Cobalt Blue

by Sachin Kundalkar

  My mother has no cupboard of her own. Alone at home as a child, I would investigate the secrets of each cupboard. One day, I chose the kitchen cupboard. I found a list of Aai’s medicines, a bunch of Sharayu Maushi’s letters written from Sangli, a few five-rupee and ten- rupee notes, a recipe for eggless cake torn from a magazine, a postal savings book . . . all redolent of naphthalene balls.

  When I saw that your parents’ photograph was missing from the cupboard, I knew for certain that you weren’t going to return.

  What did I know about your family? Your parents, that lawyer Mr Dixit who was in charge of your inheritance, your Seema Maushi who took you into her home for her own selfish motives, her perverted husband who made a plaything of your body when you were too innocent to know what was going on.

  Then it occurs to me, you got no letters. If there were phone calls, they were from friends you’d made after coming to the city. No question about email, you didn’t like email.

  What happened to everyone else? College friends? Distant relatives? School buddies? A schoolteacher, even? An old family retainer? No one? What did you do with them?

  What did you think you’d do to me?

  You listened with empathy, with attentiveness. In the night, you’d help Abbas down the shutter and upend the chairs. You’d listen to him rant about the rising price of potatoes, the changes in customer behaviour, the difficulties his nephew was facing in America after September 11. You’d give Abbas your undivided attention, listening with your eyes, smiling, encouraging him to speak.

  And no doubt, he would feel that it was all worthwhile, because there was someone at the end of the day, someone to listen and to smile.

  I can’t remember you ever sitting down to talk to Baba or Aseem like that. But from time to time, you’d chat with Aai. One day, I came home from college to find the door ajar and no one inside the house. I followed the sound of voices into the backyard. Through the kitchen window, I could see Aai weeding with a trowel and you holding a bunch of curry leaves. Aai was talking away, words running on, ideas flowing into each other.

  That night, I asked you, Were you really paying attention? Or was that your listening face?’ You did not answer. Instead, you recounted how Malti Aatya had been cured of rheumatism thanks to a godman’s prasad; how Anuja and I had no religion left in us; of the two young women Aseem had checked out as prospective brides. You told me how coriander and chillies had to be planted separately, how oddly Tulsi was behaving in the night-time soap, and then you added, ‘It’s not just my ears but my mind that is engaged as well. In a couple of years, your name will be added to the list in the marriage bureau. So be ready.’

  I had no idea how to get ready. I was sure that your parents would have told you about such matters. Mine would rather die.

  I had often wanted to say to Arindam: you can’t just go back into history to collect proof. You have to find evidence from ancient times that we’re normal. If you can’t find references to our kind in the Ramayana, the Mahabharata or the Bible, who’s going to listen to us? At least, we could ask why Lakshmana had felt the need to leave his wife and children behind and follow Rama into the wilderness.

  One rainy night, you were listening to me and Arindam talking. Your back was wet with the rain coming through the open window. A few drops fell into the beer mugs too. The drumming of the rain on the roof was loud enough for me to have to tell Arindam to speak up a bit.

  ‘Every important political change has happened because of a movement. That’s the critical element, Tanay. We have to organize. We have to fight injustice constitutionally,’ he said with the fervour of a revolutionary.

  ‘But what would this movement’s agenda be? Our own independent newspapers, our pubs, our theatre, our this, our that? We can’t make a break from the rest of the world and demand equality on our own terms. We don’t seem different in any way from the Establishment.’

  I was weighing my words as I spoke but it was clear that Arindam wasn’t getting it. He kept trying to interrupt but I kept raising my voice and pressing on with what I was saying. I looked at you, you raised your eyebrows, quietly amused. But your face also showed pride in my stance. And I thought, at least I’m getting through to somebody. I came and sat by you. The rain wet my back too.

  It was only when the rain stopped and the smell of the raat rani came pouring into the room that Arindam got up to leave. He shook your hand and said, ‘You don’t talk much?’ You just laughed. I knew that Arindam would take your silence to mean consent. Aai, wiping her hands on her sari, would look at you, sitting there with the curry leaves in your hand and think, ‘He’s so much better than my son. At least he doesn’t argue.’ Abbas would think whatever the problems he was confronted with, at least there was someone to listen, to smile, and he would be calmed.

  As usual, the police handed over the city to the goons, for a period of ten days. Aseem was late returning from work. Baba was afraid that the crowds would swell and so he put the idol into its salver and carried it into every room of the house. Earlier, he would go into the tower room as well. This time he didn’t. Every year he went barefoot to the immersion; this time, he put on his slippers. I carried a dabba in which there were slices of banana meant for general distribution. Aai brought up the rear with a bag in which there were two faces of Gauri, a stone representing the virgin goddess Hartalika and the flowers that had been offered to the deity and then discarded. As we walked away, my father turned around thrice to show the idol our home.

  The ghat had been lit with halogen lamps for the immersion. Little aartis were being performed on either side of the steps. Baba gave the idol to a couple of damp young men whose bodies smelled of moss. We watched as they bore him off.

  As we were climbing the steps, Nadkarni Kaka was bringing his Ganpati down for immersion. With him was Nadkarni Kaku, their three daughters and sixteen girls from the hostel. They were singing filmi aartis. I left the parents with them and came home, picking my way through the dirt and the crowds.

  The house was quiet. The previous days had turned it into a bazaar with women, aartis, noise, offerings, haldi-kunku, all competing for attention. Now that the immersion had happened, the house seemed to sigh with relief. I decided that it was the last time I would go to immerse the idol. Aai and Baba could do it themselves, if they wished.

  As soon as I got back, Anuja fled on the bike. I began to climb the stairs to the tower room. It seemed still and quiet too. A golden light filtered through the windows and on to the terrace. A thumri by Iqbal Bano floated in the air. Everything seemed to be in its place. The rolls of canvas, the CDs in their racks, the photographs on the wall. In the middle of the room, there was an earthen bowl filled with kevda flowers. I heard the sound of the shower and then it was turned off. You came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around your hips, your hair wet. You smiled and your lips, still moist from the shower, seemed cold to me. I remained where I was, in a chair in the corner. You sat down on a mat and began to cut your toenails with great care. Then you anointed yourself with a sweet-smelling moisturizer. You took out an ironed shirt and a crisp pair of shorts and laid them out on the bed. You took off the towel and threw it in the direction of the bathroom, from which the last wisps of steam were still escaping.

  You took a fresh canvas and placed it on the easel. You selected a brush. Then you turned to the bed and put on the clothes. Next, the curtains at the window facing the ladies’ hostel—you drew them back. Then you sat down quietly in front of me.

  You had nowhere to go. No one was coming to see you. And I had watched this ritual sringara as if it had been a short film, made specially for me. I could not remember a time when I had paid such attention to my own body.

  You got up and came to sit by me, bringing a bouquet of aromas with you. I wanted nothing more than to have you sit by me. After a while, you got up, picked up the brush and incised the canvas with a single blue streak. Then you came and laid your head in my lap and fell into a deep sleep.

/>   Now that the rains were over, Baba wanted to clean up the gutters on the roof. He was going to climb a ladder and he needed me to hold it in place. And as I stood there, I heard Rashmi’s car come to a halt outside the house. She took a box out of the back of the car and walked purposefully into the house. Before I could call out or say anything, she began to climb the stairs to the tower room. I called her name, loud enough to get past the headphones on her ears, but she paid me no heed. Baba called out a warning; he didn’t want my attention wandering from the task at hand.

  Rashmi had been wanting to meet you. She waited for me to introduce us but in vain. ‘One day, I’ll just show up and meet him,’ she warned me. That you should show a similar interest in meeting someone seemed impossible; but you were both the kind who did as you pleased.

  For the longest time, I had wondered if I should tell Rashmi about us. I couldn’t even persuade myself that what we had was really happening so how could I tell anyone else about it? Sometimes, I’d find the words hovering on my lips when I was strolling around the campus with her. Or when she asked questions like, ‘Why do you wear these crumpled clothes?’ or ‘Why do you always have to run home?’ or ‘There’s a secret smile playing around your lips. What’s up?’ Once, without warning, I put my head in her lap and said that I knew that she knew that I had something I wanted to tell her. She said, ‘Whatever.’

  Finally it happened without premeditation. One day, I got to rehearsals early. The College Recreation Hall was empty and I sprawled on a bench waiting for everyone to show up. And then I realized I could smell you on my body. I got up, went to the library, called Rashmi out and told her everything, as we stood together at the door.

  The ground was too slippery for me to let go of the ladder and run after Rashmi. She shouldn’t have gone up without a warning. Who knew what state you might be in?

  ‘Rashmi’s here,’ I said to Baba, but his mind was in the gutters and his only concern was to sprinkle me with dirty water. He heard nothing and, for the next fifteen minutes, I kept twisting my neck to peer up at the tower room. And then, at last, Baba came down the ladder. He got to the last step and said, ‘Dash it, I’ve left the stick broom up there.’

  ‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘You use it only to clean those gutters.’

  ‘No, no, hold on tight.’

  When he was finally done, I raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time. I could hear both of you laughing.

  At least you were fully dressed.

  When you got your board exam results, the school was full of parents and children. Uncomfortable, you slipped away. You were the only one who had come alone to get his results. For the next six or seven months, you were always close to tears, tears that would not fall.

  You began what you described as your accomplished solitude from that day. This term—accomplished solitude—struck me deeply. And it slowly began to dawn on you that you did not need people around you when you were painting or reading, when you were watching a film with deep concentration, or when you sat down to eat, chewing every mouthful and savouring every flavour. You made loneliness easy on yourself.

  When you took your results and got to Seema Maushi’s home, the door was locked. Bruno was lolling in the backyard. He began to bark at you. Frightened, you sat down on the staircase and waited, baking in the sun.

  ‘If you were locked in a room, without books, without paper or pen, okay, without electricity too, what would you do?’ I asked you once.

  ‘Why a day? A week. A month. I’d just sit there, happy.’

  Your feet were red from the burning stone when Seema Maushi’s husband returned in his jeep. Inside the house, he hugged you, praised your performance and let his hands wander all over your body. This had been going on for a couple of months. When you felt his weight on your body one night, you tried to scream. He grabbed your mouth and stifled your screams.

  You would wake up screaming, sometimes. When I tried to take you into my arms to comfort you, you would push me away and withdraw into a corner, seeking solitude.

  He had not even cared enough to protect your certificate from crumpling by putting it into a file. After an hour, he left and Seema Maushi returned. You sat her down and told her what her husband was. You showed her what he had done to your body and then you packed your bag and went off to Mr Dixit, the lawyer. Then began a saga of college hostels and rented rooms. After you finished the twelfth standard, you asked Mr Dixit to sell the Mumbai flat, the shares, the three cars and the land near Kolhapur. Until your paintings began to sell, you would have enough to live on.

  A bunch of us had gone to see a film. We had booked an entire row and occupied it, chattering and giggling. Next to me sat Monica whose mobile rang incessantly. Only the day before I had announced that we were to have a paying guest. And then Monica began to shriek. She pointed to a man in the audience and we began to laugh. He was wearing a clean white dhotar and red mulmul sadra, chappals on his feet. He had come to see the film. Alone. The man was you.

  ‘You went to see a film?’ I asked you that evening. ‘Alone?’

  For the next two years, through your first two years of college, the bitterness had not abated. Everything around you seemed odd and false. All relationships seemed temporary.

  In junior college, you had no friends. In your free time, your pursuits were solitary. You would sit in your hostel room reading for hours. Or you would go for long jogs; or have a meal alone in a restaurant. On Sunday, you’d climb a hill and paint. Or play the guitar.

  To put on clothes dictated only by what you felt like wearing and to go out and see a film alone was therefore no novelty. I can’t do that. Even today, I need company to see a film, to look at paintings, to celebrate, even to read. For if I can’t talk about the film’s plot or the book’s nuances to someone, if I can’t listen to what they’re saying, what’s the point?

  You’re so set in your ways, so clear about your decisions, will you ever notice that it isn’t necessary to be so cut and dried about everything?

  Every Sunday, you would empty out the tower room. Then you’d walk about, hand on chin, looking at it. Then you’d bring each thing in again and set it down in a different place.

  This relooking business infected me as well. I began to look at, to really look at, things: at leaves and at the sky, at boiled milk and at your palette, at cobwebs. Van Gogh showed me an overheated sky. Husain raced thoroughbreds at me, Seurat drew pointillist rangolis in my head, Picasso showed me many simultaneous aspects of the human face, Dali melted time for me and mysterious Anjolie Ela Menon . . .

  You had a way of looking at things which seemed sharp, perceptive, cobalt blue. But when I turned my gaze on my folks, on my home, a disquiet was born inside me. With the disquiet came the questions.

  In the hall, a man-sized showcase. Here a speaker, there a speaker. Here an elephant, there an elephant. A plastic flowerpot. The grocery store’s free calendar, cups of an intensely floral design, Aseem’s tie, a photograph of my grandparents. If all these things were to be ground together, the result would be the indeterminate green of a fungus.

  In a crumpled fig-coloured T-shirt and blue jeans, you once said to me: ‘Forget about symmetry, Tanay; forget about balance.’ When I complained that I had no room of my own, you said, ‘This Sunday, redo the tower room. Make it yours.’ I felt a warm russet glow behind my eyes.

  That Sunday when you went to Sunrise for breakfast, I began to empty the room.

  When I told Rashmi about you, she said to me, ‘All of us have to give shape to our lives, Tanay. You have to choose your own design. You have to keep changing it, working with it. You have to shape your taste as well. And that means trusting what pleases you.’

  It took me about forty-five minutes to finish. I liked what I had done to the room. I admired it from different standpoints. I sat down and waited. I waited until noon but still you did not come.

  At one o’clock you came back carrying a sketch of Mehnaz. I was sitting on the staircase,
bored, hungry, angry.

  At Sunrise, you looked up and saw Mehnaz combing her hair in the window. After breakfast, you went up to ask if she would sit for you. When she agreed, you forgot about me and my version of a room of my own.

  I could tell how proud you were of the sketch you were showing me. We were both intent on enjoying what we had done. After about half an hour in the room, you realized that I had changed the room around. I was rewarded with a look of approval.

  Such colours, such colours. When you breathe out, I see red and yellow flashes in front of my eyes. When we’re in the bath together, surrounded by a surfeit of steam, it’s a misty blue. When the sun is shining and we look at each other from a distance, and we smile, it’s white, a shining white. If I’m talking to someone and mention you, my face changes, it’s a dark blue. Dark brown when I call out to you; peaceful green when you call out to me.

  How could anyone believe that you did not love me? Right up to the time you left, you did not change the way I had organized the room.

  At the meeting, Arindam looked up from the register and a real smile burst across his face. ‘Alone?’ he asked, looking past my shoulder. I shrugged.

  There were some newcomers at the meeting. Samuel was also alone, who knew why? The chair next to him seemed symbolically vacant, but that might have been because I was feeling lonely. The people around me seemed a little strange; again, I had not felt this way at the first meeting.

  Arindam began the proceedings by reading a story. It was set in a port and it was about a love affair between the son of the owner of a ship and a poor worker on board the ship. Forty years later, Christmas night, New York, crowded pub, young man sees poor worker drunk and desolate . . . something like that. No one was really paying attention to the story, which described, and quite beautifully too, what might go on in your mind if you were suddenly presented with a living embodiment of your past. After the story was done, the newcomers were introduced to the group.

  It seemed as if a whole platoon of gym-toned bodies had descended on the spot. Many of them were sporting rings in their left ears. I remembered some of them from the station road. I was amazed at Arindam’s diligence. There was to be a conference in Mumbai. There were obstacles to be surmounted, permissions to be sought, an antagonistic press and the usual bunch of Sanatan dharmi right-wingers to be dealt with. Arindam began to talk about our rights. He was to be a delegate at the conference. He wanted to be briefed on the issues. The conference website was to be inaugurated . . . Two young men who had been eyeing each other made their way out together.