‘Didi, you have to come!’ protested Sumati, Shyamji’s wife, laughing and shaking, pre-emptively, her head from side to side. ‘We will not do the grihapravesh without you!’
It was the exaggerated nonsense you expected from Sumati. But Mrs Sengupta agreed; for she also felt a faint quickening, a sense of being expected, of being special – it was the magic of arrival she loved looking forward to, the sort that attended, for instance, her visit to a poorer relation’s house because of some family occasion, when she was at once unremarkable, the same Mallika she’d always been, and transformed and unattainable, the Mrs Sengupta she was today. The flats had been bought in a housing development far away in Borivli in late November; now, before they were properly occupied, the grihapravesh ceremony – the ritual of making the dwelling auspicious – had to be performed. More nonsense, thought Mallika Sengupta; further expenditure on borrowed money. But, one December morning, they – mother and son (Mrs Sengupta, giving the lie to her claims of impatience, wearing a carefully chosen Kanjivaram silk, looking like the mistress of some mythic temple), set out in the white Mercedes-Benz; no question of Apurva Sengupta going – he was in meetings all day.
Borivli was only a name to them; they knew it existed somewhere beyond where their conception of the city stopped, but didn’t know where it was. Actually knowing anyone who lived in Borivli was out of the question. The driver seemed to be taking them toward the airport, but turned right into a busy junction; he went down a road full of small stops and traders’ outlets, then drove down a series of lanes, asking people for directions. It seemed, to their surprise – but, gradually, nothing was surprising – that more and more people lived here. The journey was full of stops and starts, and from time to time Mrs Sengupta said to Nirmalya, as if she were at the limits of her patience, that Shyamji’s family should have known better than to demand they travel to such a remote place. Finally, exhausted by monotony but awed, now and again, by how livelihoods and landscapes were obviously stretching outward, they came to the middle of nowhere, with three new buildings rising before them. They were the sort of building made for the lower-income bracket, plain stone, with only a hint of colour – faint pink – and tiny spaces for balconies. Yet they were noticeably new.
There had been an unseasonal drizzle in the morning, and it had left the ground muddy. Mallika Sengupta had trouble rallying her Kanjivaram round her ankles, and walking to the entrance; her low, two-inch heels marked her wavering, thoughtful progress on the soft ground. ‘Wait here,’ she said once, turning round to address the driver, as if she’d accidentally recalled his significance, and wanted to leave him with some instruction or assurance. He, emerging from the car and standing before it in his white uniform and cap, looked lonely and self-sufficient, an emissary who found himself in surroundings unworthy of him. Nirmalya, as he walked to the building, didn’t notice that anything was absent, but sensed there was something missing. There were no trees in the circumference that formed the horizon round these buildings.
Children were running up and down the gloomy staircase, yelling loudly and incomprehensibly – thin, not well-to-do, but energetic, stopping momentarily to stare at Mrs Sengupta with the familiar guileless gaze of people looking at someone who belongs to a different world – admiring, unresentful, a gaze, oddly, almost of recognition; and when Mrs Sengupta and Nirmalya came to the first floor, they found the door to one of the flats open, and the corridor lit by sunlight. Families of all hues, obviously related to Shyamji, seemed to have come to celebrate the move.
‘Didi!’ said Banwari’s wife, Neeta, when she spotted them, the pallu of her sari, as ever, shadowing a quarter of her face. ‘Please come in and sit down.’
A man in a vest and dhoti was sitting with his back to the balcony, retelling, in a mealy-mouthed way, an episode from the Ramayana; people, among them Shyamji and his mother, had gathered around him, listening. How they loved to be instructed, to be charmed by and surrender to, yet again, the wisdom of a tale they’d heard a hundred times since childhood, to have their moral certitudes reconfirmed!
Then, they – these men, some of whom did nothing else for a living but play the cymbals or the tanpura, ghosts who were too much in love with earthly existence to let go of it, but who also had no proper earthly existence; and their wives – they began to sing the arati, the repetitive, sweet, deeply consoling melodic line that made you want to sing it forever. And it seemed to Nirmalya they’d sing it forever – they went on and on, returning to the same phrase. He and Mrs Sengupta had moved up; now, Shyamji and his mother stood before them, their backs to them, as the priest made circles in the air with a lamp, the flame flashing on the air and, barely an instant later, on the eye in swift, disappearing arcs, those circles becoming real only when the moment had passed, when seeing had already turned into remembering. Mrs Sengupta could hear Shyamji’s voice clearly, melodious, high-pitched, uninsistent, like a bird’s; and then it seemed it was only his voice she could hear, and the other voices had become a hum in the background.
It was over; there was anarchy. Children collided with each other and almost knocked down adults in their impatience; Nirmalya and Mrs Sengupta and others (but the mother and son dealt with a courtesy reserved for no one else; everyone, Shyamji included, was obviously made from the same fabric, while they were made from some other) were taken to another room to eat – chickpeas, cauliflower bhaji, paneer, puris, were served on damp plates placed on the long narrow planks of tables.
‘Did you hear Shyamji singing?’ asked Mallika Sengupta. ‘Without tanpura or harmonium or any accompaniment – just the voice: so tuneful!’ ‘Of course,’ said Nirmalya, scooping up some vegetables with the puri. ‘But that’s what you’d expect from Shyamji, wouldn’t you?’ ‘That’s the way I used to sing when I was a child. It came naturally,’ said Mrs Sengupta. ‘You don’t hear that any more these days.’
* * *
‘WELL, THERE WAS that man, going on about Hanuman flying in the sky with the Gandhamadan mountain in one hand and about Sita and Lanka,’ said Pyarelal, standing next to the air conditioner, his kurta-ends fluttering. It was as if he’d been present during that epic moment long before history as we now know it began, and was weary of hearing of such things second-hand. Two days had passed since the grihapravesh ceremony, and he was reminiscing about it; the priest, especially, aroused his ire. He poured tea unhurriedly into a saucer and sipped sweetly from it; he was always uncharacteristically relaxed in the apartment in Thacker Towers, as if it induced in him a state of rumination and stillness. ‘I was hoping he’d stop, but why should he stop? There were Shyam bhaiyya and mataji, sitting before him with such a look of devotion that they seemed to be falling asleep.’ As an afterthought, he cleared his throat and added, like one offering a throwaway insight: ‘The chickpeas were hard.’ And he moved his jaw involuntarily and glumly, as if his teeth still nagged him. His teeth were vulnerable; chewing intractable material could in an instant rob him of the carefree expression that denoted he was in control of the recalcitrant, milling world he moved in every day.
Pyarelal had got a flat out of this; he wanted the flat, but an odd resentment brewed within, because he felt he had no choice but to take the flat. He was emboldened in the huge Thacker Towers apartment with Nirmalya for company; he could express his innate sense of his own grandeur, before sitting down in front of the tablas again, without self-consciousness; and slip, too, into the odd troubledness that came to him from having a piece of property to his name. In the grihapravesh ceremony, he’d had no standing; he’d ushered in Mrs Sengupta and Nirmalya to eat, then got bored of hanging around; being humble and attentive around the idiot hordes of relatives didn’t suit him – he’d slunk into a corner to smoke a beedi.
No one took much note of Pyarelal. But Nirmalya actually listened to what he said, and took a perversely different view of him. He was in the midst of a discovery when it came to Pyarelal; he was, in a sense, inventing the older man. Later, he’d never be able
to recapture the first flush of this excitement, which had aggrandised Pyarelal to him and made him unique, and would see only the mortal, damaged, cringing man. Pyarelal, too, seemed to sense at times that he was caught up in a web of Nirmalya’s making, and was unable to, in fact content not to, extricate himself from it; although, once or twice, without even being aware of it, he’d glanced at the boy with a look of incomprehension and almost of sadness, as if some buried part of him wondered how long the spell would last. ‘Ma,’ Nirmalya said to Mrs Sengupta, ‘he may be hardly able to read and write, but he has what in an educated person would be called a “critical mind”.’ For Pyarelal took nothing as received wisdom, not even the saint-poets. ‘Tulsi, Kabir – they’re wonderful,’ he’d said. ‘But Meera? Much of the time there’s no merit in what she writes. “Pag ghungru bandh Meera nachi re” – “Bells strung round her feet, Meera dances” – is that a line worth speaking of?’ He looked straight at Nirmalya, as if he’d made an unpleasant remark about Meera’s anatomy but was confident nevertheless that what he’d said was fair. Nirmalya was taken aback; for no one he knew thought of whether Meera’s lines were good or bad; they celebrated her mythology, the tale her songs narrated, of how she left the Rana, the king she’d been married to, and his palace for the love of Krishna; how, again and again, the Rana tried to poison and kill her; how each time, magically, his attempts were thwarted. All this was as familiar to Nirmalya as a story in a comic book. But now, as Pyarelal stared at him, the famous line ‘Pag ghungru bandh Meera nachi re’ began to sound dead to Nirmalya’s ear; Pyarelal had killed it. ‘Of course, she has some good lines,’ said Pyarelal, his mood changing into one at once imperious and democratic. ‘Hari, vanquish the world’s sorrow,/ Rescue the drowning elephant,/ Lengthen the garment that covers.’ Nirmalya understood the allusions compressed in the lines much later – about the elephant, dragged into the water by the crocodile, being rescued by Krishna when it invoked his name; and of how Krishna infinitely extended the yard of cloth that formed Draupadi’s sari as Dushasana tried to strip her of it. Meera, in this song, wasn’t calling upon the Krishna who was her secret lover, as she did usually, but to Krishna, the vanquisher of the world’s sorrows – ‘jan ke bheer’ – and, though Nirmalya was yet to comprehend all this, the music of the words sounded to him distinct from the indisputable flatness of the other line. He stole a glance at Pyarelal. Could it be because this man could barely write that the sounds of words were more audible to him? A theory began to take shape inside his head.
‘Not being able to read and write makes life difficult,’ admitted Pyarelal sadly, one hand on the harmonium.
‘All those forms . . .’ he said, using the English word and mournfully turning it into farms. ‘All those farms to fill . . .’ For the semi-literate musician in Bombay, hemmed in and kept in his place by thickets of bureaucracy, life was a conspiracy of forms.
But what living in the tiny flat in the chawl in King’s Circle for fifteen years had done to him was evident sometimes. Before he sat to play the harmonium with Nirmalya in the boy’s small, introspective, neat bedroom, Pyarelal would turn and primly close the bathroom door. If it were ajar behind him, he’d be unable to concentrate on the music; he’d get up in exasperation and shut it. ‘Why is this open?’ The tiles glowed; they gave off a fairy-tale emanation. The basin was encircled by granite and marble; the instruments of washing and defecation were guarded and polished daily by a jamadar like a museum’s treasure. Nirmalya wondered why the half-open bathroom door so unsettled poor Pyarelal. It was only after visiting the chawl in King’s Circle, and learning more about Pyarelal’s and Shyamji’s and Banwari’s lives, that he understood the stench of a shared toilet, a stench which, given an inch, would insinuate itself into and quietly colonise the house. Pyarelal sniffed the air; he smelled what wasn’t there. It was the smell of the toilet in King’s Circle that agitated him.
* * *
SHYAMJI FELL ILL. He’d felt a sudden pressure on his chest, and rubbed it unhappily with one hand; he’d been taken to a nursing home. It was a mild heart attack.
‘However did it happen?’ asked Apurva Sengupta, phoning his wife in the middle of work. He sounded impatient, as if the knot in his tie felt tight, or his secretary had gestured to him about an appointment; it was three o’clock, a quiet but demanding hour, in which the chief executive, suddenly alone after lunch, has to collect the day around him. ‘Is he all right?’
Shyamji was only forty-three. He was slightly overweight – Nirmalya had seen him changing his kurta before a programme, the rounded, dark body beneath the vest, the tender, secretive folds of flesh, the brahmin’s thread tucked inside: his condition was aggravated by diabetes.
‘You must stop him eating sweets,’ Mallika Sengupta said to Sumati. That irresistible, and, to Mrs Sengupta, inexplicable urge that people from this particular world had towards jalebis and milk. ‘If he, a grown man, can’t control himself, you, as his wife, must control him.’
‘Didi, you know that our Shyamji is like the Shyam after whom he was named,’ said Sumati, with a smile that was lit at once by indulgence and ecstasy. ‘He’ll steal into the kitchen and eat what he pleases – no one can stop him.’
There was an idiotic poetry to Sumati’s words that infuriated Mallika Sengupta; she recalled, for an instant, the child Krishna stealing into his mother’s kitchen to satisfy his truant love of buttermilk. But that Shyam was a god, a diverting figment of someone’s imagination, she thought; your husband has just had a heart attack. Sumati was placated and insulated from anxiety by mythology – the mythology of her religion had entered into, and become inseparable from, the mythology of her husband: no real harm could come to him.
The rich of Bombay came to his bedside in the nursing home as he recovered, his head propped against two pillows, a flower vase, a tumbler, and a bottle of water on the table next to him. ‘Aiye, aiye,’ he said, as if he were welcoming guests to his abode, his gaze incredibly calm. He was fatigued; but it was reassuring, this arrival of the affluent. Outside, ‘sisters’, figments in white, circulated purposefully in the corridor, sending in, now and again, proprietorial glances through the doorway. At different times, the visitors: Priya Gill and her father, indomitable and inspiring in his Sikh’s turban; Raj Khemkar – his father was no longer a minister, but Raj still carried with him the ironical confidence of a minister’s son; Mrs Jaitley, whose husband had been recently promoted to General Manager of Air India – all these, and others like them, brought with them, unthinkingly, the assurance of the everyday and of continuity as they sat kindly by the bed, confirming the solace of the birds and the hopping and buzzing insects outside the window on Shyamji’s left.
And the famous; Asha, who said in a hoarse voice (you were always nonplussed, listening to that voice, that it had sung, full-throated, those melodies): ‘How is he?’ and, putting a bangled hand to his forehead: ‘You have no fever.’
One of the people missing from the bedside was the bearded Hanuman Rao, the Congressman who wore nothing but white. But no one mentioned Hanuman Rao. The film Naya Rasta Nayi Asha – a new road, new hope – had been made, but it suddenly seemed unlikely it would ever be released: that the new road would be taken, the hope materialise. Hanuman Rao had fallen out of favour with the powers-that-be in the Congress, puny men in scheming huddles who resented his largeness, metaphorical and physical; an old but niggling case, to do with his role in his constituency during the Emergency, had been brought back into daylight by a member of the Opposition; the Congress had neglected, carelessly, to bail him out – some said the return of the case was instigated by some malevolent force in the Congress itself. Hanuman Rao hadn’t been arrested; but his assets were frozen, and the film, alas, was one of those assets. Naya Rasta Nayi Asha, soundtrack and all, had been sucked forever into the tunnel of lost prospects; and with it had gone, also, the thousands of rupees that Shyamji had put into it, in the glory and unassailability of having turned, at last, into both ‘music d
irector’ and ‘playback singer’.
‘Shyam, I could listen to your bhajans for hours,’ said Hanuman Rao. ‘Once the film is released, this voice I love so much will be heard by everyone.’ Shyamji had been seduced, not just by Hanuman Rao, but by the magic of the colours – perennial, abiding always in a sort of springtime – of celluloid; the loss of its promise, and, with it, his money, had created a vacancy to which he hadn’t been able to reconcile himself, and brought a pressure to his heart.
No one mentioned Hanuman Rao’s name in that room in the nursing home.
* * *
‘SAAB, WE ARE in need of some money.’ That’s how Shyamji would broach the subject every few months with Apurva Sengupta. Very softly and decorously, not as if he were begging or asking, but sharing a piece of information that had been troubling him. The advance was ‘adjusted’ with the number of ‘turns’ taken teaching Mrs Sengupta; these English words, with their expeditious, dry clarity, had become part of the parlance. ‘Adjust ho jayega,’ said Shyamji, displaying the calm he never deviated from. ‘It’ll get adjusted.’
But this calm wasn’t only a pose he put on for the benefit of his students or family; it had become a dharma, a philosophy of life. It was partly a strategy of self-defence; he’d begun to suspect (but still didn’t wholly believe) that the world he was in love with – Cuffe Parade, Malabar Hill, the mirrored drawing rooms of his older students (plunged by marriage into affluence and anxiety), even the glamour of the film studios – was not quite going to, despite its extravagant, seemingly sincere, gestures of reciprocity, return his love: it had too many other things to do. The thought hadn’t formed itself in his head; but the detachment, the calm, had deepened a little.
The Immortals Page 17