Half of What I Say

by Anil Menon

  Shahrukh Khan would only spend an hour at the madrasa. The schedule called for the Maulana to offer the welcoming address during assembly. He was to be followed by the history teacher Anwar Razak who would cover the role of the madrasa in modern India; next, a representative from the Haji Ali Dargha, in return for their help with the event, had been given a few minutes to issue a da’wah, an invitation, for more Islamic education; finally, Ubaidullah Saheb, the president of the opening ceremony would invite Shahrukh to say a few inspirational words to the students. The closing ceremony, led by the Morals teacher, had a similar structure. Then the students would leave for their classes, and Shahrukh would be gently guided towards the best classes, the best students, the best possible impression. The only thing that was missing was the guest. He was late.

  So the teachers did what teachers do best: they fussed. They wanted buttons closed, buttons opened; they complained of smirks, scowls, smiles, expressionless faces. Whatever it was, they wanted it changed; whatever had changed they wanted it back just the way it was. They reprimanded students. They fussed.

  Jahanara had recklessly chosen to wear faux gold earrings, but one of the other students ratted her out, and Anwar Razak, who taught Islamic Math, gestured to her to remove them. Jahanara hesitated, lips twisting.

  ‘Just do it,’ whispered Bilkis. ‘You can wear them mentally.’

  Much to her relief, the silly suggestion was entirely satisfactory to Jahanara. Her friend leaned forward.

  ‘I’ve come to a decision, Bilkis. I’m moving to Mumbai. The ayah at the orphanage has a mausi whose sister owns a maid-service company. It’s in Khar, a posh area. The maids have to wear nice uniforms and only work in top-class homes. I’m going to work for her. One day, I’ll have my own business.’ ‘You are crazy!’ cried Bilkis. ‘This is your home. Mumbai is too far away. You have no friends there!’

  Jahanara made the Vulcan peace sign.

  Bilkis was going to argue, but the Maulana had walked over to the mike. He tapped it a couple of times.

  ‘Salaam Alaikum.’

  Out of sheer habit, the students bellowed as one: ‘Was alaikum as-salaam, Maulana Tariq Ahmad Saheb.’

  The Maulana gazed at the audience. Shahrukh Khan’s people had called to say the star was going to be twenty minutes late. That was twenty minutes to fill. The moment beckoned. The mike insisted. The temptation was too much. The Maulana launched into a dry run of his welcome address. He thought it very well structured, and the teachers he’d invited to hear him practise, had agreed wholeheartedly. Inspired by the zari silverwork in the quilt hanging on his living room wall, the Maulana had chosen to carefully thread couplets from a Faiz Ahmad Faiz nazm into his speech, so that it tessellated between belonging and exile, truth and corruption, facts and fictions. As he spoke, the Maulana balanced certain sentences that had felt unbalanced, redelivered lines a few times until they felt right, and enquired of his audience whether some word choices felt better than others. At one point, he paused for a sip of water and was interrupted with wild applause.

  ‘Khoob, bahoot khoob Maulana Saheb. Bol ki lab azaad hai tere: wah, Faiz Ahmad Saheb, wah!’

  The Maulana frowned at the tall, elegantly muscled figure. Enthusiasm was fine, but unasked-for-enthusiasm was, well, presumptuous. Besides he wasn’t quite finished—then the shock of recognition hit him!

  No one knew how Shahrukh Khan had sneaked in. But he’d sneaked in, and for all the Maulana knew, may have listened to the entirety of the speech, his corrections, and mostly embarrassingly, the one or two jokes he’d cracked at the guest’s expense.

  Shahrukh Khan bounded up the wooden steps of the podium. He led the befuddled applause for the Maulana’s speech. The star owned the podium, the students, the teachers, the very air. He shook hands with some of the teachers, and they broke rank, crowded around him. A hundred movies! It was hard to believe he was real. Somehow the eye couldn’t get a grip on the actuality of the idol. The hall shuddered with the roar of his name.

  Bilkis glanced at Jahanara. Her friend’s face was ecstatic, luminous, as aglow as if she were sitting close to a fire.

  She leaned forward and poked her friend. ‘Jehan?’

  Jahanara was oblivious, her eyes locked on the energetic figure on the podium, her body corpse-like in its stillness, except for the occasional shiver of breath that published her among the living.

  #

  ‘Spiderman, Superman, Batman, Baba-baby ke liye time paaaaaas.’ The toy vendor worked the Delhi railway platform with ruthless efficiency. He approached, a shaitan with whirling coloured cellophane fans, action figures, balloon aliens, and his approach sparked pleas and hope. He even had something for adults: cheap plastic caricatures of politicians, Gandhi topis made of fake money, badges that declared ‘Mera Neta Chor Hai’. In his odoriferous wake, the fellow left broken hearts, family crises and quietly cursing parents.

  There were only a few minutes left before departure. The thermos had been filled with chai. Jahanara’s name had been checked against the manifest and her younger compartment mates, male and female, scrutinized with the requisite amount of hostility, and the older ones, female, greeted with tiny smiles. There was nothing left for the friends to do except stand side by side, arms touching, miserable, and say the sort of things that serve no purpose other than to hold back the floodwaters of the unsayable.

  ‘Jehan.’

  ‘Don’t. You mustn’t. I am so tired of talking about it. I don’t want to live in this world anymore. I want to belong to the world that has people like Shahrukh Khan in it. I want to fly, not crawl on the ground. Why can’t you be happy for me?’

  ‘All I know is you’re going far away and nothing will ever be the same again.’

  Bilkis’ father approached, looking relieved. He’d been keeping an eye on Jahanara’s metal suitcase and a family in the compartment had enquired whether Jehan was his daughter. They had promised to make sure Jahanara reached her destination in Mumbai.

  ‘I’m very grateful, Abba-jaan,’ said Jahanara in a small voice which revealed she’d been worrying about it.

  ‘Beti, it’s the least I could do. If things don’t work out, you know you can always come back.’

  ‘Yes,’ cried Bilkis, ‘you must, you must, Jehan. We’ll always be here. Like the mango tree.’

  Both Jehan and Abba-jaan laughed and Bilkis felt they stood on one side of the laugh and she on the other. Already her friend had slipped into a world of adult concerns that made acknowledged truths somehow feel a bit childish. It was as if Jehan could see further. We’ll see. Not now. Use your common sense. Be practical, Bilkis.

  ‘Come beti,’ said Bilkis’ father, ‘let me introduce you to the family.’

  The train blew its first whistle. Bilkis father hurried to make sure the metal suitcase was still where he’d placed it. The two friends gazed at each other.

  Jahanara drew her close. ‘I will never forget you. However, you must forget me.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ bawled Bilkis. ‘We will never forget each other. Never.’

  ‘Stop blubbering or I will bite you again. I wasn’t serious about forgetting each other. What a silly you are, always thinking the worst. It is only for a few years. Am I not Jahanara, Sahibat al-Zamani, Princess of all Delhi? Don’t you know Murid Khan wrote a masnavi in my honour and all of Chandni Chowk is my handiwork? Once I regain my realm, I will send my emissaries to bring my beloved donkey to me. I will dress you in silk and gold, and feed you with my own hands pomegranates dipped in silvered milk. Such stories we will tell each other, dear one.’

  21

  KANNAGI STOOD AT THE CENTRE OF A CROWD OF FAB-JABBERS, Anand to one side. The twenty-second session of the Mr Natwarlal fab-jab Club was almost over. Jignesh wanted to know if she’d give private tuitions; money was no object. Radha Chadda, casting shifty glances at her mother, whispered she needed to discuss ‘a personal issue in private.’ Kalai was pissed, justifiably, that she hadn’t read his paper yet. Binoy
Das wanted her to make up his mind. Should Binoy Das go to UC Santa Barbara to do his PhD or should Binoy Das accept the job offer from Infosys?

  ‘What do you want to do?’ asked Kannagi.

  ‘I’ve always dreamed of doing my PhD. But the offer is really good and they’ve promised a posting in Delhi.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘Ma’am, there are pros and cons to both. Let me explain.’

  Binoy wanted to do more analysis. Binoy wanted guarantees. Binoy wanted her to say: pick this.

  ‘If you don’t have a strong preference, toss a coin. Pick something. Anything.’ She tried to shake off Radha’s sweaty grip. ‘There’s really no wrong option here. Okay?’

  ‘Ma’am, what’s the best option, in your view, for succeeding later in my career?’

  ‘Don’t worry so much about risks and rewards. Or success and failure. Jeez, Binoy. Make a few mistakes.’

  ‘Do your duty without worrying about the fruits,’ said Anand, breaking his fifty-minute silence. ‘It’s there in the Gita.’

  ‘There you go,’ said Kannagi, smiling. ‘The Gita. Now, let’s wrap this—LISTEN up, people. HEY—’ She pounded the gavel liberally, waited till everyone had gathered. Silence. ‘Timekeeper, Timekeeper, when’s our next fab-jab, Timekeeper?’

  Tara announced the date, time and venue of the next session. All the schedules were online, but somehow saying it out loud made it more of a commitment. There was the usual hubba-jabba about the date, but the Timekeeper had spoken. Everyone fell silent.

  ‘Humko maano,’ roared the class.

  ‘Ha ha ha,’ roared Kannagi.

  The Totem-mata rolled up the film poster, eased it into its cardboard tube, then tucked the tube under her arm. Radha then went and stood by Tara’s side.

  The twenty-second session of the Mr Natwarlal fab-jab Club was formally adjourned.

  As usual, it took another ten minutes before she could leave the building with Anand, who called the driver and told him to pick them up at the Gautam Buddha statue. Yes, in front of the roundabout. He asked if she minded a short walk. No, not at all. She liked walking across the lawn, the night was crisp and cool, and she was still energized from all the adrenaline. ‘I’m so glad you made the time,’ she said. ‘I know how busy you are. Thanks, Anand.’

  ‘My pleasure. It was well worth it. I really enjoyed the session. Most inspiring. Fab-jab, fab-jab, I’d never really understood what you meant, but now, watching your students in action, I get it.’

  ‘The rituals freak you out? The film posters and all that? It’s silly, but the bachchas really love it.’

  ‘No, we had similar things at Brigands.’ Anand’s amused glance told her that her dismissive tone hadn’t fooled him. It must be pretty obvious to all, especially someone as shrewd as him, that she was insanely proud of the setup. ‘Those two chatty girls—the pigtails and bobcut—what’s their deal?’

  ‘You mean Radha and Tara? The Totem-mata and the Timekeeper?’ There was something in his tone she didn’t get. She explained the two were working on a signal-processing problem.

  It had been Radha’s idea; her mom had told her Binoy’s gramps hated the discordant background music in Hindi movies, especially the older movies. Radha, who was more of a software person, had approached Tara Lawrence, who was more of a hardware geek, and they’d come up with this USB thingy that could plug into a DVR or laptop and filter out the background junk.

  ‘Long way to go, but Anand, the shit they’ve learned! I can’t handle the tech specifics anymore. I had to reach out to people at IIT-D.’

  She talked about the genetic algorithm that could evolve trading strategies; the social media platform Chautha Idiot, where students taught students; the assault bracelet, a FitBit hack that could sense violent motion and send distress signals. Good stuff.

  ‘Where do you find these kids?’ Anand sounded incredulous.

  ‘They find me. Wait till you hear about Kalai.’

  They’d reached the Lexus. The chauffeur jumped out, opened the door. Kannagi threw her bag inside and was halfway in, when Anand suggested that she deposit the bag in the trunk. Kannagi turned, one hand and one leg on the plush leather seat, reached for the bag; it spilled open, as usual, and as she struggled with the scoop-up, she became aware of the provocativeness of her pose. Showing her leggings too, dirty goose. She began to hurry, but the sudden modesty felt misplaced and then she thought, wait a minute, this is silly, it’s only Anand. Jeez.

  Once they got moving, Anand had to take a call. She focused on the city lights streaking past the window. A liquid river of golden light while the car was in motion, but at stops, the light subtly tessellated on the tempered glass. She was very glad she’d invited Anand’s offer of a ride home. Except, go home and do what? ‘Akka enjoying the Vipassana retreat?’ she asked, as Anand put the cell away.

  ‘She’s still there. I can’t call in, she can’t call out. It’s very intense. Vedic meals. No talking. Lots of heavy breathing. Frankly, this kind of packaged spirituality defeats the purpose. But Padma is Padma.’

  ‘Uh oh. You guys having a fight?’

  ‘Fight? We never fight. A handshake in the morning, a handshake at night.’

  His face was hard to read in the dappled light, but Kannagi thought she saw a smile and he sounded jocular. Relief. And respect. How was it that Anand and Padma, despite their undiscussable irresolvable problem, had forged a shatter-proof relationship, while she and Sawai, who could discuss anything, hadn’t lasted more than a couple of brittle years?

  ‘Everything ready for your exhibition?’ asked Anand.

  ‘Who knows? Akka’s handling it. She’s in full dominatrix mode. I have all these doubts but she’s, like, Kondai, stop whining and just give me the printer’s phone number. Leave the thinking to me! It’s hurry, hurry, hurry but then she takes off for a week. No explanation. Incidentally, Akka mentioned you loved to draw as a kid. True?’

  ‘Oh no.’ Anand shuddered. ‘I hate drawing. I was forced to draw dirty stuff in school.’

  ‘Dirty stuff ?’ She laughed. ‘C’mon, you can’t stop there.’

  Anand described Biggie and his passion for porn. Innocent ladies trapped in compromising situations, that was Biggie’s thing. He described the harrowing schedule, the poring over the few medical treatises in the library, the librarian’s questions, Biggie’s constant cry for more realism.

  ‘It’s not funny,’ said Anand, gloomily, as Kannagi rolled around, laughing. ‘That’s one of the reasons I liked your fab-jab. The youngsters seemed so happy. They are all doing what they want to be doing. I was at one of the best schools in the country and my time was mostly spent doing what other people wanted. These youngsters, they are all very smart. Are they going to IIT?’

  ‘Not this group. They don’t do too well in our schools. They like to build things, fool around. They learn things when they need to learn them. Our institutions don’t know what to do with kids like these. And we don’t have enough teachers. That was the germ behind the first fab-jab. I figured, maybe they can help each other. I was sure there was hazaar talent out there, but maybe with nowhere to meet. The web doesn’t cut it, you need the face-to-face jabber. Then biology matters. But I’ve found they also have no adults to talk to. Their parents all seem to be on auto-pilot. I don’t know what to do when they bring their personal stuff to me. Anyways. What about you, Anand-ji, what did you want to do in school? Any hobbies besides peddling porn?’

  ‘I repeat: I was forced.’ Anand tilted his head, thinking. ‘I liked to sing.’

  ‘Sing?’

  ‘Yes. My mother thought I had a sweet voice. Aayi taught me a lot of bhajans. I also knew a lot of film songs.’

  Indian men and their mommies. Kannagi knew exactly what to do with her earnest little nightingale and the rest of the evening. She seized his arm.

  ‘Anand, do you have any non-cancellable plans for the evening?’ And when he shook his puzzled head, Kannagi leaned forward, ta
pped on the partition, and when she learned they would shortly cross the Yamuna, told the driver to stay on the Inner Ring Road and turn towards Lajpat Nagar and then towards South Extension II. She pulled up Google Maps.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Anand.

  ‘To your lost childhood. Don’t worry, you’re in my care now. We’ll have fun. Akka’s away, so the cat can play. Just trust the universe, Anand.’

  ‘This word you use, ‘fun’, what is it? Please explain?’

  He seemed to really like making her laugh. She hadn’t noticed it before. She liked laughing so the odds of having a good time tonight were ginormous. Sawai was high-maintenance. Had been. Sawai had been high-maintenance. With Anand, she could be the pain in the ass.

  The driver requested further directions and she told him to head for Ansal Plaza. She reached into her bag, took out a black scarf with fine golden threadwork—Akka’s of course—and draped it around her neck.

  ‘Perfume, monsieur?’ she asked Anand, and when he shook his head, she squirted the last drops of Vétiver on herself. She applied Just Bitten lipstain, wishing she’d taken the Sweetheart Valentine or the Honey Douce instead of the Crush Begun, which was perhaps a bit too red for the night. He held out his hanky, she gave him an are-you-sure look, then used his snow-white Irish linen to blot her lips. She put away her compact. She offered the hanky back and was surprised when he took it.

  ‘Padma never lets me watch her do make-up,’ he observed. ‘Well, it’s kinda private. But I don’t mind. I like being watched.’ The sudden hideous blaze of light could only mean they’d reached the mall.

  ‘Doesn’t this scream zero carbon footprint?’ she asked, as they got out in front of the giant mall with its impressive spiral tower.