After Love

by Subhash Jaireth

  I walked out of the shop still wondering about how the music had affected me. ‘My time here is over,’ I thought. ‘I should pack my bag and head straight home to Anna.’

  While I waited for the bus I examined two records I had bought in the bookshop. One was a 1967 recording by Thelonious Monk, the great jazz pianist, intended for Leonid Mikhailovich. The jacket was slightly damaged, but there were no scratches on the vinyl. For Anna I had bought a German recording of Bach’s St Matthew Passion.

  On Thursday 16 November 1977, I wrote my last letter to Anna from Kalpetta, informing her that I was leaving the following morning. I told her that I would try to be as adventurous as she, and that is why instead of catching the express train from Bangalore to Delhi I would board an ordinary one in Calicut and travel north to Mangalore, then take a boat to Goa and another train to Delhi.

  Why Goa? In that bookshop I had seen a seventeenth-century map of Goa drawn by a Portuguese cartographer. The turtle-like shape of the settlement on the peninsula fascinated me, and I wanted to confirm that the real city was even half as beautiful as the one on the map.

  I told Anna that I would stay in Goa for two days, strolling the narrow winding streets while watching for the garbage that might land on my head from above; that I would admire old houses embellished with delicate balconies, enjoy the bright sun warming the red-tiled roofs and sketch the dazzling whitewashed churches; and in the evening when the sun was ready to dip into the sea I would go for a swim. During my two days there I wouldn’t stop thinking about her for a minute, and like her Budapest scarf those joyous thoughts would keep my heart warm.

  I wrote to her that in the race to reach her, it was likely that I might beat my letter home by a day or two.

  As it turned out, I didn’t win the race.

  In Delhi I met my childhood friend Suresh, now teaching history in a college and working on a book on Mughal-era Delhi. He showed me the old Delhi he had discovered. For three days we walked the narrowest of streets, dark, damp and smelly, searching for the havelis of merchants, begums, courtesans and nabobs. We feasted on samosas, sherbets and kulfi and talked to a couple of kite-flyers. We found the dilapidated house of Mirza Ghalib, the nineteenth-century Urdu poet who had taught the last Mughal Emperor, exiled to Burma by the East India Company after the failed Mutiny of 1857. In the same street we climbed the dark narrow stairs to a little shop on the fourth floor, which sold posters of Bollywood films.

  I was overwhelmed by the continuous onslaught of colours, smells and noises of the streets. I felt uneasy, out of place, confused. ‘Don’t worry,’ said Suresh cheerfully. ‘You’ll get used to it again. You’re an Indian, after all.’ But it was as if my eight years in Moscow had entirely squeezed India out of my system.

  And what about Anna? Would she ever feel at home in this India? Wouldn’t she feel crowded, smothered? Wouldn’t she think that it had been a mistake to come here with me?

  ‘Of course she would,’ Suresh said, ‘and rightly so.’ He wanted me to forget the idea of asking her to live here. ‘Come back home on your own,’ he said. ‘Marry a nice Indian girl and live happily ever after.’ What saddened me most was that he was quite serious. He was convinced that marrying Anna and bringing her to India would end in disaster.

  ‘But I love her,’ I insisted. ‘Isn’t that important?’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ he said. ‘But that’s why you should let her go.’

  When I returned to my father’s house, Jijee-ma noticed at once that I was more than usually anxious, worried and irritable. She didn’t deserve that. I wanted to tell her that her fears were groundless, that I had missed her and that I was happy to be back. But somehow none of this sounded convincing.

  The big house was more crowded than ever and although Jijee-ma tried to shield me from all the bustling activity, we both knew we would only be able to spend some quiet time together late in the evening. She was kept busy all day managing the household. It was only at night, after all the many visitors had left, the servants had finished their work and family members, especially the children, had been put to bed, that she brought a glass of sweetened milk for me and we were able to sit down and talk.

  She sat on my bed with a small bag of almonds and walnuts on her lap, reached for her nutcracker, and began: ‘You are going to come back, aren’t you?’ I put away my pen and notebook, looked into her tired smiling face and prepared myself for the chit-chat.

  The following night she entered without the bag of nuts, sat on the bed and asked me to pull my chair closer. ‘I want to show you something,’ she said, and pulled out a packet of photos which she spread in front of me. They were all of young women.

  ‘This one is Meena. She’s a gynaecologist at the All-India Institute of Medical Sciences. Her father is a diplomat and at present he’s posted in Germany. This girl in the salwar kameez is Asha. She teaches history at Miranda House. Her father is a manager with Bata.’

  Seeing my indifference, her voice became warmer. ‘Do you remember this girl? She used to live nearby and she was at your school.’

  ‘Chandani?’ I said.

  ‘So you do remember her.’ Jijee-ma was pleased. ‘You would hardly recognise her now. Such a pretty girl! They say even Bombay film directors are chasing her. She lives in a posh house in South Extension and runs a beauty clinic. I’ve heard that she wants to start a chain of shops all over India. She isn’t one of our mamul-shamul (ordinary) Indian girls; she’s very modern and outgoing. Nor will she just sit at home and look after her babies. I like her. She has guts. Like you, she calls me Jijee-ma.’

  Still I said nothing. ‘But this girl,’ Jijee-ma continued, noting my silence, ‘is the best of all. Her name is Bindiya. She isn’t pretty but she’s tall and slim. Her father Lala Chaman Lal owns the Dunlop factory in Baroda. Bindiya (can you imagine?) is the only child. She also has a green card, and I’m told she wants to go and live in New York. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? I could come and visit you there.’

  She left the photos on my table so that I could have a better look at my leisure and make a shortlist. Then I was supposed to give this to her and arrange times to meet the girls. I knew how the system worked, and that’s perhaps why I felt anxious and humiliated. I simply listened to Jijee-ma’s comments on each one and kept quiet, knowing that my silence would be misinterpreted.

  But after my Jijee-ma left, I picked up the photo of Chandani. I was intrigued by her film-star looks. She used to sit next to me in primary school and often shared her tiffin with me. But her fiery temperament had been obvious even then. I hadn’t forgotten the fight we had over a mere pencil sharpener. In a terrible rage she had thumped me over the head and bitten me hard on my right arm, leaving behind the deep marks of her savage teeth.

  On the third night when Jijee-ma came in to talk I took from my wallet a small black-and-white photo and handed it to her.

  ‘Who is she?’ she asked.

  ‘Anna.’

  ‘And who is Anna?’

  ‘My friend.’

  ‘What sort of friend?’

  ‘My girlfriend.’

  ‘Like Chandani at school?’

  ‘No – a real girlfriend.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I mean that we live together.’

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘And what about her parents? Do they know? Have you told them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And—?’

  ‘They don’t mind. Why should they?’

  ‘How long has this been going on, this living together?’

  ‘Almost two years.’

  ‘Two years! And you didn’t tell me anything about it! At least you could have written to me. I am your Jijee-ma, aren’t I? Not a word! And you used to tell me everything. Don’t you remember? No secrets at all.’ She turned away and caught her breath. ‘You never kept secrets from me. You were so transparent, so simple. How could you do such a thing? What
will our father think? He’ll be so upset, so angry, so humiliated. Oh my God, what shame, what terrible shame!’

  She put on her glasses to have a closer look at Anna’s photo, shook her head and sighed. I knew that soon she would start crying, making it unbearable for me to face her. But Jijee-ma didn’t cry, and it was then that I realised I was in for much harsher punishment. She would just walk out of the room and lock me out of her world. She would continue to look after me, but there would be no time for friendly chats. No affection would be offered and all possibilities of compromise shunned.

  ‘How old is she, this Anna of yours?’ she asked after a brief pause.

  ‘My age. A few months older, I think.’

  ‘And she isn’t very tall.’

  ‘No, not very tall.’

  ‘And she isn’t very big either, like all the other Russians I’ve seen and heard about.’

  ‘No, she’s …’

  ‘And she has a small face. A kind face, I think.’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘And I’m sure she smokes and drinks and eats beef.’

  ‘She wants to give up smoking.’

  ‘And do you drink and smoke and eat beef?’

  ‘No, not at all Jijee-ma. How can I?’

  ‘But you live with someone who drinks and smokes and eats beef.’

  I stayed silent. Jijee-ma looked at the photo again, put it aside, then picked it up and looked once more. After a long pause she uttered words I knew expressed her deepest fears. When I went to Moscow, she had always dreaded that something like this would happen and now, faced with the reality, she was more scared than ever. She had never feared accidents or other mishaps because she was confident that her Ganesha would keep me out of harm’s way. What had terrified her was the lure of the foreign country and its way of life, but most of all its women, free and attractive.

  ‘So you aren’t going to come back?’

  ‘I’ll certainly come back. No doubt about it.’

  ‘Really? And you’ll bring your Anna too.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  I realised that Jijee-ma expected something more convincing, but I couldn’t manage that. My future with Anna still remained mired in uncertainties.

  ‘You hope so. I hope so, too,’ Jijee-ma snapped. She got up. ‘I know I’ve lost you forever. Yes, forever.’

  She took off her glasses and tried to put them back in the case, but she dropped both because of her shaking hands. I leaned down to retrieve them but she pushed me away. She picked up the case, found her slippers and started to leave. At the door she turned and looked straight at me, still holding Anna’s picture in her hand.

  ‘She loves you, sure. But we love you too, you know.’

  And she stalked out of the room.

  It felt as though she had walked out of my whole life, leaving me cursed and abandoned.

  The following day, after she went to the temple, I packed my bags, called a taxi and left my father’s house without saying anything to anyone.

  I moved in with Uncle Triple K and Mala Didi.

  Of course both of them were pleased to see me. But news of my argument with Jijee-ma had already reached them. They left me alone and didn’t trouble me with unnecessary questions. The best way to avoid the topic was to talk about my project. I showed them the design of the village, which they admired. They said they were pleased that I had been able to complete my work in good time.

  Uncle Triple K seemed subdued. Mala Didi told me that a few months earlier he had finished his book on labour protest songs, but that his English publisher was taking his time with the contract.

  ‘Your uncle isn’t feeling well,’ she said. ‘His arthritis keeps him awake at night, and during the day he has so much to worry about. I think he’s feeling old, tired and useless.’ When she saw how worried I looked, she patted my arm. ‘Don’t fret. His spark will return and that 200-watt smile will reappear.’

  I stayed on for a few days but it didn’t. I had no idea what to do. Before I had gone to Moscow, everything between me and Uncle Triple K had seemed simple and natural. A few words from him were enough to clear any doubts and ease my concerns. Life had seemed easy and the world orderly and meaningful.

  Now, looking at my uncle’s state, I felt confused and lost.

  Had the spark really gone? Not knowing the answer made me even more restless.

  The row with Jijee-ma and the uncharacteristically cold response from Uncle Triple K convinced me that I wasn’t ready to return to Moscow. Of course the thing that I desired most was to board the next plane and fly off to Anna. Only she could save me. But I didn’t want to meet her again feeling wretched. I needed time to think, to understand the nature of my unease and regain control of my feelings.

  Perhaps that’s why, standing in front of the Air India office, I suddenly decided to go to Leipzig, the city of Bach. Before facing Anna I would immerse myself in music and architecture.

  ‘I’ll sit quietly in the churches and walk around them with my notebook and sketch. I’ll marvel at the light glowing through the stained glass. I’ll listen to the choirs and the organs and wonder at the sounds, dense and voluminous like water but also light as a feather. And then I’ll return to Moscow, and Anna will gaze at me and smile and touch me. And all my worries and apprehensions will disappear in an instant,’ I tried to convince myself.

  ‘I’ve come home,’ I would say to her and, warmed by this thought and her presence, I would tell her about the connection between the oval-shaped Baroque spaces and the rhythmic structure of Bach’s sonatas.

  ‘Is that so?’ she would laugh. She would kiss me and ask me to focus on buildings and spaces and leave music to the experts. Her laughter would cheer me up. With her hand on my arm I would walk through the cold forest, greedily breathing the chilly, moist, scented air.

  I would forget that I had ever been unhappy in my life.

  It wasn’t meant to be so hard

  Anna

  Vasu and I got married in March. I’m glad that it’s over. It was so hard to organise: papers and more papers. Luckily Shurik helped. He has contacts and knew how to pull strings and grease greedy palms. I was interviewed three times by the authorities, just to confirm that I wasn’t doing it to get an exit visa.

  I had been a komsomol my whole life. I became a member when I was young. Everyone had to. But like Papa I never joined the Party and this was what worried me most. The officials didn’t trust non-members. Aunty Olga had been smart enough to join, making her life a little easier.

  The wedding ceremony was brief and formal. Vasu and I had two witnesses. Vika, my friend from the music school, stood beside me and Vasu had asked Natasha to help out. Aunty Olga refused to come. ‘I’ll cry like a stupid cow and spoil it,’ she said. Papa arrived at the registrar’s office with all his medals and stars pinned to his coat. ‘Just to convince them that you are the proud daughter of a distinguished man,’ he said, ‘and to show that the marriage isn’t some kind of joke or pretence.’ He looked ridiculous.

  Yes, that’s what irritated me most, the thought that Sergei and others like him would assume that I was marrying a foreigner simply because I wanted to leave the country. I would hardly have chosen Vasu if that had been my intention. There were other much more promising possibilities. Swedish Sasha Lundberg, half-Russian, handsome, kind and ready to fall in love, would have been a much better bet. He was a violinist who had come to learn music at the Conservatorium and we had played together with Vika. I was living with Sergei then and didn’t want to risk it, but I had been tempted by Sasha once or twice.

  Sasha’s mother was Russian and yet he seemed to hate everything Russian. This scared me. With Vasu it was just the opposite; he loved Russians and our country. Sometimes I even felt that he loved me mainly because I was Russian.

  The ceremony at the registrar’s office was followed by an intimate party at Shurik’s dacha. Vladimir sang and Tamrico played her guitar. Aunty Olga’s present was a little gold necklace f
rom which hung a Siberian sapphire. It had been my mother’s, a wedding present from Papa. We had invited Tetya Shura but she couldn’t make it because she was in hospital after a mild heart attack. She sent a tape-recorded message.

  Papa had bought us tickets for a cruise along the Volga to Astrakhan. He wanted me to show Vasu his and Aunty Olga’s village. But because of Vasu’s asthma, we didn’t get further than Kazan. One evening as we were returning from a sketching trip he had a severe attack. I didn’t know how to deal with it and the train trip back to Moscow was terrible, since he couldn’t sleep or even lie down. He sat on his bunk the whole night, his body squeezed in, his shoulders bent forward, his breath coming in short hard bursts from his jammed lungs. Poor thing! He needed to learn to look after himself better, to avoid dust, perfume and sudden changes in temperature.

  The day I returned from our shortened honeymoon I gathered all my perfume and fragrant ointments and creams and got rid of them. Now, I thought, he would have to learn to live with my natural smells, good or bad. That was it. His fault.

  Vasu

  I felt guilty and ashamed that I caused our honeymoon to end so miserably.

  But I was relieved that the wedding was out of the way. It had been such a huge hassle. I hated all the paperwork and the humiliation of being interrogated and examined as if I were about to commit a crime. The worst obstacle was the cultural secretary at the Indian High Commission who invited me to dinner at his house.

  He was a professional diplomat, a loyal government official of the Indian Foreign Service and reminded me that he was just doing his job, following orders and normal procedures. His main intention was, he said, to ascertain if I had thought carefully about the marriage and was aware of the consequences that might directly or indirectly result from it.

  Over dinner we talked of everything but politics. His wife, he said, was a doctor and their two children, a boy and a girl, attended the International School but were learning Russian. The little girl wanted to be ‘a Russian ballerina’.

  His shelves were stacked with Tagore’s books and there were records as well. I told them that on a trip to Tashkent, I had bumped into an old lady who had met our great Indian poet in Moscow and had the honour of presenting him with a bouquet. She had been just seven then but still remembered his long grey beard and saintly smile.