouncement. “You are now becoming husband and wife,” he said, and waited until Paji had tipped him two rupees before handing over the certificate. “I am congratulating,” he added grudgingly, and nodded his head.
THE DAY AFTER THE WEDDING, when Sharmila and Munshi had left for their honeymoon in Kashmir, I found myself alone at home with Paji. Roopa had taken Biji and the twins to shop, and Dev had gone to Nizamuddin. I heard Paji rummaging around in his office, so I went upstairs. Even though it was the beginning of August, the air conditioner, to my surprise, was not turned on.
Paji was adjusting the plaque on the wall behind his desk. The inscription was his favorite quote by Nehru, and I still remembered the shop in Chandni Chowk where Roopa and I had accompanied him to have it engraved so many years ago. “The spectacle of what is
called religion, in India and elsewhere, has filled me with horror, and I have frequently condemned it and wished to sweep clean of it. Almost always it seemed to stand for blind reaction, dogma and bigotry, superstition and exploitation, and the preservation of vested interests.” The quote had been so long that the engraver had run out of space the first time he tried, and had had to start over with a fresh plaque.
Paji gave it one final swipe with his cloth, then turned around. “Do you think our new prime minister, this Shastri person, would ever be troubled by such sentiments? All he seems to care about is shoving his beloved Hindi down the throat of the south.” He sighed. “I suppose I should be thankful—my new son-in-law doesn’t seem too religious, it could have been much worse.”
I looked at the box of papers lying open on Paji’s desk. “Old report cards—Roopa’s and yours and Sharmila’s—I wish I hadn’t thrown away the Rawalpindi ones when we fled. Now that you’ve all gone, it’s only these memories that are left.” He sighed again, then picked up the top sheet. “Hindi forty-one percent, English thirty-eight percent, science forty percent…that’s Sharmila in the seventh standard—who would’ve thought she would ever get this far?” He chuckled. “I always thought Roopa would be the one to do well.”
“But she did, didn’t she? Look at the grandchildren she’s given you.”
“They’re adorable, aren’t they? Do you know what they call me? Paji the Great.” This time, his chuckle turned into a full-fledged laugh. I stood there mutely, and finally he seemed to notice my unsmiling expression. His mirth faded, and he grimaced, as if something unpleasant from breakfast had just repeated on him. “I know what you’re thinking, Meera, and believe me, I had no idea, believe me, I’m ashamed. The number of times I’ve wished you’d been surer, strong enough not to be swayed. If there was anything I could do to turn back time…” He stopped and stared meekly at the floor, his eyes growing milky once more.
“Why would you want to turn back time, Paji? I’ve graduated from college, haven’t I? Not as illustriously as Sharmila, but surely you must be satisfied?”
“Meera, I never—”
“And look, no babies, either—look how scrupulously clean I’ve managed to keep my womb. It’s your son-in-law who’s made sure, of course. By myself, I probably couldn’t have been trusted, but he’s been exemplary in following your advice every night. And now that I’ve fulfilled all your conditions, surely you will be bestowing on me your permission to procreate?”
“You know I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Perhaps I should get it in writing from you, perhaps you can mail me a certificate. Or better still, mail it to Dev.” I stared hard at my father, then turned around and walked away.
I DIDN’T WANT TO WAIT for Roopa to return with Biji and the twins, so I decided to go to Nizamuddin. I had not accompanied Dev there in the morning because I hadn’t wanted to encounter Arya (it was a day of avoiding people). Now that it was after lunchtime, I could safely say hello to Mataji without running into him. Over the past few years, I had received bits of news about my brother-in-law from Hema—how he had thrown himself into the work of the HRM, how his hair had turned prematurely gray, how despite all of Mataji’s attempts, he had stubbornly refused to remarry. “If not for himself, at least he should think of the family,” Hema complained. “He’s the eldest son, so it’s up to him to carry on the Arora name. When God has given him this second chance, who is he to refuse it?”
Sandhya, I had written back angrily. It was she, not God, who had given Arya the opportunity to marry again.
Mataji was lying on a charpoy in the courtyard and staring at the wall when I came in. It took me a moment to realize that her hair was almost completely white—she had stopped dyeing it. She looked at me startled, as if I was an intruder she didn’t recognize, then pulled me to her bosom and started weeping. “First you, then Hema, then Sandhya—nobody told me it would be this difficult.” Her face looked curiously smaller, as if her teeth had all been pulled out, causing her cheeks to slump in.
Sandhya’s presence hung over everything, strong and sweet and claustrophobic. It trailed me as I followed Mataji into the bedroom. “Arya doesn’t come in here anymore, says he can’t any longer,” Mataji said. “After all these years, Babuji and I are the ones sleeping in this room.” I looked at the talais on which Dev and I used to lie, rolled up and stacked neatly against the far wall. For an instant, I could almost feel Sandhya breathing in one corner.
Suddenly I had to leave, before I was completely overwhelmed by the air inside. “Where’s Babuji?” I asked. “I should say hello to him as well.”
“At the station, where else? Ever since he retired, he just sits on a bench and watches the trains go by. Dev’s probably with him, too.” Mataji shook her head. “Day after day, Arya remains at work, and Hema almost never drops in. I wish I had someplace to go as well—somewhere else to while away the hours of my day.”
Babuji was not on the station platform—the watchman told me he was taking a nap inside. I decided not to wake him. I debated whether to go back to the house and wait for Dev, who must be still visiting his brother, or return to Darya Ganj by myself.
I found myself walking down the road, towards the scooter stand. There were goats grazing on the piles of garbage—I wondered if the brown and white cow was still around. The tract of land I used to cross while following Dev and Roopa so long ago was still empty, the colony that was supposed to have been erected there mired in a complicated dispute over electricity that Hema had once tried to explain. The row of shanty stalls was gone, however, together with the fruit and vegetable sellers and the metal parts shop—what stood there now were proper establishments with sturdy shutters and painted signs. Looming in the distance was the familiar sight of the moss-covered dome of Salim Fazl’s tomb. Before I knew it, I was making my way through the bougainvillea, dense and blossom-filled after a July of plentiful rain.
Could it have been destiny that pulled me, or was it just nostalgia, plain and maudlin? Could I have divined, from somewhere deep in my consciousness, the sight that would greet me there? Weren’t there a hundred different coincidences that must have all fallen into place for me to make my way through the surrounding wall at the right time? Had I lingered with Mataji for ten more minutes, or found Babuji awake, would I have escaped?
I pull a strand of bougainvillea from across my view, and for some reason think of the last time I was here. It is like returning to the scene of a crime, like looking through a telescope the wrong way to view my life after it has been lived. There he is, standing in front of one of the arches, his body lit up, sunlight dappling his hair. I look at his face, and he turns it slightly in profile, as if to show me he is still handsome, that every possibility still exists. Suddenly I know what I must do—reach out to him and bring him to the present, erase what has happened, go on from here. I think of the conversation I have just had with Paji—it no longer angers me, I am liberated. I will share the news of this liberation with Dev, tell him we can finally exult, we are free to create. Perhaps we can even resume from the point where we left off, perhaps Salim Fazl will let us use his tiles again.
Even then, I could have retreated, quietly retraced my steps back through the thicket, kept the thought in my head and slipped away. But instead I go forward, first one step, then the next, gliding through the shrubs like some foliage-dwelling spirit.
Dev is looking away from me. I follow his gaze and see the color at his feet—fabric nestling against grass, jewelry giving off a glint. I take another step, and a sari billows up—the edge yellow and sinuous as it rises in the wind. Too late, I realize the trap into which I have blundered—I want to turn back, but my body doesn’t cooperate. My feet are entranced, my legs bent on advancing, the fear that seizes my mind seems to exercise no say. Even before the sari can subside to reveal the figure it drapes, I know who it is, I know what I will see. There lies my sister, her arms raised above her head, her body stretched out serpentinely in
the grass before Dev.
ROOPA SAW ME FIRST. “Hello, Meera,” she said, as if there was nothing wrong, as if this was something as innocent as a picnic for which my invitation must have got lost in the mail. “Biji took the children home, so I came here and happened to run into Dev.” She sat up and looked at me steadily. “Even a fool can see we haven’t done anything. Don’t make this into something bigger than it is.”
For a moment I tried to work the numbness out of my lips. Perhaps she was right, perhaps I shouldn’t make too much of what I had witnessed. Surely this transgression was no more egregious than the benchmarks set in the past by Dev.
Then an unfamiliar rage opened within me. A rage that rose up my throat and brought the heat back to my lips. “What exactly should I make of it then, Roopa? To see you and Dev cavorting like this? Perhaps I’m not smart enough, perhaps I need someone to help me, perhaps like your husband, what do you think? I promise you, Roopa, if I ever see the two of you together again, I’ll tell Ravinder—let him be the one to make sense of it.” Before Dev could begin stuttering his apologies, I stalked away.
All evening, the rage within me grew. It bloomed on my face with an efflorescence so brilliant and fiery white that it sent Roopa scurrying out of my path each time she spied me heading her way. She packed her bags the following night, and was gone by daybreak, returning to Madras a week earlier than planned.