by Ali Sethi
I said I understood.
“I’m going to her house in a while,” said Samar Api. “She has a cinema in her basement. She invited me herself. You can come with me if you want.”
Tara Tanvir lived in Cantt. She gave directions to her house on the phone: it lay beyond the bridge in one of several small lanes, beyond a chowk that was popularly associated with a bakery. The gate was made of beige wood and the house number was engraved on a large brass plaque that was nailed to the outside wall. The rest was reassurance: the way was short; directions would suffice; the thing to remember was the bakery, beyond which everything was simple.
We left the house at sundown, when the roads were filled with vehicles returning from the day’s destinations. Our driver, Barkat, was obliging and succumbed again and again to manipulations. Briefly, on the bridge, the traffic eased; then it thickened again. We emerged from the blockage into Cantt, where the roads were in night and the trees stood in pools of shadow, the houses large and lit behind high walls and gates. We passed the army school for boys, then the army school for girls, dark properties that were guarded by gates with the army emblem of two locked swords. We passed the famous bakery, where cars had gathered under bright neon lights. And then we were lost. The road was dark again and the lanes were unmarked and sprouted continually on either side.
“We will find it,” said Barkat.
“Oh, yes,” said Naseem, imitating his manner and voice, “we will find it.”
“O God!” cried Samar Api, because the time for our arrival had passed.
But we found the house: the lane led directly to the gate, which sat in a warm haze of lighting. Barkat corroborated the house number on the plaque and honked.
A guard appeared in a uniform. A rifle was slung in its casing behind his shoulder. He bent, placed his head in Barkat’s window, took our names and went back inside.
There was a wait.
“They take precautions,” said Naseem. Her window was down and her elbow was settled on the felt. It was hard to tell from her tone if she thought this to be an affectation.
“Security,” said Samar Api.
Barkat nodded.
The gate opened and the car went in. It was another straight drive into a porch. The walls to either side were thick with ivy, high and obscuring, like walls in a maze. The car stopped behind two others, a jeep and its low relation, both parked in the shaded porch with their backs turned. The rest of the house rose above and behind.
“Let’s go now,” said Samar Api, and got out of the car.
“One hour,” said Naseem. “No more. Other people have work to do at home.”
We went past the ivy and past the tinted windows of the jeep. The door to the house was dark and densely carved of wood, and could have been the door of a tribal chieftain, or the door to a temple, plucked and carted and fitted into the blank white wall of this house.
“Swati door,” said Samar Api, and ran a finger along the carvings. They were real. She withdrew her hand and rang the bell. The sound was remote and pleasing.
I rang it again.
“Stop it,” said Samar Api.
A maid opened the door. She was like a dwarf, a foreigner with a small body and a large, swollen face, the eyes sleepy and lidless. She was wearing a T-shirt over dungarees. “Yes, please,” she said in English, and held the door guardedly.
The air inside was cold, and the floors were white and polished. All about there was a smell of varnished wood, a severe smell that seemed to have been sprayed from a bottle. We went with the maid along a staircase, up into a drawing room where the sofas were empty and the walls were hung with paintings that lacked people or plants—they were just planes of color with spots and streaks, like accidents, or jokes, but framed and lit from above for show.
The maid knocked on a door. It was one of several in the drawing room, all closed now.
“Maadaam?” cried the maid.
A girl’s voice responded from inside, hassled and inquiring.
“You are guest!” cried the maid. “They here!”
A pause; then thumping, the sounds of feet on a carpet.
“Oh, hi!” she cried, standing in the doorway with a hand on the doorknob, her head tilted to one side. Her eyes were naturally wide, and her face was washed and raw, the lashes thick and gleaming with moisture.
She said, “That your younger brother?” She was pointing with her finger.
“Cousin,” said Samar Api.
Tara Tanvir held out a hand and said, “Hi I’m Tara.”
I held her hand.
She covered her mouth with the other hand and giggled.
“What’s your name?” she said.
“Zaki.”
“Hi I’m Tara.”
I knew.
“Come on,” said Samar Api, and went inside.
The walls of the room were bare but for a large oval mirror and a mostly empty shelf, the few books on it slanting weightfully to one side. The curtains by the windowpane were gathered with rope at the waist, like curtains in a ballroom. Her bed had pillars, one atop each leg, and the bedding was thorough: there were pillows, sheets, a blanket, more sheets and a final bedcover of dark, undulating fabric.
“So tell me, you guys,” she said, and scanned her own room now, like someone called in to give it a lift. She was dressed in a faded T-shirt and pajamas that ended at her knees.
“You have a really nice house, Tara,” said Samar Api.
“You think so?” She sounded skeptical.
“It’s really very nice,” said Samar Api.
“Ya, it’s nice,” I said.
“Thanks, you guys,” she said with warmth, but belatedly, as though the remarks were false but touching. “You guys are nice.”
We smiled.
“Oh, did you find the house?” she said.
It was not possible to say no.
“Ya, ya,” said Samar Api with a flapping motion of the hand and a frown to belittle our attempts, the long journey, the bickering in the car and the relief at the end.
“It was easy,” I said.
“Good!” said Tara Tanvir. She was glad and enlivened; she sat up on her bed and moved away toward the pillows, her movements tender and childlike, as if accustomed to physical assistance from a stronger person. Samar Api took off her shoes and sat with her friend, and I stood beside them at first, then sat on the edge of the bed and listened to their conversation, a continuation of what had started in the morning at school.
The Far Eastern maid came in with glasses of cold juice on a tray and placed them on round white coasters on the bedside table.
“You guys want popcorn?” said Tara Tanvir.
The Far Eastern maid was waiting with the empty tray on her palm.
“Sure,” said Samar Api. She sat up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Bring it to the basement,” said Tara Tanvir.
The maid went away.
“You guys want to go to the basement now or later?” said Tara Tanvir.
Samar Api thought about it and said, “Whenever you want.”
Tara Tanvir continued to look at us, then shrugged her shoulders and threw up her hands and said, “Why don’t we go once and for all?”
It was a dark, flickering space with an atmosphere of submergence: the black leather seats were low and ran on in rows that led all the way to the back, where a projector cast its images in a beam onto the wall ahead, a simple trick of light and distance. The film was called Indiana Jones. It was about an American man of the same name who wore hats and enjoyed the company of blond women. To pass the time he taught archaeology at a university; otherwise he had adventures. On this particular adventure he had traveled to India, first on a faulty airplane and then on a boat, and had found a grieving population who wanted him to rescue three egg-shaped rocks with magical properties from the hands of an evil man. We knew the evil man.
“O God, Samar Api, it’s Amrish Puri!”
He was a famous Indian
villain. In most films he dressed flamboyantly and lived on addas in the wilderness, surrounded by assistants and dancing girls.
“O God,” said Samar Api, and laughed.
In this film Amrish Puri had a side role, and was one of many Indian characters, including slaves, maharajas, children blinded by spells and wealthy Indian dinner guests who came to a palace and ate monkey brains at a long table. Amrish Puri was a part of this world. And, like everyone else in the world, he had to speak most of his dialogues in English.
The accent was odd, the consonants dull and thudding. And he wore a brown robe, which was like a sack. His head was shaved; he wore no hat to hide it. And his laughter was exaggerated.
“I didn’t know he came in English films,” said Samar Api.
“Frankly I don’t care,” said Tara Tanvir.
The film finished when Indiana Jones threw Amrish Puri into a swamp of crocodiles. Samar Api stood up and asked to go to the bathroom. Tara Tanvir said that the washroom—that was what they called it in her house—was at the end of the corridor outside. Samar Api said she would find it on her own and went away.
“So tell me,” said Tara Tanvir.
The cinema was still dark and we were alone in it.
“How do you like my house?”
I had already told her, and said again, “It’s very nice.”
“You’re telling the truth, na?” Her voice had grown solemn.
“It’s really very nice,” I said. “I like your paintings, the ones on the walls.”
“See, that’s what I like about you,” she said, and sat up in her seat. “You’re blunt. I like guys who are blunt. I’m so blunt.”
I looked at her.
She was waiting.
I said, “Ya.”
“And it’s good to be blunt.”
“Ya.”
“I always say that.”
“You should.”
“Heina?”
“Ya.”
She was pleased. She relaxed into her seat, pressing against the leather for her comfort. “I’m glad we agree,” she said. “It’s always good when friends agree. I’m not saying you can’t disagree, because sometimes you have to. I’m saying that there has to be trust.” Her sloping hands came together at the fingertips and formed a pyramid.
Samar Api returned from the washroom, her interest in the house revived: she wanted to see the rooms, the roof, the kitchen, the other washrooms, all of which she indicated in the puzzled and extracting questions she now asked Tara Tanvir, who answered the questions and also gave suggestions for things we could do: there was more popcorn in the kitchen, but we weren’t hungry; a keyboard, a Casio, lying somewhere in the house; and there was a library, her father’s, but it would have to be opened with a key.
“We can play something,” I said.
“Ignore him, Tara,” said Samar Api. “He’s always hyper.”
“You can be really mean sometimes,” said Tara Tanvir, and laughed.
“I’m just joking,” said Samar Api. “He’s like my younger brother.” Her humor had subsided.
“You guys are lucky,” said Tara Tanvir. She was looking into her lap and stroking the side of her arm.
“You’re lucky too,” I said, and wanted to cite the cinema, the popcorn, the cars parked outside in the porch.
But Tara Tanvir continued to look away and continued to stroke the side of her arm.
“Tara’s an only child,” said Samar Api.
“So are we,” I said.
“You guys have each other,” said Tara Tanvir.
And we were humbled to find that it had made such a difference.
After that we returned to her room to play board games, which were kept in boxes under her bed. She owned Monopoly, Scrabble, a game called Cowabunga, and another called Trivial Pursuit, all of which were packed with care and whole, the quirky implements gathered and contained in their pockets. Tara Tanvir was tidy.
“Not at all,” she said with a guilty giggle, her shoulders shrugged in self-negation. “The maid does it. I’m like not at all a tidy person. I don’t even fold the boards.”
And board games were games with boards: Monopoly, Scrabble, Cowabunga and Trivial Pursuit, even the cracked Ludo set Naseem kept above the fridge at home, all were games with boards and belonged to the same family. It was an eye-opening journey, and threw a new light on the world of language, which shimmered momentarily with a profusion of journeys.
We played Trivial Pursuit, a quiz-like game in which correct answers led to the accumulation of colorful pies. The questions were phrased on the backs of colored cards; they referred to events in faraway places, to crimes and discoveries and decisive baseball victories, to songs we hadn’t heard, films we hadn’t seen.
“It’s not your fault,” said Tara Tanvir. “I don’t even know all the answers.”
We were sitting on the carpeted floor of her room.
“We can go outside,” I said.
“I think we should go home,” said Samar Api.
“You guys are bored,” said Tara Tanvir, in a way that acknowledged her own shortcomings but also implied a lack of consideration on our part. She began to withdraw the colored cards and pies from their places.
“We want to stay,” said Samar Api. “But we’re already late and our family’s conservative. We only had permission for one hour.”
“Shit, man . . .” said Tara Tanvir, whose own fear of conservative families was wide and vacant, the fear of the unknown.
“We’ll meet tomorrow, na,” said Samar Api.
“It’s Friday,” said Tara Tanvir.
“So you can come to our house.”
She thought about it.
“Get permission, na.”
“Tomorrow?” It was possible.
“Ya.”
“Let’s do that.”
“Theek hai, na?”
And Tara Tanvir closed her eyes and smiled and nodded and said, “Definitely, definitely.”
It was announced that night that a friend of Samar Api’s was coming to see the house.
“And I want orange juice,” she said.
“We have orange juice,” said Daadi.
Naseem said we had one unopened packet in the fridge that was going to expire.
“Won’t expire in a day,” said Daadi.
“But I want freshly squeezed orange juice,” said Samar Api.
And oranges were added to the list of items to be brought the following day from the market.
They came with their leaves in transparent plastic bags, which were sent to the kitchen. Samar Api stood above the worktop and watched as the oranges were crushed on the slow rotating mound of the juicer. It was a lengthy process, requiring an effort and commitment disproportionate to the amount of juice it yielded: one by one the oranges were juiced, disemboweled, discarded; and the juice was only starting to collect.
“Go away from here,” said Naseem, “or I’ll drain it in the sink.”
There was work to be done.
Samar Api decided to start with her own room.
She changed the bedsheets first, stripping the mattress of its polka-dot covering and replacing it with a plain white sheet, then a pale blue one. She spanked the pillows to get rid of the dust, patted their bellies and plucked their corners. The location of the two-hearted picture frame on the bedside table was altered from beside the lamp to behind the lamp, then directly in front of the lamp. She stood back to experience the effect.
She went into the next room, where the curtains were drawn, the fan whir- ring in the shadows. Daadi was rigidly asleep on her bed and was covered in a taut sheet like a corpse. The cylinder of air-freshener stood among the medicines on the mantelpiece. Samar Api returned with it to her room and sprayed it around the bed. She paused to inhale the smell.
It was strong.
She opened the windows and switched on the fan.
She went into the kitchen and returned: the juice was complete.
She switched
off the fan in her room and closed the windows. Once again, in the altered setting, she sought her vision: the bedding, the lamp, the picture frame with its history, the posters of Amitabh on the wall.
“Looks nice,” I said.
But she wasn’t satisfied. She went into my mother’s room and looked in the wardrobe, looked in the drawers, then on the shelves, where she found a crystal ashtray and a brass bell that gave a tinkling noise when it shook. On her way out she took the telephone too, but without the wires, which wouldn’t leave the room.
The items were arranged on the bedside table in her own room: the phone, the bell and the ashtray now joined the frame and the lamp.
“Looks nice.”
She agreed.
“What about the phone?”
“We’ll say it’s new.”
She went to inspect the veranda and found cobwebs on the upper walls. The lawn was not mown. In the heated sheen of the afternoon the driveway was parched and bare. The car had gone for servicing.
“I’ll bring her inside,” she said, and went back inside.
She chose my clothes for me: a full-sleeved shirt, worn only with a blazer at birthday parties, and a pair of velvety corduroy trousers in brown.
“It’s so hot, Samar Api.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said, and held up the shirt. “You can do this for me once, can’t you?”
And, having settled the rest, she retired to the dressing room, where she spent a long time, emerging at last in a dark shalwar kameez with short sleeves and a focused expression, her features sharp with added lines and colors. She went into the kitchen for one last look, then went into the veranda and sat in a chair under the fan, waiting for her friend to arrive.
The sounds came: a horn from outside, long and unhurried, the gate dragging, then the roar of a big car as it rolled up the driveway and came to a stop outside the veranda. The doors opened and slammed. Now silence, a long pause before the sounds returned, of shoes in the veranda, nearing, and voices fading in the distance.
“Go on,” said Naseem, who was standing with me in the kitchen and pouring the cold juice into two tall glasses to be taken away now on a tray. “Your guest is here. Go and make her happy.”