A bald priest draped with an orange cloth sat next to Anush. As he nasally recited Sanskrit verses, giving the ancient words a tinny sound that reverberated throughout the house, he sprinkled rice and flower petals over the body, prompting Anush to do the same. They were seated around a small copper cauldron in which a fire was lit. Immediate family sat on the floor with the priest, while relatives and friends sat surrounding them, some chanting along with the priest. Anush tried not to stare at his mother’s body, at her sunken face. She didn’t seem dead, just thinner and asleep while dressed in a white sari. The priest instructed Anush to place a few sprigs of basil on her lips, which Anush did obediently. Then his aunt applied a strip of turmeric paste on his mother’s forehead and tied her two big toes together with a piece of white string. The priest leaned over and instructed Anush to circle a clay pot of water over his mother’s head, which he did, but the priest stopped him immediately to point out he was going in the wrong direction. Mortified, Anush corrected himself and circled clockwise. He didn’t understand Sanskrit or the reason for any of the rituals, but considering the amount of time his mother had spent praying at the temple and meditating in her mandir room, he wanted to do everything right and not be the one responsible for barring her from being reborn—if that’s what happened.
After the ceremony his mother’s body was placed on a wooden stretcher. Since it couldn’t fit in the tiny lift, a handful of men had to carry it carefully down the stairs. On the ground floor she was loaded onto an open-bed truck full of flowers. Anush rode silently in a car with his father, the priest, and the colonel, who drove, while other family members and friends followed in slow procession.
Anush still wasn’t entirely convinced that his mother was dead. In the back of his mind he was sure he’d see her on his next visit from boarding school. The idea of life without his mother was too nebulous to comprehend. But the fact that her body was now going to be burned made him anxious. It all seemed so surreal. At home, people had been praying, crying, shuddering, and leaning on one another for support and now he was on his way to light his own mother on fire.
Everything at home over the past day had reminded Anush of his mother: her plants on the balcony were still alive and well, scores of relatives were paying visits, talking of her, and his aunt’s cooking was exactly like hers, which annoyed Anush. He’d always assumed that the small strips of cinnamon bark, cloves, and cardamom pods in the basmati rice were his mother’s secret signature and so he was disappointed when he found out that his aunt, his mother’s sister who now lived in Canada and came halfway around the world for the funeral, made rice the exact same way. He was glad that her son, his idiot-snitch cousin Paresh, hadn’t come too. Had Paresh not snitched on Anush over who had injured the lift boy, Anush would not have been sent to Bharat Academy, and had he not been sent away, his mother would not have died. He was aware the logic made little sense but he felt in his bones there was a truth to it, something he could not put into words.
Stepping out of the car, the priest said, “Come, my son—it is your duty to help release your mother’s soul from this world. She was a pious woman who will be at one with God.”
They made their way inside the cremation chamber. Looking at his mother’s body, covered in the white cotton shroud, Anush began to feel queasy. It dawned on him that this really was the end of his mother’s life, and that his life, every life, would end, that there was nothing more. Despite all the talk of his mother being reborn or being with God, Anush wondered if she really would. He was old enough to know that people lied about a lot of things. Even to themselves. Did people really become reborn? Come back as ants or insects? She’d never return, at least not as herself. She was gone forever, and if she did exist somehow, her soul might be up in the ether, among the stars, floating around as cosmic dust, unavailable to him, at least in this life.
As the men placed the body on the pyre, the priest chanted more Sanskrit. A tiny part of Anush was still hoping his mother would somehow, miraculously wake up. The priest asked him to place more flowers and sandalwood incense sticks on top of his mother’s body, followed by tablespoons of rosewater and ghee. The fragrance from all the garlands of marigolds and hundreds and hundreds of flower petals that surrounded his mother’s body now was so overwhelming it almost seemed sickly sweet. Then he was handed a clay pot filled with water, and he had to walk around the body three times while slowly pouring.
The priest explained, “This signifies the soul leaving the body. When you’re done, smash it on the ground.”
Anush did as instructed. The clay pot broke with a quiet thud. His mother was no longer the person who loved going to Chinese restaurants, talked excitedly about going to the salon once a month to get her hair done, ate pistachio kulfi with her son on Sundays. All that remained now was a body, a shell, a vessel, a clay pot that was easily broken. Why had his mother died when all his friends’ mothers hadn’t? They would all be alive for decades. It was too much to make sense of. A wooden torch was lit and after the priest said a few more Sanskrit verses in his nasal voice, he passed it to Anush, keeping one hand on it as it was rather large for an eleven-year-old boy. Lighting his mother’s body on fire seemed wrong, against every instinct Anush had. The priest, while chanting Om Shanti Om . . . , guided the torch towards her body but Anush resisted. However, the priest was stronger, and as the torch’s flames licked a few pieces of dry wood, they crackled and the fire spread quickly.
Later that night, lying awake in his bed, Anush listened to the waves from the Arabian Sea break rhythmically on the black rocks. His bedroom on the ninth floor faced the ocean and, as always, the large bay window was open. It was late, past his bedtime, but he couldn’t sleep. In the darkness, the ceiling fan overhead whirred faintly. From his bed, through the window, Anush could see a portion of the night sky littered with stars.
He wondered if the eagles that circled during the day for fish left behind in shallow pools by the waning sea would be out now. He remembered him and Paresh throwing pieces of roti out his window and how the eagles would tuck their wings, plunging to try to catch the falling pieces of bread.
In the hall, the last of the extended family were finally leaving. Anush could faintly hear them exchanging solemn farewells and best wishes with his father. He’d managed to keep at bay the anxiety of living the rest of his life without his mother—maybe that’s what the constant presence of the extended family had done; with all of them around he hadn’t had time to be alone with his thoughts. But now Anush could keenly feel a void, an emptiness, take root.
Closing his eyes, Anush imagined himself as an eagle flying away over the shimmering sea, without destination.
After bidding the final guests goodbye, Anush could hear his father shuffling down the long entrance corridor to the drawing room, where he opened a mahogany almirah in which the whisky was kept. After some time, his father opened Anush’s bedroom door and whispered, “Anush?”
Anush’s first instinct was to feign sleep, but he reasoned he wasn’t going to be in trouble for being awake. Not tonight. So he opened his eyes as his father sat on the edge of his bed without turning on the light. A patch of moonlight illuminated the ceiling and provided just enough light to make out his father’s outline.
His broad-shouldered father, who always had the most upright of postures, was now slouched. Until now, Anush had never thought of his father as an old man, like some of his friends’ fathers seemed. Varoon Sharma, the building president, the successful business magnate, the man who lived in the largest flat at Sea Face Terraces, was stalwart not only in stature but also in character. People sought his opinion and were careful to stay on his good side. His sighs were usually laced with exasperation or annoyance, but now Anush spotted in them a sense of defeat.
His father sat on the bed for a while. Anush wanted nothing but his mother to sing him “ Kabhie Kabhie ” and trace his name on his back. He thought about asking his father to sing the song for him but was afraid that he woul
d think him too effeminate.
His father stared at Anush for some time, tousled his son’s hair, and said, “You have your mother’s eyes.” He lay next to Anush—something he hadn’t done since Anush was a young child. The smell of whisky reminded Anush of the sweet violet jacarandas and pink orchid balsam flowers in the back courtyard of the building.
“You know I lost my mother, your dadima, when I was young too.”
Despite Anush asking many times about his paternal grandparents, whom he had never met, his father never spoke of them, but his mother had told Anush that his father’s mother was lost when his father’s family fled Lahore, right after India gained independence from Britain. “Millions of people had to flee from one newly created country into another.”
Anush gathered the courage now to ask his father, “How was she lost?”
His father continued to lie next to him, breathing, staring at the ceiling, and finally answered, “Many people were lost that night. It was chaos. But your dadaji and I made it to Bombay. We stayed together and thrived. Just like you and I will.”
His father sat up to sip his drink and then said, “Your mother and I were going to tell you something special when you were a bit older. Do you want to know what it is?”
Anush nodded and sat up, intrigued.
“A monsoon storm gathered offshore the night your mother went into labour.”
Anush imagined his mother telling this to him now. If he closed his eyes he could almost smell the coconut oil in her hair.
“The wind was tossing branches and spraying dust in all directions. We made it to the hospital just before the rains began. After you were born, I ran through the raging storm to the astrologer to find out your kundali. Even though it’s customary to wait for the seventh day after a child is born, I went—I was too excited. With sheets of rain flying sideways into my face I ran to the astrologer to find out your destiny.”
Anush asked, “How is a kundali made?”
“God lives in the stars and only God knows everyone’s destiny. But over thousands of years, wise men, Vedic astrologers, studied the stars and planets—they learned to read parts or aspects of people’s destinies, and yours was read by one of the very best.”
A lot of things about God and reincarnation that his mother had told him seemed implausible to Anush. But he remembered her saying, “There are so many things we don’t understand or can’t see, behta. You must have faith, son.”
But it provided little comfort now. He tried to convince himself that her soul was free and that she was in a better place—it was what uncles and aunts had said. Anush imagined his mother up in the stars and thought that maybe somehow she might be a part of his destiny now.
But he couldn’t help think it was all a lie. He’d burned her body on a pile of dry wood and she was gone forever. Maybe a mistake had been made up in the stars. His mother wasn’t supposed to have died so young. Was Anush somehow responsible? The void he’d felt all day began to gnaw its way deeper into his stomach and grow. Would the abyss he was lost in keep him forever?
His father continued the story. “That night the panditji made your chart, then shook his head. He checked it over, and then checked it again. He couldn’t believe his eyes and finally said, ‘This boy is extraordinary.’ When I came back to hospital to tell your mother the good news, she wasn’t surprised. She held you in her arms and was so happy. You see, we’d been trying to have a baby for nearly seven years. The doctors had said your mother would probably never be able to. She was so happy holding you in her arms. She said she didn’t need a panditji to tell her that you were very special.”
AFTER A FEW days, Anush’s father returned to work. Anush wondered if it was because he had already forgotten his wife. Was it possible? Could the old man be so cold? What had happened to the affectionate father who shared the story of his son’s special kundali a few nights ago?
After coming home from work, Anush’s father lit a Marlboro and asked Anush, “So when will you be returning to the academy?”
Anush had assumed he’d return to his old school in the city. “But, I don’t—”
His father put his hand on Anush’s shoulder and said, “I know you miss her, behta. I miss her too. But we have to carry on. She would have wanted that.”
No—she wouldn’t have, he’d wanted to yell but couldn’t find his voice. Later that night, Anush snuck out and slept in the small single garage downstairs where their driver slept. There was barely enough room for the driver with his bedding unrolled between the car and the wall, but he was accommodating and let Anush sleep there. Anush wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t want to be in the same place as his father. How could his father return to work and pretend as though everything was fine? Nothing was fine.
The next morning Anush awoke to the garage door being opened by his father, still dressed in his pyjamas. As father approached son, Anush feared being slapped, but his father embraced him and broke into sobs. Anush understood then that his father missed his mother just as much as he did, but in order to not let the weight of the loss crush him, his father had to carry on, and returning to work was the only way he knew how. Anush thought of his mother tracing his name on his back, of her being pregnant with him, of the night he was born, his father running through the storm, the special kundali. If he pleased his father and returned to Bharat Academy, everything would be alright. There were extraordinary things in store for him.
- 6 -
1993
ANUSH WAS PARCHED WHEN HE woke up, hungover, in his queen-sized bed. He reached for a glass of water on the bedside table. Major refurbishments were ongoing since the old man had bought the flat next door and the Sharma residence was expanding. The hammering and sawing and drilling could be muffled with a pillow over his ears, but Anush couldn’t escape the battering inside his own head from all the cheap whisky the night before. Every heartbeat felt like an assault in his cranium. He regretted getting so drunk last night with his friends—if you could call them that; Anush was aware most of them only hung out with him because he was one of the very few in college with his own car. The old man had bought him an aged Fiat, hinting that if he did well in school, a better car was in his future. Now that he was only a couple of years away from finishing college and being in the real world, Anush wanted to prove to his old man that like him, he’d make a fine leader and take over the successful family business one day. A large part of that meant making tough decisions by yourself and being able to hold your whisky.
Last night, Anush had taken a few of his friends to the outskirts of Mahim, where for over a month, Hindu and Muslim mobs had taken to the streets in riots—at least a thousand citizens were dead. The city had been on lockdown, and now with the military deployed in some areas, it was starting to become safe to venture outdoors again. Anush and his friends had gotten a thrill out of seeing the carnage of arson and riot aftermath.
As Anush drained his water glass, he could hear the din of morning traffic nine floors below while the overhead fan whirled above his bed. The shirt he’d passed out in now clung to his perspiring back and wrapped around his torso—like some kind of python trying to suffocate its prey, reminding Anush of the nature documentary he’d seen late last night on a new satellite channel, Discovery. He wrestled it off now, ripping a few buttons, and flung it to the floor. Chottu or one of the other servants would mend the shirt. The clock on his bedside table said it was just half past ten, but since it was the middle of summer, the heat was already fierce.
Lighting a Marlboro, Anush walked over to the large bay window. The sea shimmered brilliantly, making Anush squint as he exhaled smoke. All those years at boarding school had made him forget how unbearable the city heat could be. Anush had asked the old man for an air conditioner in his room several times. Everyone was getting them these days. But his father’s response was always the same. “It’s a luxury,” he would snap, implying that it was for spoiled, lazy people. Never mind he had one in his own room, but of course, the g
reat Varoon Sharma had earned it. According to the old man, he didn’t have air conditioning when he was young so he didn’t see why Anush should. Keeping with this logic, progress would never be permitted, all kinds of technology would be denied to the next generation. Bullshit sandwich. He was punishing Anush for not being a perfect student at college. Anush was fed up with the old man always insinuating that he’d made his mark in the world on his own, and that Anush was a spoiled layabout. But deep down, the old man had a soft spot for his son. The Fiat was proof of his love.
Anush wondered if his father had always been so self-righteous or if it was something that happened after Anush’s mother died. As far as Anush could remember, the old man seemed different then. However strict at times, he was also happy, capable of spontaneity and mirth, certainly not as aloof as he’d become, but Anush wasn’t sure if that was an accurate memory; it’d been too long. Sometimes Anush thought the old man was happy being alone. Maybe it was the environment he thrived in. Sharma Shipping had grown immensely after his mother’s death.
Varoon was an early riser while Anush was a night owl, so they barely saw each other. By the time Varoon was off to work, Anush was just waking up. If Anush or Varoon needed to relay something to each other, they did it via Chottu.
Anush was sitting in bed, flipping through the Bombay Times, when the banging began again, louder this time. He yelled, “Arre, stop the work!” but the drilling and hammering were so loud he could barely hear himself. He leaned over to pour himself another glass of water but the jug was empty.
Anush bellowed for water, “Pani! ” but it was useless. He heaved himself out of bed, drenched in sweat. It was almost as though the workers had planned it all. He’d instructed them several times now, in strict terms, that loud work was not to begin until he left for college. But some mornings he wondered if they started the hammering early on purpose, knowing full well that he was still asleep. Getting their laughs on the spoiled, rich only child. The epithet had followed Anush for years. No one ever actually said it to his face, but it was implied in their condescending smirks. Even the sea seemed as though it was in on the conspiracy that morning, providing minimal breeze.
An Extraordinary Destiny Page 4