Even as he grasped this thought, the shrill, excited cries rose in a crescendo to a strident, triumphant peak. The hunters had sighted their prey. He stood where he was, still and motionless.
The Pawn
I had no difficulty at all in identifying them. I spotted them the moment I entered the hotel lobby. They stood in a huddle, with that helpless, rather foolish look people have in a strange place. A typical middle-class family. The man, anxious-looking, his clothes wrinkled and travel-worn, the woman plump and with a kind of deliberately subdued manner, the girl thin and unsmiling. The floor of the lobby was made up of black and white tiles. It looked like a chess board. And the couple stood stiffly side by side, like the king and queen, I thought. The girl? Hmmm—a pawn, maybe.
I approached them, composing my features into a smile. ‘Are you Mr Kulkarni?’
The man’s face lit up. It was as if he had come back behind it. ‘Yes, yes, that is right. And you are …?’
‘Ramaswami. Murali’s friend. I think he had left a note for you at the reception?’
‘Yes, yes, I got it. He had to go to Mysore, it seems?’
He spoke in English, dragging out his vowels, the way I had seen Maharashtrians do.
‘That’s right. His father is unwell.’
‘Nothing serious, no?’
‘No, he didn’t think so. He asked me to apologize to you….’
‘No, no, why should he? It’s not necessary. I am sorry we are troubling you.’
‘No trouble at all.’
My smile seemed pasted on my face. Would I ever get it off? And how ever had I got into this?
Last evening I had come home to find Murali frantically throwing some crumpled clothes into a bag.
‘What’s up?’
‘They want me to go home. It’s my father …’
‘Bad?’
‘I don’t think so. His usual blood pressure problem, I guess. But the females always panic. Anyway, I’ve got to go. I say Ramu, you have to do me a favour.’
‘How much?’
‘Not money, you fool. It’s those people I was telling you about. Mohan’s neighbours in Bombay. They’re coming tomorrow.’
‘So?’
‘They’re coming here for a day on their way back from Madras and they want to see Bangalore. I was supposed to take them around. So—you have to do that now.’
‘My God!’
‘Come on, man. For all you know it may be fun. There’s a daughter too. Maybe pretty. You know these Bombay girls.’
And dammit, I thought, flashing the girl a covert look, she’s not even pretty. Short. Thin. Nothing one can appreciate. And that dull look on the face. May be I can get it over by lunch time and have the afternoon to myself.
With a sigh I turned back to the man who was gesturing vaguely towards the women. My wife. My daughter. A kind of introduction. There were perfunctory namastes and reluctant smiles. Not from the girl, though. Her face was a closed room.
‘Well, what do you want to see, Mr Kulkarni?’
‘We’re here only for today. We’re leaving for Bombay by the night train. We’re in your hands. What should we see in your city?’
Let me see. What does a stranger want to see in Bangalore? What does a stranger see or remember of any place he sees one day in his life? What do I remember of the places I’ve seen in this way? Only the colours. The smells. The feeling. Some faces, maybe.
The couple was staring at me appealingly. Hopefully. Even the girl looked wistful. It was like a curtain being raised, letting a chink of light into a room. I took a sudden decision, shaking off my boredom. And I don’t know why, but I felt suddenly excited. I gave the man a genuine smile.
‘If I were you, I’d see the gardens. Walk along the streets. Look at the trees, the flowers, people’s faces, the colour of women’s saris, the flowers in their hair. Do you know we have a circle with a fountain in the centre and trees this short on the fringe bursting with golden flowers? Ever walked down a shopping street with shops on one side and trailing bougainvillaea on the other?’
He returned my smile showing gleaming teeth. ‘You don’t know how good that sounds to a man who’s stayed in Girgaum all his life. Let’s go.’
We walked out and the women followed.
‘How do we go?’
‘We’ll take two autos.’
As I went to instruct the driver of the auto in which the women sat, I looked at the girl again. She sat unsmiling, her lids drawn like heavy curtains over her eyes. Fun! What a hope, Murali!
‘What’s this place?’
‘Cubbon Park. They say it’s like London’s Hyde Park. It isn’t enclosed. You can drive through it. We’ll walk through it.’
What did we do there? We stood and stared at the big trees, we bent down and peered at the small flowering plants. We threw back our heads and blinked at the huge glittering dome of the Vidhan Soudha. And all the time there was a strange, fermenting excitement in me which made an adventure of these small things. As if I’d never done them before. An excitement that was, I somehow felt, not mine alone. But where did it come from? The man, as he walked, spoke without a pause in his peculiarly accented English, flattening out the vowels with a road roller. The two women walked discreetly behind, the mother occasionally murmuring something to her husband or daughter in Marathi. And the girl said nothing, just walked quietly, her heavy lids screening her eyes, seeming aloof and unconcerned.
‘Lunch?’ I asked.
‘What’s the time? Nearly one? How fast the time has passed! But now you have asked me, I think I am feeling hungry. Yes, we shall have lunch now. Where shall we go?’
‘Come, I’ll take you. Plenty of good places here.’
We settled on the plush seats, the two women facing us. I gave the girl another fleeting look. She looked, I thought, tired, with shadows under her eyes, cheeks slightly hollowed.
‘Are you tired?’ I asked, addressing her directly for the first time. She looked up, slowly raising her lids. It was a very deliberate effort, as if her lids were in fact heavy. It was curiously entrancing to watch. And then a half smile, a ghost of a smile, just touched the corners of her mouth and vanished.
‘No,’ she said briefly.
I had once seen a spider in a web. In a few moments, where there had been nothing, there was a web, perfect, fragile but real. It was like that now; suddenly there was a link between us, as perfect, fragile and real as the spider’s web. And there was a fluttering feeling within me. I found myself waiting eagerly for her to do it again—to raise her lids, look at me and smile. I felt curiously inattentive to everything else but her presence. But she didn’t look up at me again. And, dammit, I thought again, she’s not even pretty! Skinny. Her wrist looked pathetically unable to bear even the weight of the one bangle it carried.
The food was now plonked before us. We began to eat. We talked as we ate, the man and I. Bangalore—the food—the weather—the railways—reservations—Shiv Sena—Kannada films—Bombay. And all the time I was waiting—for her look, her smile.
Then it was time to get up. We squabbled politely over who was to pay the bill. The woman said something to her husband in Marathi—a swift outpouring of words. And when, finally, he put down the money on the plate, firmly pushing my hand away, she gave me a triumphant smile. I smiled back and said to her in my painful Hindi, ‘You are my guests, you should let me pay.’
She shook her head vehemently. The waiter went away, came back with the change. The couple began arguing about something … about how much to leave as a tip, maybe. At that moment, the girl, who had been quiescent all this while, offered me her wisp of a smile again. A smile that caught the corners of her mouth, curling and lifting it exquisitely. A smile so illusory that it was perfect. We once had a table lamp at home with a cover made of silk. It looked dull until you switched on the light. Then you saw the rich colours, the beautiful patterns of the silk.
Pretty? My God, she was beautiful. And for no reason there was a joy
ous feeling within me. The feeling I had had as a boy when the holidays were about to begin. Pure bliss.
After that, it was like a dream of a day. Nothing was real. Not the people we saw, nor anything else. Even the buses, cars and scooters had a strange, dream-like quality about them. The only real thing was this girl with wrists as small and fragile as a child’s. With eyebrows like the wings of a bird in flight. With a wisp of a smile that dealt you a knockout blow.
We went to Lai Bagh after lunch. The gulmohars were in full bloom. They were like a loud burst of melody. Why had I never seen them before? The girl looked at the scarlet umbrella over us with the clear, uplifted gaze of a child. We strolled out of the glasshouse and the heady scent of the champak came out to meet us. She took a deep breath, looking as if she was inhaling rapture itself.
‘Will you take a photograph of us, Mr Ramaswami?’
‘Certainly, sir.’
I looked through the lens and saw the three of them standing, stiff, self-conscious. But she had that smile on her face, a smile of which her parents were oblivious. It was to me alone that she was offering it. And there was such a wonderful intimacy about it that, with all the distance between us, I felt as close to her as if we were sharing a bed.
‘Okay, Mr Ramaswami?’ the man called out impatiently. It was with a strange reluctance that I clicked, letting the shutter come down between me and her.
And suddenly I knew I wanted to be alone with her, with her and no one else. It could have been a revealing, catastrophic moment. But it wasn’t. It was as natural as breathing in after breathing out. Yet there was a turbulent impatience within me to be rid of her parents.
At long last the mother sank down on the grass. Her husband followed, letting himself down with a long drawn out sigh of exhaustion. I did not sit down, nor did she. Instead she said something to her father, who began reluctantly to get up.
‘She says she wants some water to drink,’ he explained. ‘Where will we get …?’
‘Please don’t get up, sir. I will go with her.’
He sat down again, thankfully, and the two of us walked away. She walked calmly by my side. Our steps kept pace. She did not seem to be hurrying, yet she did not lag behind. When we reached the tap, she drank great gulps of water. Her slender throat moved in and out. Her lids were down again and I felt resentfully shut out. Then suddenly she looked at me and smiled, as if she had read my thoughts, and there was warmth and brightness.
‘Want to go there?’ I jerked my head at the small hillock nearby. She nodded. As we walked, I tried to make her talk. Just to hear her voice. We spoke in English. Hers was hesitant, not too good, and oddly accented like her father’s was; but delicious-sounding like his never was. I wondered what she thought of my English. I looked stealthily at her once and found her looking at me. Our looks met, clashed head-on, sidled, met again and once more slunk off in opposite directions. We laughed together, scarcely knowing why we were laughing.
We stood in front of the granite hillock crowned by a tower on top. I told her about it. She paused in front of the inscription and began reading it. She read it seriously to herself, her forehead furrowed, her lips moving. I thought it very endearing. I could feel her receive my wonder, my feelings in silence. It was as if she was accepting them. Then we had to go back. I bent down to her and asked, ‘Are you tired?’
She shook her head and looked straight at me, repeating the word, ‘Tired?’ But joyously, eagerly, as if mocking the word itself. It was the most direct glance she had given me and it stirred me deeply.
We were never alone after that: and yet, we were never with the other two. I had my dinner with them. We sat opposite each other and every now and then she raised her lids and looked at me intently. And each time there was a peculiar melting sensation within me.
I went with them to the station. As we parted, I asked her father for their address. I will write to you, I said to him. But it was for her. I gave them my address. Write to me, I said. And she knew I meant her. When her parents were busy arranging their luggage, I spoke directly to her. I will write to you, I said. I will write to your father also. And I knew she understood. Her gaze, clear and limpid, met mine and for the last time there was that smile which was no smile at all. Then it was time for me to get out of the train. It gave me a pang to watch the train carry her away.
I went home and threw myself on my rumpled bed, trying to hold on to all the moments of that wonderful day. The next morning I woke up, still in that dream world, in which her smile, her face were the only realities. It hurt to go back to my usual workaday world. But I had to. I was on the early morning shift. And the badminton matches were starting that day. I will write to her in a few days, I thought, putting her address carefully in my drawer.
I found it a week later when I was looking for a clean hanky. I looked at the piece of paper wonderingly, doubtfully. The figure of the girl had receded. It had been a dream, I now knew, and what have dreams to do with reality. After all, what did I know of her, or she of me? And what could I tell my parents about her? That she had a beautiful smile? I knew what my mother would say to that: you have to live together, other things matter more. And she would be right. Dammit, I didn’t even know her language nor did she know mine. It would never work.
Suddenly I remembered the day I had seen the three of them in the hotel lobby. Of how I had walked across the black and white tiled floor to them. A pawn, I had thought her. Maybe it’s I …?
Then I pushed the thought away. I’m a sensible young man. Not a damn fool. And I tore up the paper, picked up the bits and threw them into the waste-paper basket.
A Wall is Safer
It is a narrow ribbon of a road. A little earlier, it had been only an incision in the full-grown sugar cane. Sitting in the minibus, you could hear sibilant whispers as the cane brushed against its sides. With the cane gone, there is nothing to demarcate the road from the flat expanse of land on either side. The lone cyclist is like a marker now, showing me where the road is. I know he is coming here, not only because I can identify him as Ramachandra, but because there is nowhere else he can go. The road ends here with us. The sun glances off his white clothes in a blinding glare as he comes nearer and I am forced into the house. As I wait for him I wonder whether he can tell me why Sitabai hasn’t come today. I have been struggling against both exasperation and anxiety since the morning, waiting for her, watching the work pile up.
The tinkle of the cycle bell sends me out. He hands me a note with an ingratiating smile without getting off his bike. ‘From the sahib,’ he says and rides off, without giving me a chance to say anything. He is afraid I will question him about his domestic tangle—or, is it triangle? It amuses me sometimes, the thought that even here, in this God-forsaken place, there is this problem of ‘the other woman’. ‘Sex rearing its ugly head’ Vasant calls it and laughs. Poor Sitabai! And yet her belligerence keeps sympathy away.
I open the note … it is from Vasant … neither curious nor expectant about its contents. I know it will be only to tell me that there will be a guest for lunch, tea or dinner. We have more guests here than we ever had in Bombay. Anyone who comes here to meet Vasant has to be brought home for some sort of a meal; there is nowhere else they can go. I am used to it now and it means nothing more to me than having to cook a little extra. The men don’t expect anything from me at all. They are here to talk to Vasant and they do just that. When they have to speak to me, they are uneasy. Unnatural, forced smiles flicker across their faces as they talk to me, staying on even when there is no need. They turn away from me with almost audible sighs of relief and I sometimes wonder whether they will recognize me if they see me at another time, another place.
Now I read the note mechanically, thinking—hope it isn’t someone for lunch, the vessels are not washed, the house not swept … Oh good, it’s for tea. And what shall I make for tea? Then suddenly the news penetrates, getting through my housewife’s armour. It’s Sushama who’s coming, Sushama …. All at o
nce, the texture of the day seems to change, it’s pace quickens and livens. Sushama coming to stay an evening and a night. I hurry energetically through my tasks, so fast that when Sitabai eventually turns up, I have done most of them.
‘Why didn’t you wait for me?’ Sitabai asks. ‘You know I will always come. Unless I’m dead or dying.’
She isn’t being melodramatic, I know she is speaking the literal truth. When she first told me about her pregnancy, my heart had failed me. To look for another woman when I had just got used to this one…. But now I know she will keep coming. She needs the money and the food. Ramachandra gives most of his pay to ‘that woman’.
Sitabai and Ramachandra—apt names for a couple. But, of course it isn’t a happy coincidence. Since he was Ramachandra, the woman he married was named, renamed rather by his parents, as Sitabai.
‘And that is why I have all these troubles,’ she had said phlegmatically once. ‘What can you expect when you’re named Sitabai but troubles?’
She had used the word vanvaas for misfortunes. Literally ‘stay in the forest’. Exile. I had toyed with the thought for a while—to be a Sita who follows her husband into exile—would it help? It didn’t. I had to laugh as I abandoned it. Me a Sita? I’m here, not out of choice, but because there was none.
‘Your husband was just here,’ I tell Sitabai. ‘I wanted to ask him about you, but he was off like a shot.’
‘He?’ She spat out the pronoun. ‘He hasn’t come home for three days. Good riddance, I say. Who wants to see his face? She can have him.’
We get on with our work, the two of us, her monotonous voice providing a soothing background to our tasks. I clear up the children’s room, make up Raju’s bed for Sushama. He can come in with us. By the time they come—the minibus brings them all at the same time—I am ready for them. Sushama is the first to get off.
The Intrusion and Other Stories Page 12