Half of What I Say

by Anil Menon

  Anand had asked Padma if she wanted to come. She hadn’t. Funerals always filled her with foreboding, she hadn’t known Phirozshah, and Dora-bai would set her on edge with his macho bullshit. Unless of course Anand really, really, really wanted her to come? He hadn’t insisted. In fact he had dissuaded her when she’d suddenly changed her mind as she watched him get dressed. He didn’t want her accompanying him from guilt.

  Padma would have liked the service. It was tasteful, muted, and performed in crisp laundry with no wailing or beating of chests. But there was no one who seemed to genuinely feel anything. Fuckshaw hadn’t married. His parents had died many years earlier. Only a few relatives had turned up, and they didn’t appear wracked with sorrow. There was one relative, a pretty young niece, whose face revealed a semblance of sorrow. What a sad state of affairs. When his friend had been alive, they must have approached him for favours. Fuckshaw had been a generous spirit. He must have helped them with contacts, recommendation letters, valuable advice. Surely he’d been a pompous necessity at their baptisms, weddings, Christmas celebrations. Where were their tears?

  When he died, who would weep? Padma and Kannagi, of course. It wasn’t pleasant to dwell on their sorrow, so he hurried to the next set of mourners. His death wouldn’t matter to his extended family. A few elderly uncles and aunts, some distant cousins. Father’s extraordinary success had set him apart from the rest of the Dixit clan. They would turn up, but he couldn’t expect much more from them.

  Among non-relatives, Ratnakar would feel something, he was sure of that. Some sadness, not much, but the fellow was quite sentimental when all was said and done. His passing would make a difference to Ratnakar. Who else? He wasn’t disliked by his staff. They seemed fond of him. He paid their salaries so naturally they were fond of him, but it wasn’t just about the money. Humans almost couldn’t help themselves from loving others. At Father’s funeral, he’d seen employees shriek and sob as if they, not he, Anand Dixit, had lost a father. Perhaps they had. Even in death, Father had looked fierce, very busy, as if he were composing a memo to partition China into six manageable parts.

  There wasn’t any point to the morbid and useless question. It only led to a paralysis of the will. Phiroz and his passion for pickles. Annie, don’t forget to get some aachar. The seizure of Anand’s suitcase the moment he arrived in the hostel, the rough inspection, the triumphant cry of Jai Bholenath! when he found the Holy Trinity of Gongura pickles, Cabeji pickles and Amba Haldi pickles, all hand-crafted by Aayi.

  The chaplain was speaking about the Great Struggle, duty, going home and God’s mysterious plans. It was not clear what all this had to do with the slaughter of innocents, but Anand gathered the fellow believed the universe was arranged along military lines.

  Phiroz would rest for eternity in a coffin made of teak wood from an organically certified grove in Chittur. Internally, the coffin was lined with an American-style silk lining, heavy on folds and fuss, so that when open, the casket looked as if it had donned a ruffled tuxedo shirt. No expense had been spared.

  ‘Domini Domini sunt exitus mortis,’ said the chaplain, with lurid certainty. ‘To God the Lord belong the issues of death.’

  The reference to Donne would have been a fine end to a fine ceremony, but the chaplain was not allowed his fine closure. The coffin was lowered into the ground and while some ghouls preferred to stay and watch, fascinated by the mechanics of it, most were content to place flowers, a final goodbye.

  Dora-bai strolled over to Phiroz’s niece, his right arm in a sling, the very model of a model British officer, offering platitudes, assurances. They talked. Whatever he said must have worked because her face broke into a delighted smile. When he returned, Dora-bai said with a grimace that was almost a smile:

  ‘Damn shame, to lose her uncle like that, eh Dixit? Seems he was planning to fund her education abroad. I’d like to do something for her.’

  ‘Don’t you mean to her, Dora-bai?’

  ‘You bastard.’ Dorabjee snorted with laughter, expelling puffs of smoke. Then his expression turned serious. ‘Don’t call me that any more, Anand. Without Fuckshaw, it just doesn’t feel the same— dammit, you know what I mean.’

  ‘We’re going to miss Phiroz,’ agreed Anand.

  ‘I prefer revenge. Phiroz will be avenged. Come.’ Dorabjee led him away, using Anand’s elbow as a steering mechanism. ‘We’ll use his death to take care of the student radicals for one thing. They’ve been a thorn in my flesh for too long. By the way, you seen a quack yet?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For PTSD. Didn’t I explain it to you that day? You survived a near-death experience. You are a law-abiding bloke who has learned the world isn’t law-abiding. That sort of thing can scramble the egg. I’ve seen worse, so I’m fine. But you—see a medic. Take my advice.’

  ‘Thank you. But I don’t suffer from PTSD. Did you learn who was behind the attack?’

  ‘Nothing is what it seems.’ Dorabjee brooded over the information. Then he smiled. Fierce. Sharp white teeth. ‘Except you. You saved my life. I’m in your debt, you know that.

  Anand nodded, troubled.

  ‘Oh relax, old boy. I won’t embarrass you with tears.’ Dorabjee laughed, clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Welcome to my life. Not all fun and women, eh?’ Another laugh. ‘The waiter was just a tool. You’d think they would have found someone more competent.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Of course there’s a they. You don’t think the joker was working alone, do you? I’m surrounded by enemies. One doesn’t get to where I am without making a few enemies. It doesn’t bother me; all part of the job. Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty, what?’

  ‘Or tyranny.’

  ‘Bollocks. You don’t believe that, do you?’

  ‘No, I don’t. Listen Victor, I’m your friend. But I’m also a businessman whose business is to keep track of what people are thinking. There’s a feeling that the Emergency days have returned.

  It’s a minority feeling, but it’s definitely there. You have to tell your people to go easy on the use of force. There is a lot of fear.’

  ‘Those who are innocent have nothing to fear. But agreed, we need some oversight measures. In fact I’m on top of it. I’ll send you my Big Vision. I’m putting it all down. Listen, a lot of these reports are just radical propaganda. I never get credit for what I have done. Ask your Social Weather fems if they’ve had to haggle with rickshaw drivers recently. Ask them what happened to the plague of dogs in the metros. Go on, ask them. Ask them if they still have to pay bribes in government offices. The ones who complain, they’re the ones who liked things just the way they were. But guess what, I have the middle class on my side.

  ‘Why? Because they want results. This country has always needed a strong hand, Anand. You know it, I know it. Take your old man. God, I wish I could clone a hundred of him. Or Shivaji. Iron man! Took down the goddamn Mughal empire. Do you think Shivaji needed Joe Public to tell him what to do? Listen, I truly regret what happened with your sister-in-law. We didn’t know she was your sister-in-law. But she hangs out with a radical crowd, old boy. Dorabjee poked him in the chest and his cigar’s burning tip came dangerously close to Anand’s cotton kurta. ‘And I don’t know what she told you, but we didn’t harm a hair on her head. We don’t go to war on women. However, if someone comes at us with a knife, we’ll pound him with a howitzer. If he comes at us with a howitzer, we’ll go nuclear on his arse. It’s not an eye for an eye. It’s your entire family and your bloody village for our eye. That’s Pax Romana. That’s the way to keep terrorists in line.’

  Dorabjee opened the door of Anand’s Lexus, bowed, his furious smile perhaps mocking both the loss of control as well as the courtesy.

  ‘Your windows.’ Dorabjee tapped the glass. ‘Too much tint.’

  On the drive home, Anand thought about the smile. It was a familiar one. In the sand-dune world of shifting alliances and blood feuds at Brigands, Victor had flashed the same smile more
than once. It said: I fall, you fall; I rise, you rise.

  He stared out through the window, seeing and not-seeing the traffic streaming by. The world wasn’t grey, it was only the darkened shade of his windows. Tinted windows had been banned for some time in Delhi, nothing new there. The Lokshakti had begun to enforce the rule, that was new. Anand’s vehicle was allowed an exception, Victor’s smile had said, because he was exceptional.

  Yes, he was. If he were not, Phiroz would have been attending his funeral. And his line would have come to an end. It was time to stop denying the obvious. It was time to accept defeat and embark on adoption. The house was wonderful, but it was too quiet for just the two of them. It was too large for just the two of them. Too large and too quiet. It needed a child, shrieks of laughter, a little despot.

  Okay, if Padma was in the right mood he’d broach the topic. He would need to tread carefully. Indian women were programmed to automatically blame all fertility problems on their wombs, irrespective of the facts. Which, as the doctor had explained, was simply this: his sperm couldn’t fertilize Padma. Or any other woman. He reminded himself not to call it a fertility problem.

  Padma would make a good mother, no doubt, no doubt. Look how protective she was of Kannagi. Her sister might shout she was being suffocated and needed space and all that American nonsense, but come any trouble, she ran straight to her Akka.

  Ratnakar handed him the cell. Baby-ji, he mouthed.

  ‘Hello Kannagi. I was thinking of the devil.’

  ‘This is a matlabi call, Anand. I want something.’

  That wasn’t true. Kannagi wanted something for someone else. She wanted him to solve a HR problem in his home. He learned he had a domestic working for him, someone called Shabari. Padma was giving her a really hard time. Shabari claimed that a new office was being set up in Hapur and had some openings. Kannagi wanted Anand to arrange a job. She could forward Shabari’s CV to Ratnakar. Shabari had a diabetic son, she couldn’t leave Delhi, et cetera.

  ‘But I know this’ll put you in a spot with Akka. So what do you suggest, Anand?’

  ‘Well, she could quit. And then if she were to apply to the Hapur office, I could do something. But why aren’t you approaching your Akka about this? She’ll do anything you ask of her.’

  ‘Well, I ASKED her not to harass Shabari. She’s DEAD to me. Anand, if Shabari quits, do you promise to help? The poor girl’s really suffered in life.’

  ‘You have my word.’ He was moved by her concern. Then he added, gently, ‘And don’t punish your sister.’

  ‘Nah. I was just talking. Akka is who Akka is. Thanks Anand.

  You’re my rock.’

  You are my rock. What a sweet thing to say. English had some really poetic expressions. It just didn’t have the same effect in Hindi. As the car turned into his driveway, he allowed himself to savour the approach. He had a beautiful home, a beautiful wife. It wasn’t enough to be fortunate. One had to realize when one was fortunate. Father had been just as fortunate but he’d never realized it, no disrepect intended. As the subhashita put it, desire is a strange chain; those bound by it run amok, but those freed from the chain, stay put.

  When Ratnakar opened the door, Anand got out, stretched. He felt an unfamiliar lethargy. Just sadness. Hard to believe Phiroz was gone forever. Like losing a brother. A hole where a part of his self used to be. Rest in peace, Phiroz, my brother. Perhaps we will meet in another life.

  ‘Will you be needing me for the evening, sir?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He glanced at Ratnakar, surprised. Did the man have plans? ‘Wait in the office. I have to meet my wife.’

  ‘Yes sir, no problem sir.’

  Anand entered the inner quarters and his long decisive strides changed into short relaxed ones. It was a relief to exit the purview of his domestics. He was always under observation, but on special days such as this one, he was observed more closely than usual. He’d observed the same zoo-animal expression on Queen Elizabeth’s face the time she’d visited Amritsar to lay a wreath at the Jallianwallah Bagh memorial.

  He pushed open the bedroom door, ever so slightly, then froze. Finally, with a great effort of will, he took a few steps back, turned away. Leaving, his first thought was absurd: is it better to close one’s eyes during a kiss or leave them open?

  He felt dizzy. Had to sit down. It was somewhat frightening, the feeling that the ground was about to give way.

  What he’d seen made no sense. The difficulty wasn’t that he didn’t recall what he had seen. On the contrary. The difficulty was he recalled too many things: the contour of Padma’s fair waist reflected in the glittering Tiffany mirror, the tessellations on the Zamin rug from the House of Aswam and Walter, a slender clawed foot of the Parisian love seat on which Padma and he almost never sat, an open blouse, the entwined bodies, the throaty cry of doves living rent-free on the window sill. The difficulty was in closure. How to reconstitute these different observations, these slivers, into a definite judgment, into a unique reconstruction of the whole mirror, the whole moment, that was the difficulty.

  ‘Anand? Is that you?’

  ‘Yes. I just got back.’

  Padma emerged, her fair face aflame, her blouse’s top button still unbuttoned. A short while later, so did the new servant—Shabari. Her name existed before her face but when he met her glance, he had the strangest feeling of looking into a mirror. Padma gave her servant instructions; her voice sounded harsher and louder than necessary. The woman cast another abject glance at Anand as she left. Or was it a mute appeal? He felt he’d never be able to read women’s faces again.

  ‘What do you want to do tonight?’ asked Padma, almost gaily. ‘Can we stay at home? Just the two of us, a lovely dinner? I want to pamper you; you must let me.’

  He had Padma’s attention now. Her eyes were watching him, watching him so very closely that he was forced to turn away. She stretched out her hand, and it evoked a snake hanging from a branch.

  ‘You look angry, darling. Are you upset I didn’t come to the funeral? That’s it, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. I just remembered something. I have to tell Ratnakar about tomorrow’s meeting with Pillai.’

  He rushed out before she could protest. Or touch him. He found Ratnakar waiting for him in the office. His factotum had opened a pack of Glaxo biscuits and arrayed a few on a porcelain plate. An old childhood treat. Anand took the Amrut single malt from its glass cabinet, poured his assistant a drink, put the bottle away. An old ritual. He sank into his leather chair. Ahhh. It was good to be back.

  What a cursed day.

  A knock on the door. The chai had arrived. When the door closed behind the servant, Anand acknowledged Ratnakar’s raised glass, took a long sip. It tasted like boiled sweetened water. Couldn’t a man get a decent cup of chai in this house? The bloody incompetent stupid fool Costas would definitely have to go. Anand massaged his neck, hating the slight weight of his belly pressing against his spine. Nothing wrong with his health but no harm in cutting back on the weight, working out a little more. Health was more important than wealth. Perhaps Pillai would know if lesbianism could be cured. Pillai was up-to-date on a lot of strange new things. Maybe there was now some kind of psychotherapy that could fix what was wrong with Padma.

  ‘Sorry about your loss, sir.’

  Anand contemplated his assistant. He was alert, even in repose. Ratnakar never spaced out, he was always in the moment. Had Ratnakar known? The staff must certainly have known. Costas had to be the pimp. The human revolving door who procured one attractive maid after another for Madam. In any case, Costas must know. Everyone knew except the man who should have known.

  ‘Sir, do you want me to turn up the AC?’ asked Ratnakar.

  Anand shook his head, took a bite from one of the Glaxo biscuits. It tasted like a soggy piece of cardboard. The biscuits were fine, he knew; it was simply that he had no appetite. He put the remainder of the biscuit back on the plate. Aayi had always said, never waste food,
never ever waste food. He felt terribly sad.

  ‘So any plans for the evening, Ratnakar?’

  It turned out Ratnakar did have plans; romantic plans. The alacrity with which Ratnakar answered indicated he’d been dying to be asked if he had plans. But the success of those plans—and Romeo’s resolute air indicated the odds weren’t great—would depend on the cooperation of Amelie. At first Anand couldn’t place the name, then he recalled the airhostess.

  ‘You’re seeing her now?’ Anand was astonished. ‘When did this all happen, you goat?’

  Ratnakar laughed like a little girl in pink who’s kissed for the very first time. ‘Sir, as the movie stars say, we’re just friends. This is our first meeting after Bangalore.’

  I could use a friend, thought Anand, taking another sip. Amelie had worked out quite nicely. He’d had to approach Pillai to ensure she’d been compensated for her kindness. Damn awkward business. He hoped she understood he, Anand, wasn’t underwriting this meeting. He checked the time on his father’s watch. It was too late to call

  Pillai. He was probably enroute to Mauritius by now. ‘Well, let me not keep you. Enjoy yourself. Take her to a horror movie. I’m told ladies are much kinder to us poor petitioners after a good horror movie. Stirs their juices, it seems.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘USA Today, Ratnakar. It doesn’t get any more credible.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I will see if there’s a horror movie.’

  ‘And buy Indian snacks,’ reminded Anand. ‘I would avoid the corn.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘I never liked horror movies,’ said Anand, glancing at his cup. Still a few more sips. ‘I prefer epics. Harishchandra. Wah! What a movie. But definitely not a date movie. I watched that with Aayi. She loved epics. So did Father. His tastes were more non-veg, so he preferred western epics. Father could recite the Iliad by heart. By heart! He would sometimes wear his sword to the office. My ancestors fought with Tanaji, as you know. Father used to say that when he retired he would become a movie producer and make mythologicals the way they should be made. For example…’