The Boy Who Loved

by Durjoy Datta

  ‘Thank you, Didimaa.’

  We all ate alone today. Maa doesn’t eat till Dada gets home and he’s rarely home before 11 p.m. Baba can’t wait that long but he tries his best and gives up at 10 p.m. I am made to eat early. I wonder what toll this high-pressure job is taking on Dada’s heart. I have to remind Maa–Baba to goad him into getting a full-body health check-up.

  15 March 1999

  Today I went to the Mittals’ house to watch an episode of Hum Paanch because our TV had stopped working. The Mittals, who live in the flat above ours, and with whom the Gangulys share a rich history of skirmishes big and small. Our car, a ten-year-old Fiat, stands in their parking lot which Baba hijacked a couple of years ago after they sold their scooter. The algae growth on our living-room walls is because the miserly Mittals don’t fix their drainage system.

  ‘They have cash and jewellery hidden in their bed boxes! Don’t I know these banias? All thieves!’ says Baba.

  It is unlikely.

  Their house smells of poverty and despair. The sofa’s old and lumpy, their fans creak, the flooring is cracked and dark in places, the refrigerator doesn’t work half the time, and the bed sheets are always stained. Maa says they are saving dowry for their two daughters—Kanika, seventeen, and Richa, sixteen—both of whom study at the Kendriya Vidyalaya. They are both darker than me; the younger one is the colour of my elbow. Last year Richa had accepted me as the love of her life when I had inadvertently walked into the bathroom while she was bathing. She was the first woman I had ever seen naked, and I was the first man who had seen her like that. Ever since that day she shies away from me whenever I’m in the room, blushes excessively when I ask for extra tomatoes or a cup of dahi, steals glances at me till I smile and accept the existence of that secret between us. She’s beautiful with her thick black hair melting into her skin and has the body of a grown woman, no doubt about that, but I feel nothing for her. That’s unfair. If we were intended to live most of our lives in pairs, why didn’t we come with the names of our soulmates imprinted in our hearts? Why do we stumble from one name to another till we make a choice, right or wrong? Why would she fall in love with me when I would never love her back? The checks and balances of love in the world will never settle. It will always be a CA’s nightmare.

  Coming back to the Mittals.

  Despite Maa’s affinity for fair skin, she loves both the girls dearly. In them she used to find solace for the void left behind by the daughter, Mina, who left her too early. After Dada, Maa had a baby girl whom she had lovingly named Mina, meaning light. She was born with a heart too small and didn’t live past a week. Mina’s death severed not one but two mother–daughter relationships. Post Mina’s funeral, Didimaa told Maa she had wished for Mina’s death, as a punishment for how Maa had ignored Didimaa.

  ‘Now you know what it feels like! Kali has listened to my prayers!’ Didimaa had screamed.

  Maa, in the grip of fury and grief, had thrown a vase at Didimaa’s head.

  Mama had found Didimaa after a full hour, lying in a pool of blood; Maa sitting on the couch, watching her. Maa had been there for the entire hour, watching Didimaa plead and bleed and pass out.

  Ever since I heard the story, I have searched in Maa’s eyes for that streak of insanity which had driven her to let her own mother almost die. What if Didimaa had actually died? Surely our family would have come up with an excuse. Old woman falls from bed, splits her head open. No big deal. To maintain our integrity we would have lied like petty criminals. Our lives would have gone back to normal. The new normal being living with a murderer in our midst. Nothing happened but I can’t help thinking, what if. We were an hour away from being a family of abettors to a murder. A family that can hypothetically do this can do anything. It’s not a surprise that Maa–Baba–Dada haven’t asked me in two years about how exactly Sami died. Neither have they wanted to know why I hadn’t called Sami in the four days that Sami was rotting in my school’s pool. Had I known he was there? They prefer not to know the answers.

  Anyway.

  In Mina’s mourning or longing, every Sunday Maa used to feed the strictly vegetarian Mittal sisters with her own hands—mustard ilish, muri ghonto and dahi prawns—before the Mittal parents found out. The Mittal sisters are now prohibited from visiting our house, though I can go to theirs.

  Today Mittal Aunty served me three chapattis and watered-down daal while we watched the show. When I came back Maa asked, ‘Did the girls ask about me?’

  ‘Yes. When Mittal Aunty wasn’t around, they told me they miss our food, especially your fish,’ I lied.

  Maa smiled brightly and told me, ‘Now only if you and your Dada grow up quickly, we will have a girl in this house. I will make her everything. But only get a Bengali girl, okay? Who else will know the difference between rui and ilish and katla? In our times, long hair and the ability to pick out the right fish was all that was desired in a girl, and Bengali girls have them both!’

  ‘But even south Indians know their fish.’

  Maa was fumbling for a counter, when Baba butted in. ‘Those Dravidians are too smart.’ I tuned in and out as he ranted about how they did not want to be a part of India and how Vallabhbhai had prevented the country from yet another Partition.

  ‘Ei, chup koro to (Just stop it, okay),’ said Maa and stopped Baba in his tracks.

  ‘If he doesn’t know about our history, where we come from, how we suffered and for how long, how will—’

  Maa asked me to go complete my homework when Baba was mid-sentence. I took my registers and my books and sat in the balcony with them. Over the left side of our balcony is the Mittals’ and sitting there was Richa, with her books and her registers. Getting up and going inside would have been rude so I just sat there for an hour. I regretted it once I came inside. What if she thinks there’s something going on between us? What if she’s attached to me? Would she cry when I’m gone? That’s sad, though if no one cries when I’m gone, that’s even sadder.

  My selfishness sometimes baffles me.

  P.S. Found a beautiful abandoned building today, a fifteen-minute walk from home. It’s seven storeys. No lifts, which means you have to climb all the way up on the crumbling stairs. But it’s worth it. It’s quiet. And there’s no ledge. Which means you don’t have to climb awkwardly to jump down. You can just lean into the fall. The only concern is the ragged beams below. Wouldn’t want to land on them.

  Just saying.

  18 March 1999

  My fingers tremble as I write this. The serrated military-grade knife Dada’s put in my back, in our family’s collective back, is slowly twisting, gutting me. What would happen when Maa comes to know? Worse still, when Baba does? How did Dada allow this to happen? Does responsibility mean nothing to him? Didn’t the name evoke anything? It wasn’t an ambiguous name like Rehyan or Samir. How could he miss that? It’s us versus them. It always has been, at least in this house. Didn’t Baba’s words, his constant brainwashing, have no effect on him? Didn’t Maa’s warnings mean anything? Dada’s words keep ricocheting in my head. They sort of just recklessly bubbled out of him, no guilt, no second thoughts, nothing. Just a glint of madness in his eyes. Maybe having suicidal tendencies runs in the family.

  ‘I love Zubeida Quaze with all my life. I spent every waking moment in Bangalore holding her hand,’ he said to me, smiling.

  ‘She’s a Musalman,’ I said.

  ‘We really love each other.’

  ‘She’s a Musalman!’

  ‘You should meet her.’

  ‘She’s a Musalman.’

  ‘I told Zubeida about you. She’s excited—’

  ‘SHE’S A MUSALMAN! You need to shut up, Dada! You can’t say I love her and what not unless you intend to marry her! And you can’t marry her, Dada. Maa–Baba would accept anyone but her!’

  ‘Look, we haven’t decided if we are going to get married.’

  ‘What do you mean by that? You said that you loved her, didn’t you? Why would anyone say tha
t?’

  ‘We need time to think about our relationship.’

  ‘So you think about a relationship after you tell someone you love her? What do those words mean if you are not staying together forever?’

  ‘They are just words—’

  ‘THEY ARE NOT JUST WORDS! And . . . Zubeida Quaze! Did you not think once—’

  ‘No. Please, no. Don’t tell me you’re going to start crying now. Oh, c’mon, stop being like Maa. Look at you crying!’ He laughed.

  ‘Maa has to know.’

  ‘You’re not going to tell anyone. When the time’s right, I will tell them myself. Okay, Raghu?’

  He left the room to answer the ringing telephone. This can’t remain hidden from Maa. She will sniff it out anyway, I thought to myself. I will have to tell her before Dada takes this misstep. Missteps. Why would he casually throw around the word love? But more importantly, he can’t defy the unconditional love that’s supposed to be between Maa–Baba and us. Otherwise what’s the point of it? Dada and I are a pursuit of happiness for our parents; of Maa–Baba wanting to have the complete human experience. What are children if not fully interactive, self-learning, sentient toys made of flesh and blood instead of plasticine with multiple difficulty levels designed to engage the players fully? The game of children is addictive and seldom not liked. The job of the toys is to be grateful and love the players back. If Dada were to disappoint our parents, he’s defective goods, a video game with a flickering screen, a toy with a loose socket. He’s no better than Mina or me. I had been counting on him being perfect. I had been counting on Dada taking upon himself the care of Maa–Baba, giving them the perfect bride and grandchildren they have always wanted, be the sweet, loving son who makes them happy, the one who celebrates their anniversaries and birthdays, who cuts down on his own expenses for their medicines, who bathes them when they are older, hears the same stories repeatedly from their deteriorating brains thirty years from now, cries for their deaths, lights their pyres. I can’t allow Dada to rip this family apart. I can’t let Dada make me the caring son. I am all but a guest in this family. I might have overstayed my welcome but I have to join Mina sooner or later. I can’t let Dada throw a spanner in my plans.

  25 March 1999

  Dada’s secret is corroding my insides. Today we got the results of our first unit test of the year and I embarrassed myself by giving her a ten-mark lead. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say my abysmal performance was because of Dada. Brahmi sought me out in the library which was a welcome change. Since our day at Keventer’s I have seen her occasionally go missing and have had to physically stop myself from tagging along. Not once has she asked me to accompany her which confirmed my suspicion that I wasn’t needed in her secret jaunts outside the school. Our conversations too were strictly academic, carried out in an adversarial tone.

  ‘I was scared you would beat me,’ she said.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Show me your answer sheet. I want to see how you did,’ said Brahmi.

  ‘You beat me. That’s all that should matter. I’m not showing my answer sheet,’ I said, clutching my pocket where the crumpled answer sheet lay.

  ‘You will have to show me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I think I won only because you did badly, not because I did well. Show me your answer sheet now. Quick, quick!’

  So I did. The mistakes were silly. The joy of her win slowly drained out of her.

  ‘Do well the next time,’ she commanded.

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Whatever you’re struggling with, leave that at home when you attempt your question papers.’

  ‘I am not struggling with any—’

  ‘Your lies won’t work with me. Don’t spoil the only reason why school is fun,’ she said.

  ‘Which is to beat me in tests?’

  ‘To be the best at something,’ she said as if she was a queen.

  ‘Fine,’ I sighed and accepted.

  I promised Brahmi a fight in the next session.

  ‘But if I win the next time, do I get to ask you for another story?’ I pointed to her wrist.

  ‘Why do you want to know them?’

  ‘No reason. I have never attempted that despite the knives at house being quite sharp. So I’m curious. Moreover I don’t think I’m a knife person,’ I said.

  ‘What are you then?’ she asked.

  We were getting into dangerous territory but a sense of abandonment gripped me.

  ‘Buildings, tall buildings. They aren’t as ubiquitous as knives or cutters.’

  She scrunched her face.

  ‘Why? What’s wrong?’ I asked.

  ‘I am not comfortable with the disfigurement that comes with it,’ she said.

  ‘So no train tracks? Or hanging? Or burning?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sleeping pills?’

  ‘Too risky. Too much time to change your mind and for regret to seep in.’

  ‘But knives? That takes time too.’

  ‘Knives are knives,’ she said. ‘Should we talk about this with such frivolity?’

  ‘We wouldn’t talk about it if not with frivolity,’ I said.

  We both nodded, surprised at my seemingly intelligent observation.

  She sighed and said, ‘If there are other factors that determine our choice of you know . . . then I think we are safe. If we were serious about it we would have done it by now, not matter what the means.’

  ‘Not bragging, but I am surprised at how intelligent we are,’ I said.

  She giggled. Like a real giggle, not the sorts she fakes, if and when she finds herself in a group of girls who don’t know she’s different. It wasn’t annoying at all. Giggles are the best.

  ‘Touchwood. Can I sit here and study now?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. Are you not going out today?’

  ‘I have no money and you haven’t lost a bet to treat me. Though the next time you do, there’s a new burger Nirula’s has added to their menu.’

  She fetched a book to read and sat next to me. Her invitation was at best dubious but it would do for now. By the time we walked out of the library most of the students were already in class. The corridor was deserted. We had barely walked a few yards when the cooing of a dog drew us to a class long abandoned.

  ‘We will be late for the class,’ I said.

  ‘I didn’t ask you to follow me,’ she said.

  ‘Now that’s unfair.’

  We jumped over broken desks and props stored from previous annual day functions.

  ‘There,’ she said.

  In a corner, a pregnant bitch scrambled to her feet seeing us and fell right back. I swear I saw tears.

  ‘Poor thing.’

  ‘Dogs can’t cry the way we do. It’s some allergy. But she does look like she is in pain,’ said Brahmi. She took off her sweater. ‘Give me yours.’

  ‘I can’t! It’s new. Maa–Baba fought tooth and nail for a discount on this.’

  Her stare wore me down.

  ‘Fine,’ I said and took it off.

  She linked our sweaters, arms tied to each other, and draped it on the bitch. Then she cradled her on her lap till she drooled all over her skirt and went to sleep.

  ‘I wash my clothes myself,’ she said when I pointed at the mess.

  ‘And the sweater?’

  ‘Mumma won’t notice,’ she said.

  The bitch, visibly comforted, was chewing through our linked sweaters when we left her and her unborn children.

  ‘Maybe she didn’t want to live,’ I said.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So now you gave her hope. You became her friend. She will now want and expect you to come to see her every day. We should have left her to die.’

  ‘She’s Shahrazad.’

  ‘Isn’t that an Arabic name?’ I scoffed.

  ‘She was a queen.’

  ‘She was in pain. She would have been better off dead,’ I said when we got to class.

  ‘Pai
n’s rewarding.’

  ‘That only looks good on posters. How can cutting yourself reward you? What exactly is your reward?’

  ‘Every time I fail I know I would like to live a little more,’ she said. ‘Moreover Shahrazad is going to be a mother.’

  The sweater and Shahrazad, Dada and Zubeida, chemistry and Brahmi—I told Maa nothing when she got home from work. It took Maa an hour to find out about the misplaced sweater, and another two to find where I had hidden the chemistry paper—the letter box of the uninhabited flat 14B.

  ‘Mumma, I . . .’

  Maa started to cry.

  ‘In the letter box of all the places! First, you lose your sweater and now this. What am I supposed to do with the two of you? One brother does god knows what in Bangalore and the other one is falling in bad company.’

  ‘I didn’t want to spoil your mood, Maa. And my marks might incr—’

  ‘Still lying. Still lying. Where did you learn to lie? What else are you lying about?’

  Baba finally butted in. ‘There’s no point scolding him. He is boka, stupid, he will not amount to anything. Five thousand rupees I spent on his material for IIT, five thousand. It’s going to come next week. All waste! He would be lucky to get through Stephen’s, leave alone IIT.’

  Maa–Baba had always been good at worst-case scenarios when it came to their sons. An hour of absence meant kidnapping, a cut on the knee meant tetanus, and running to catch a bus meant crushed skulls. But this time his worst-case scenario didn’t even cut close.

  ‘Who’s got the highest marks? Tell me! Who got the highest marks?’ scoffed Maa.

  ‘Brahmi.’

  ‘How much?’ asked Baba.

  ‘Twenty-three.’

  ‘Twenty-three! She has scored ten marks more than you! All this is because of the stupid trump cards you keep collecting! Where are they? Where have you kept them?’

  Maa stormed to my room and got the bunch of cards I had been collecting for the last five years. While Baba held me, Maa burnt a handful of them over the stove.