“Now you are my wife,” he said simply, “you have the right to know.” Then the words came tumbling out. All the words that he had kept bottled up within him for decades. He told her of the early years in Sarai Meer in India’s Gangetic belt, in eastern Uttar Pradesh. Of the shabby-genteel poverty in which they had lived. Of the sudden chance to go vilayat if a certain sum of money could be arranged. The years of playing tag with borders. The five years spent as Alpha Romeo, a name that was slapped on him in the universal tongue that transcended languages, transcended borders, marking him as cargo. The cities he’d lived in, but never seen. The privations, the horrors of that endless journey. Losing hope, losing all sense of being a person. Till being human didn’t matter any more, all that mattered were the endless journeys with death lurking at each new border.
He talked of how he finally reached the UK, the struggle to eat, to just keep alive. The homesickness that compelled him to choose a phone call over his evening meal. And the long, one-sided calls when the other side buzzed with demands for more money, the repayment of their investment in him.
And Nafisa listened till he’d got all the words out of him. Till he was spent, done. Then she got up and wrapped her arms around him. She had never done that before to a man. “You are safe now,” she told him.
Safe in that cocoon, he smiled. He hadn’t done that in a long while. She felt the slight tremor of his smile against her breasts and murmured, “My Romeo.”
∞
ABOUT M M GEORGE
M M George is the pen name of Mimmy Jain, whose funny bone compels her to write about her family and other animals in a blog called Living in the Happily Ever After (mimmyjain.wordpress.com).
Mimmy is also the author of A Scandalous Proposition, a best-selling e-romance from Indireads. When she is not living in her head, Mimmy edits articles for academic journals and other such boring stuff. She has been a mainstream Indian journalist for the last 27 years and has worked in senior positions at publications such as The Economic Times, The Times of India, The Financial Express and Mint.
In this anthology, Mimmy has set aside the joker’s mask to write about the futility of borders in An Unlikely Romeo. People draw borders, but people cannot be confined within borders. Borders lose meaning when necessity and despair draw people together. The protagonists of An Unlikely Romeo, Nafisa and Romeo, are survivors and, in order to survive, they have to set borders aside.
You can find Mimmy at www.facebook.com/MimmyMGeorge.
***
A Scandalous Proposition
by M M George
Ranbir’s shocking proposition offends Mira, but fate keeps throwing them together…
Available on www.indireads.com
The Long Interval
ZAFFAR JUNEJO
Love can be many things—ecstasy, regret, defeat, treachery. For me however, love equaled only one thing—a secret, one that was buried deep inside my heart and devoured me. I sought to tell someone, to unburden myself as an act of catharsis, but the secret continued to age within me, and with me. Until last year.
It all started when my grandson Ratan, who studies at the Imperial College in London, created a Facebook account for me. Initially, I didn’t understand the point of connecting with the same people that I met every day, but over time, I became addicted.
One day I got a friend request from a person who called themselves ‘Karachi University’ and whose profile photo was the Karachi University logo—my alma mater. Curious, I accepted the friend request and looked through the person’s Facebook profile to learn more. Unfortunately, there weren’t any details on my new ‘friend’s’ profile. Before I could search any further, the old computer I was using froze and I had to shut it down. When I tried it next, it would not restart.
Luckily, Ratu came home to stay for the weekend. As usual, he threw his bag on the floor as he entered my room, and the first thing he said was, “Daddu, you’ve been off Facebook.”
“Something is wrong with the computer, it won’t start,” I admitted.
“Never mind,” was his instant response, “that computer is prehistoric anyway. Let’s use my laptop to get you back on Facebook.” He winked, as he opened his laptop.
Within minutes, I was back online.
“Do I have any messages?” I asked in what I hoped was a casual manner.
“A couple.”
“Who are they from?” I enquired.
“Actually, there are two messages, both from the same person. Their profile picture is a university logo.”
“What are they saying?”
“Not much, just asking about the college you went to.”
“So, have you answered them?” I was getting impatient now.
“Yeah, I told them you studied in Hyderabad and Karachi,” he said as he left the room, handing me the laptop.
While I reread the messages, another one popped up.
‘What was your department?’
And before I could respond, another one.
‘Were you a member of the Literary and Dramatic Society in 1970?’
I replied to both questions.
‘Chemistry department. Yes, I was a member of the Literary and Dramatic Society.’
I waited for a reply, but it did not come. I went back to surfing the web (that’s what the kids today call it), and didn’t realize it was evening until the cook informed me that it was time for dinner.
I entered the dining room. Ravi, my son, Lelawati, his wife and Ratu, were all waiting for me. After Ravi’s mother passed away we made it a point to have dinner together.
As I sat down, Ratu announced, “Daddu has fallen in love.”
“With whom?” asked Lela mischievously.
My cold gaze caused Ratu to rethink his reply. “With the computer,” he said.
“Actually, I think Ratu is hoping for a new laptop,” Ravi laughed, venturing a guess at Ratu’s real intent behind the conversation.
“Either way, a new laptop is needed. Either for the grandfather or the grandson,” added Lela. She turned to Ravi. “Why don’t you buy one and present it to Ratu as a birthday gift.”
“So, is Ratu’s laptop mine?” I asked instantly.
Everyone laughed at my spontaneous response. And from that day, Ratu’s laptop became mine.
***
Now that I had Ratu’s laptop, surfing the net was much faster for me and I learnt more about Facebook and how it works. The Karachi University logo had raised my interest and when I did not hear again from the person, I decided to go through their friend list. Imagine my surprise when the first person I saw was Ratu. I think maybe the person connected with me by mistake, when they were actually looking for him. This suspicion was strengthened by a strange comment by Ratu when he came home next weekend.
The first thing he asked me was how my net surfing was coming along and if I had heard from ‘the logo person’.
“No,” I complained. “The ‘logo person’ has disappeared.”
“The ‘logo person’ was in Sri Lanka,” Ratu said.
I knew that person did not have any information on their page. So Ratu and he or she must be exchanging messages. It confirmed for me that the connection with me was a mistake.
“I wonder why people connect if they don’t mean to chat,” I said, not letting on that I knew about his friendship.
“Sometimes people lose interest and desert their friends,” he said looking at me with a strange look on his face.
I did not ask him anything more. I knew Ratu very well and he was clearly hiding something. I hypothesized about the ‘logo person’. I thought maybe Ratu has met and fallen in love with a girl, and one of her grandparents was at the Karachi University at the same time as me. That would explain a lot.
***
Over the next few weeks, I went back to my usual activities on the Internet. And then one day, as I was chatting to an old friend, the Karachi University logo sent me another message.
‘Can you name any female
classmates of yours at the Literary and Dramatic Society at Karachi University?’
It seemed that this person was interested in tracing our family and history. Maybe things were getting serious with Ratu and the girl wanted to know more. I responded immediately.
‘Kavita, her full name was Kavita Kundanmal.’
As I typed these words without thinking, I was amazed at how quickly it had come up as the first name I remembered; after all, it had been more than forty years since I had taken that name. And along with the name came a deluge of memories.
***
Kavita was Sindhi like me and joined the university in 1969. The first time I saw her, she was reading a political pamphlet on the situation in East Pakistan. The next time, she came into the student union office, and expressed her interest in joining the union. She was nominated as a Joint Cultural Secretary and was also a very active member of the Literary and Dramatic Society.
Drama and our passion for Sindhi culture were what brought us together, and our political activism cemented our bond. We spent hours talking and arguing passionately, and before we knew it, the love that we had only read about had seeped into our hearts. That first year we spent all our time together.
On the last day of university, we went to see a performance by a Sindhi theatre group. It was a one-act play based on Shah Latif’s tragic romance Momal-Rano. It was Kavita’s favorite story and the performance was simply marvelous. The actors brought to life the story of Momal, princess of Kak, who attracted and destroyed unwary men with her incredible beauty until she meets handsome and brave Rano. Alas Rano believes she has tricked him and leaves Momal who keeps the lamps burning all night for his return. Eventually he relents, but it is too late. Momal sets herself on fire and Rano joins her, unable to live without her.
Afterwards, we went to have a cup of tea at the student canteen. She sipped the tea silently, which was unusual for her. I thought she was moved by the play and was also quiet. But then I felt there was more to her silence and asked her what was wrong. She told me quietly that her father thought that the political situation in Karachi was deteriorating rapidly, and there was an air of mistrust against the Hindu minority, particularly given the tension over East Pakistan. She told me that her father was contemplating moving to India over the next few months.
She got up, without waiting for my response, but before she left she handed me a note.
I unfolded it. A single sentence was written on it in her beautiful handwriting—Tu Muhenjo Rano Theden—Will you be my Rano?
Unfortunately, her father’s fears were soon to be vindicated, as a wave of political disturbance erupted across the city and the country. The tension continued for a few days and entered the university as well. It was clear that the right-wing parties considered all non-Muslim students as Bengali collaborators. With the university environment getting tense day-by-day, the university announced early-holidays.
I never saw her again. I left for my village for two weeks and when I returned, the whole country was already in the grip of war. I found out that her family had left Karachi as soon as the war broke out, and the only thing left of Kavita was the paper she had given me, which I carried in my wallet. Fearing for their safety, her father had taken the entire family and left the city. I never heard from her again.
***
As the memories rushed over me, I felt a sea of emotions raging inside me. Impatient and curious, I wrote a message to the Karachi University logo, “Who is this—and why do you ask?”
But there was no answer.
I closed the laptop and switched on the TV. But it did little to chase away memories I had tried for so long to forget. Rano and Momal went around and around in my mind. But there was no-one lighting lamps for me and no way back to the past. My secret was my own to bear.
***
Ratu came over the next day, which was the weekend. I was curious about his mysterious friend who seemed to want to know more about me.
Over lunch, I asked him about his progress with his new Facebook friend.
“Nothing new,” he said and added casually, “Last week, I got a request from that ‘logo person’, and accepted it. It seems that we have a lot in common.”
I was curious and decided to fish for more information. “It seems to be something serious,” I said.
“May be, may be not,” he replied cryptically.
Lela who was silently listening to the discussion, smiled and said, “This is quite interesting!”
“What makes it interesting?” Ratu asked.
“Well…both grandfather and grandson are equally interested in the same person… ”
We both laughed, and left it that.
***
The next day, as we finished lunch and I got up to leave, Lela followed me and told me that one of Ratu’s friends was coming to see us that evening. A Facebook friend, she told me, and I interpreted Lela’s underlying message. I should be well-dressed and present for dinner because Ratu’s girlfriend would be visiting.
I smiled at being proven right. So, Ratu had fallen in love with some girl on Facebook—maybe a Sindhi girl whose grandparent was educated at Karachi University. That would explain the logo. In any case, all my questions were about to be answered.
I thought I should retire for the afternoon to take a nap and be fresh for the evening. Before I knew it, Lela was in my room, waking me up.
“Are they here?” I asked.
“Already arrived…want to meet you.” she nodded.
“And where is Ratu?” I enquired.
“All of them are in the drawing room,” she said.
“How does Ratu’s would-be-bride look,” I asked.
She said nothing, smiled, blushed and went out.
I went to the bathroom to freshen up. Just as I had finished getting ready, there was a soft knock on my door. I opened the door and Lela entered, leading a graceful woman behind her, and then left, closing the door behind her.
The late afternoon light didn’t allow me to see her clearly, but when she spoke, the voice was unmistakably hers.
“How are you, Suresh?” she asked in Sindhi.
It was Kavita. I was so taken aback that for a few moments I could only stare at her. She was still beautiful, her eyes still shone, but her hair was short now. The lustrous curls were gone. We sat in silence for some time and just looked at each other. And then we started reminiscing, talking and remembering our days together at the university.
I asked her about her life after leaving Karachi. She said that her family first went to Shimla and then they moved to Mumbai where she completed her graduate studies. She went to the US, to obtain a masters degree in Sociology, and then worked at first with the Indian Government, then with UNESCO in Sri Lanka as an advisor, before retiring in Mumbai.
While Kavita was talking, I noticed that her tone, manner of speaking, and the way she moved her hands were exactly the same as I remembered.
“How about you and your family?” she asked.
I told her how I had moved to the UK to study and then raise a family, that I had one son, and that my wife passed away a few years ago.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She was quiet.
“Did you ever get married?”
“No.” She stood up suddenly and started to look at the photographs in my room. Reliving our memories seemed to have made her happy and sad at the same time. The room was emotionally charged. She tried to change the atmosphere by telling me that she knew all about me through Ratu. She complained that in all these years I had never attempted to find her.
“Has Ratu told you that I became friends with him on Facebook?” She probed.
“Yes, he has…” And I went on to tell her that my overactive brain had cooked up a story that Ratu and her granddaughter, who uses the Karachi University logo, like each other.
She laughed, and said bluntly, “You still have your old habits of student politics—‘always speculate, and speculate wrongly’.”
I
joined in her laughter, looking at her face, seeing again the two dimples on her cheeks that appeared when she laughed.
Sadly I said, “I failed to be your Rano.”
She just looked at me.
Just then, Ratu came in and brought a tray of chai and sweets for us. As he turned to leave, Kavita stopped him. “Did you not tell Suresh about me?”
“No, I didn’t,” Ratu replied. He turned to me now and told me that Kavita was my mysterious Facebook friend, and that after she was sure that she had found me, she had reached out to Ratu and told him about us. He smiled and then left us alone.
I looked at Kavita. “You are still very dramatic; why didn’t you just tell me who you were?”
“And you still jump to conclusions,” she responded.
I smiled and handed her a cup of tea.
As she sipped her steaming chai, Kavita whispered, “I have borne the time we have been separated as a Banwas.”
I took off my glasses, and dried my eyes. I got up and went to my reading table, and from one of its drawers took out a worn scrap of paper and gave it to her.
“This is what kept me going in Banwas,” I said. And then I reached for her hand. “Like Momal and Rano, our story got interrupted Kavita, but unlike them, we have the chance to begin again.”
She held my hand tightly and nodded.
Later Lela and Ratu came in and joined us. Kavita invited us to visit her in Mumbai. Since then I spend time in Mumbai, a city which reminds both of us of Karachi across the border—where our story started so many decades ago.
Love Across Borders Page 8