“Kalyug,” she said.
“Kalyug? Anna, do you want to explain or will you just let me through?”
“My teacher said that this is the Age of Kalyug: the world is upside down. Good is bad, bad is good, our thinking is upside down. I want to see how the world looks right side up.”
We saw Billy as mean, selfish, and idle. Everyone spoke of him with distaste. We saw a very dirty man reflected in our crumbling building, dirty compound, and the poor toilets. Billy himself lived in a bungalow somewhere beyond civilization; somewhere in some suburb that none of us knew of. It would take up an occasional summer night, arguing about where Billy lived. Sometimes we spent the evening speculating on the state of his home and his toilets, and sometimes we discussed his wife, Roshan Billimoria. She, in contrast to Billy, was a very fashionable Parsee woman, a bun on the top of her head, always very dark red lipstick and stiletto heels. She would come once a year, I suppose when Billy had not given her the previous month’s rent, and would sit in his chair, call for the bar-wallah, and ask him to go from room to room demanding the rent. She made no conversation with any of the tenants, and we had no doubt her manner was disdain rather than reserve. So in our more vicious moments we disparaged her—“Roshan, what do you know; ‘ray of light,’ ha, ha.” We imagined Billy’s life at home with this ‘light’ of his life, and the tenor of our discussions veered between sympathy and wicked glee.
But Anna did not see him through our lens. She saw only the good in people, and why not? Ironically, Billy, who hated Mr. Fernandes for his attempts at unionisation of the tenants—mostly failed attempts, but nevertheless attempts—was always kind to Anna. Everyone was kind to Anna. Expecting Billy to do anything for the building, however, was carrying naiveté to the extreme…
The naivete we showed back then continues to disturb me, so forgive me if I repeat myself on how we carried on in a very solid enclave shielded from the reality around us, almost obtuse in the way we led our lives. Over and over again it spins in my head, especially in those moments when I encounter the triggers to my deepest despair: the paranoia of religious differences, of man’s cruelty to man, and the lack of ability to understand events except with hindsight…Have you been deceived by a lover because you refused to believe her inconstancy even though it stares you in the face? And when she walks out on you, you wonder how you could have missed the signs and red flags? Revisiting the history of events, we pick on every look, every small sign, every twist that should have alerted us, and hate ourselves for not being suspicious, for taking no notice of all the road signs, and then finally for our own stupidity. Self-loathing…that’s what it is. I find it hard to absolve myself or forgive ourselves collectively.
Though Dad was a police inspector, we still lived in a very protective bubble, away from the rough and tumble, engulfed by Mother and the Fernandes family. Bad was out there, somewhere, and sinning happened, like lies and disobedience to our parents; but sex, drugs, violence, theft happened almost in fantasy, in unreal worlds outside our perimeter, in the movies or in the Marchon household.
It was past midnight and Anna’s book lay open on my lap. I imagined that she was already here now, not a month away. Right there under the lamp she stood: not Anna the child, but Anna the woman. And she—she tearfully said she was sorry for abandoning me, loving me as she did. She begged me to forgive her, to take her in my arms, to console her and tell her all is well. And I lovingly forgave, held her and kept her there right beside me where our hands and thighs stayed against each other, cell for cell matching our shared connection. But there was only that sixteen-year-old, bright-eyed optimist she was before Mohamed’s death and the events that followed in 1993 caused her to leave, pushing my lids down, coaxing me to sleep…
We spent so many years without a light, going up and down the stairs in the darkness, but when Mother slipped on the stairs and hurt her ankle, we felt it was indeed essential. Surprising how significant a light on a stair can get, as we discovered on that gruesome day in 1993.
Chapter Seven
They say that the sun rises every day. But of course it is not about the sun but the earth rotating around its axis. Did it stand still during the night? Because I woke in dark daylight. The windows banged loudly, as if out there a lost stranger was seeking to enter. Sheets of opaque rain curtained my window-panes, obstructing my view of the world. Wafts of morning coffee hung heavy, trapped within the closed doors and windows of my apartment, a signal that Premibai, at least, was at work, undeterred by the storm. I walked into the living room still clad in my pyjamas, and got horizontal on the couch waiting for her to bring my coffee to me. Leaning back, I noticed the ever more complex web woven by the spider, now clearer with my eyes wide open and alert; rainbow colours reflected in the threads belied their lethal intent.
I struggled with my images of Anna. That tall, slim girl with her two pigtails and shorts…childlike, woman-child, innocent, loving…what did she look like now, as a woman? Anna, my childhood playmate, the only girl boxer, matched with a different sparring partner every time. These boxing bouts made the boys shudder. Fights with Anna bordered on desperation. The boys, working hard not to lose to a girl (and thus be roasted till the next fight), attacked her with such purpose. But Anna never complained, and fought back as desperately as them—more, I suspect, from fear that we would shun her, refuse to let her play with us, than from courage.
Do you understand how disturbing it got every time I slid into my memories? Perhaps today I should meet with Dr. Apte before he left for the long weekend to Jaigad. I had yet to fully grasp the circumstances and turmoil that set in motion the events that separated Anna and I. But for now, coffee and Premibai…
As if reading my thoughts, Dr. Apte dropped by for breakfast. Without much ado, he lowered his bony behind into a chair opposite mine, took off his shirt, folded it carefully and draped it over the sofa back next to him. He rubbed his palms together, almost as if satisfied that he had accomplished his goal for the day. His manner ever smug, he leaned back.
“Ah, Peter! How is life treating you?” Then without waiting for an answer, he called out to Premibai, who was busy in the kitchen.
Premibai, who had already set the pot for coffee in anticipation of Dr. Apte’s demand, appeared through the doorway smiling, as smug as Dr. Apte, tray in hand, cups tinkling on it as she made her way to the coffee table to set it down. She smiled at Dr. Apte while she awaited further orders, which he delivered immediately after the first sip of coffee, sending her scurrying back into the kitchen to execute the loud demand for breakfast—generally poha, beaten rice, favoured so much by my Maharashtrian friend. I recall going to Jaigad on his invitation for the weekend. We ate poha for breakfast and a different variation with yogurt for lunch, and then for tea we had a sweet variety of the same thing. Our specialty, he said. Anyway, he ordered, in the offhand way one orders servants, “Premibai, mala poha paheje—I want poha.” Thinking of these two individuals, a Brahmin Maharashtrian and a low-caste Gujerati, and their smug certainty of themselves and their roles in life, I could not but speculate that were Premibai educated, were she a Maharashtrian, were she Brahmin, they may have found each other attractive, perhaps even suitable for marriage.
Premibai merely smiled at the orders, quite pleased she did not have to deal with an indecisive employer, and went into the kitchen, her mood near recovered by now after my admonishment over the spider and the teacup. She did not take kindly to my suggestion to keep the house clean—why don’t you keep the cups on the table, saab? she’d countered.
“Peter, I am leaving for Jaigad. I won’t see you for the next two months. I have to tend to the mangoes in my orchard. It is a very crucial growth period during the rains. My nalike sons will neglect it and I will lose income on it. So I decided to spend the morning with you.”
“I will miss you, Dr. Apte. I wanted to discuss with you some issues that are engaging my thoughts right now. I thought I had time.”
“We do have t
ime; I leave only this evening. The rain is not good to travel in and I could have lunch here. Ask Premibai to make dal, lentils, and bhindi, okra, for me. You know I am a vegetarian.”
Not ready with my questions as yet, I considered that perhaps I needed the weekend with Anna, or at least the notebook, first. I pondered on how Dr. Apte would react to my silence. He would be perplexed that I would want to do something other than take advantage of the opportunity to listen to his words of wisdom. Incomprehensible! I, on the other hand, would find it hard to justify rejecting his offer just to be on my own, reading a teenager’s diary, as I guessed he would characterize Anna’s journal.
I searched for those questions that I had told myself I would ask, the holes in my understanding that arose while reading Anna’s journal. “Dr., I wonder if you could tell me what makes Hindus of today resent Muslims. I mean, on a micro level, why would, say, a person like you develop a dislike for a Muslim? Is it about a personal bad experience you had with Muslims? I mean, did some Muslim hurt you and you cannot let go and have applied the experience across the board to all Muslims?”
“Ah, my best friend, Naqvi, is a Muslim. I have had only good experience with my Muslim neighbours.” Dr. Apte turned away, picking up the small vase on the table in front of him and examining it closely.
“But you did say that you grew up to hate Muslims. Surely it must have been something within your experience of them?”
He looked up at me somewhat accusingly. “I must insist that I do not have anything against them. But of course I must say that it is easy for me since I do not have daughters. If I did, I would not want my daughter to marry a Muslim. Otherwise, I do not have anything really against them.”
“Why?”
“Firstly, if you know us, Indians don’t like to marry outside our community. But then if it must be so, even a Catholic is more acceptable than a Muslim.”
At my hesitation, he added, “Though, not meaning to offend you or anything, but Catholics will want our daughters to convert. Still, we do not have a uniform civil code in India. This personal law stupidity allows Muslims to take four wives. I don’t want my daughter to marry someone and be one of four. We want our children’s happiness.”
I laughed. “With due respect for your feelings, Doctor, how many Muslims do you actually know who have four wives?”
He smiled. “Put that way, I admit, none. But look at the possibility. They can; and they are not bound morally and legally like the rest of us.”
“But then, my friend, I know many Hindus who are not faithful to their wives and have mistresses; for that matter, so do those in other communities. I admit that social taboos and legalities are a deterrent, but then, really, I cannot think of anyone I know with four wives, can you?”
“Peter,” he said patiently, even perhaps a trifle indulgent, as towards a marginally unintelligent child. “Do you agree that all of humankind is racist in some form or the other?”
“I would say yes to that.”
“Yet we called it apartheid in South Africa. That is because it was enshrined within their constitution, if you get my drift.” He hooked his index finger and tapped his forehead, a gesture that he used to condescendingly request that one use one’s brain.
“We were also,” he continued, “brought up to think that Muslims were dirty. Their homes were dirty and if you see the localities where they live…”
“Gosh! Walk around Bombay, Doc. This is a dirty city in many places, but it only reflects the income group and the availability of waste disposal and toilets. Just bad urbanisation!”
“Ah, you are giving me logic. I am speaking of the perceptions we grew up with. There is nothing real about reality except the way we see it.” He had raised one hand halfway, his open palm waving in the air like a silent applause or a gesture gospel singers are wont to do. “What we see is defined by our retinas, the angle of the light, the distance we are from the object, and all that. How do I know whether my retina has the same dimensions as that of someone else viewing the same scene? Does not the majority define the rightness of my vision and validate it?”
“Surely once you grow up to an age of reason don’t you change that opinion? Human organisms are structured to learn and unlearn at will.”
“We are flooded with our day-to-day lives and we blindly follow convention, unless of course we are confronted with some overwhelming motive to change.” His eyebrows meeting, his head cocked to one side, he pondered awhile. “Maybe something earth shattering such as falling in love.”
At this juncture, he took out a small pouch tucked in his pants and began making a paan, choosing from other little boxes that contained diverse fillings, and then folding it into the shape of a samosa. Stuffing it in one go inside his mouth he began to chew loudly.
His words sparked a memory for me. “I’m reminded of the times as a child when I visited my friend Deepak’s home. His mother graciously presided over our meals and served us. At first I thought she was being very caring, but nevertheless, we wanted her to leave us alone to talk our boy talk. Not much later, I discovered she did not want me to touch their spoons; one day she pre-empted my attempts to do so, explaining that she would rather serve us than we serve ourselves. We were sixteen, certainly old enough to serve ourselves. Do Hindus think we are dirty too?”
“Peter, you eat pork and beef. That’s why they don’t want you to touch their vessels; besides, we Hindus bathe in the morning and you people bathe in the evening. It is also a possibility that they were Brahmins. As you know, we Brahmins are particular on who touches our utensils.”
“Weird. We didn’t like vegetables growing up, but we didn’t think that a vegetarian shouldn’t touch our utensils.”
“Don’t get angry. You can touch the utensils in my home, Peter.”
Chapter Eight
Strange patterns danced on the wall and ceiling cast by the floor lamp in the corner. My own shadow on the ceiling was gigantic, unrecognizable, dancing, mocking me, daring me to equal its dimension, fit in its mould, match its reality. It curved along the wall adapting to the angles and moved up on the ceiling, taking part of me in a different direction, unable to break through the walls, distorting, bending, and yielding to its confines.. One can hide, change one’s shape, but there is always the shadow. I once read about the airplanes that cannot be seen, because of their coating or some such thing. But children look down at the road and point to its shadow—“Mummy, a plane”—while their mothers search overhead and worry about a child who sees nonexistent things.
It was nightfall. Beyond curtained windows, the woodworm screeched in drunken madness; mosquitoes, troubled by the shrillness of the woodworm, flew madly, searching for blood to soothe the whirring in their heads. The occasional rickshaw honked, heralding a life of struggle—people returning late or hurrying to the station to get to work in time. In the distance, Bollywood played a tune on some chawl loudspeaker facing outwards into the neighbourhood rather than inwards to entertain those at the party. Look at us, look at us, we are enjoying our miserable lives, it shouted out to the neighbourhood that was trying in vain to sleep. Spiders rappelled down to places where unsuspecting prey genuflected over grace in anticipation of dinner.
My bed, polished Burma teak wood, with a rose-carved headboard that matched the armoire, had Isabel written all over it. One year, overtaken by bed bugs, Dad insisted we get rid of the bed. Mother, shocked that he could be so cavalier about something that had been in her family for sixty years, went silent for a week, pulling up the cotton mattress obsessively, searching for the buggers to kill. She went to Mr. Fernandes; as always the fixer of things, and above all Isabel’s champion, he took on the project of cleaning the bed—even if I have to kill them one by one with my bare hands, Isabel—and salvaged the family heirloom.
My eyes caught the chequered pyjamas laid out on the coverlet by Premibai. That is new… Whatever…
I took Anna to bed with me, continuing from where I’d left off, in the midst of
December 1990, and the incident with the stairs.
But now, this evening in our living room, the sounds of typing ceased to be a tik, tik, tok, tik. Dad was getting frustrated with the uncooperative ‘a.’ He had to roll up the paper to erase the mistake he had made.
“Damn,” he said, as the paper tore. He looked at us watching him and then silently rolled the carriage of the typewriter and adjusted a new set of paper and carbon. He resumed typing. Dad typed fast, tik-tak-tik-tok it went, depending on the word, but every time he hit an ‘a’ he stopped and, ignoring Pitman’s instructions—Do not lift your fingers from the keys—he raised his hands and tapped the stubborn key. His irritation mounted.
“One would think this is a simple one-page letter, easy to type — but so trying!”
“I just need a light,”Mum repeated.
Dad kept typing. At the end of the page he sighed, shut the typewriter, put a plastic dust cover on it, and we all went to bed. It was only minutes before Dad, mouth open, snored vengefully—almost like he was attacking Billy in his sleep.
Billimoria Building ran two hundred feet along Nesbit Road, took a bend at the intersection, and ran another fifty feet on St. Mary’s Road like a giant L. Not far from where we lived, a stable housed horses that during the day pulled carriages for the tourists. Now they clopped up and down with their owners who, after a day’s work and feeding, took a nightly stroll down our street. The regular stamp of horses on the tarred roads sent my imagination soaring to Rudyard Kipling’s “A Smuggler’s Song”:
If you do as you’ve been told, ‘likely there’s a chance,
You’ll be given a dainty doll, all the way from France,
With a cap of pretty lace, and a velvet hood—
A present from the Gentlemen, along o’ being good!
Five and twenty ponies,
Trotting through the dark—
Them that asks no questions isn’t told a lie—
Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!
A Matter of Geography Page 5