The Boy Who Loved

by Durjoy Datta

  ‘Don’t do it!’ I shouted and cried my fake tears.

  Maa threw the rest in the dustbin. Baba took me by my arm and dragged me to the balcony and locked me out. Neither the burning of the trump cards nor being locked outside seemed like a punishment. Trump cards used to be Sami’s obsession, not mine.

  ‘That boy is teaching you all the wrong things,’ Maa used to shout.

  After his death, I pretended to still obsess over Bret Hart, the Hitman, and Hulk Hogan like my other classmates to be, you know, normal.

  It suddenly fell quiet inside the house. Maa–Baba’s voices reduced to distressing whispers. Their sadness seeped through the mosaic of the floor, the fabric of the curtain, the wired mesh of the gate and clawed into me. Maa came to fetch me after an hour, crying and repentant. After dinner Baba came bearing a new set of WWE trump cards. Over dinner, Maa–Baba and I analysed my chemistry question paper and they were as confounded as Brahmi was.

  ‘Don’t do silly mistakes the next time,’ they both echoed.

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘What do we have other than the two of you?’ said Maa.

  ‘I know, Maa.’

  After they put me to bed, they took a taxi to the airport to get Dada home. They must have told Dada about today’s happenings because he came to me once he was home.

  ‘They expect more out of you. Don’t disappoint them, Raghu,’ he said.

  ‘And you can go about doing whatever you want to, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s unfair, Raghu.’

  ‘Absolutely not! I’m the one who has six scholar medals, thirty-three certificates, and the first row in the annual-day choir. What have you given them, Dada? Just a lousy 1650 rank in IIT JEE? 89 per cent in boards?’

  ‘I didn’t get the memo saying we had to do certain things to qualify as being a worthy Ganguly.’

  ‘But you were certainly given plenty of instructions about what they expected you to do.’

  ‘Raghu.’

  ‘And what you weren’t expected to do!’

  ‘Oh please, I am too tired for this,’ said Dada and left the room like he wasn’t so obviously at fault.

  These days Dada has a way of making everything worse.

  Bad day in all, but right now I’m thinking of Brahmi’s and my sweater—twisted and tied and unified.

  P.S. That beautiful abandoned building I saw a few days ago? Yes. They are tearing it down or maybe it’s just falling apart.

  29 March 1999

  Dada was born in ’78. It was a year of great turbulence, Baba always tells us. The government at the Centre was tottering, the saviour of Bengalis in West Pakistan, Indira—Maa Durga in the words of Atal Bihari Vajpayee—had been re-elected to the Parliament, and two men hijacked a plane with toy guns asking the cases against Indira Gandhi and her younger son Sanjay Gandhi to be dropped.

  Ridiculously enough, Baba tells me that both those men became Congress politicians. Of course, Indira and Sanjay Gandhi are both dead now, Dada tells me. Indira Gandhi was shot by her Sikh bodyguards as revenge against her defiling their holiest place of worship, the Golden Temple, and her son Sanjay died in a fiery plane crash.

  In stark contrast, 1983, the year I was born, was quiet. Apart from India’s historic cricket World Cup win there was nothing to write home about. This tells the story of us too. Dada is the turbulent one, to whom things never cease to happen, sometimes brilliant and sometimes the embarrassingly low-grade drinker of alcohol and maker of friends, finder of lovers from different religions and holder of their hands, doer of a software job, receiver of business trips.

  And then there’s me, the mama’s boy, the more intelligent one, and who has almost never had to hide anything from Maa–Baba. But then Sami died and everything changed.

  But Dada still thinks he enjoys a certain immunity because I have been—largely—the mature one.

  In a string of his recent stupidities, he has added another one. He has agreed to his company’s offer to shift him to Bangalore. They will put him up at a five-star hotel—all expenses paid—for three months. Maa–Baba have vetoed it violently.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere! Your Maa didn’t feed you, bathe you, and work day and night for you just so you could leave her the minute you grow up. You’re not leaving your Maa,’ said Baba and left the table mid-dinner.

  Maa chose to express her disapproval by maintaining a cold, steely silence.

  Later I went to Dada’s room.

  ‘You can’t just leave them here,’ I said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you can’t.’

  Dada frowned. ‘Shut up and come here with my office bag. Close the door first. I want to show you something. Get me my office bag. It’s in the cupboard.’

  From the bag he took out his PowerBook and clicked through to a folder. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked and clicked on a little icon.

  ‘I’m not ready for anything.’

  The screen slowly filled out in a picture.

  ‘What is this?’

  It was taken from a digital camera, not like the usual ones with reels. With digital cameras, you get multiple shots at looking happy or sad. But in the picture Dada stood awkwardly next to a girl who was clad from head to toe in black—only her face was visible through her burqa.

  ‘She’s Zubeida Quaze, the girl I told you about. Isn’t she beautiful? You should meet her. I think both of you will get along like a house on fire. She’s quite—’

  ‘She wears a burqa, Dada.’

  ‘Oh yes, she does. So does everyone in her family. It adds so much mystery, doesn’t it? I have more pictures of ours if you want to see. She gives me hell when I ask her to—’

  I shoved the PowerBook away.

  ‘I don’t want to see any more of her pictures! And delete them! I’m going to tell Maa–Baba everything. She’s the reason why you’re going to Bangalore, isn’t it?’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Are you out of your mind—’

  Before I could reach the door, Dada held my hand and pulled me away from it.

  ‘Dada, let me—’

  Dada struck me. His slap stung my face like a million bees. Before I could register the assault, he had pulled me close and hugged me. ‘Look, Raghu, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hit you but you can’t tell Maa–Baba anything.’

  ‘Why the hell not?’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you? This is our secret. I will tell them when the time is right. Don’t spoil it before anything happens, okay? I like Zubeida. I really do. Just the way I like you. She’s very important to me.’

  Just the way I like you? I freed myself from his grasp.

  ‘I’m your brother, Dada. We are your family; your responsibilities are towards me, towards this family. I won’t tell Maa–Baba today but if you don’t tell them soon enough, I will. Baba needs to know what you have done. You have to come back.’

  I left the room.

  6 April 1999

  Brahmi’s eyes were murderous, fists clenched and she was waiting for me. Without any prelude, she shot out the question that must have been bubbling inside her since last night. ‘Did you call on my phone yesterday?’

  ‘Me? No! Why would I? I don’t call anyone.’

  ‘Someone called four times at my house yesterday.’

  ‘It wasn’t me.’

  ‘There was no voice on the other side!’

  ‘I don’t even have your number. Also I have to ask Maa before calling anyone. So it can’t be me.’

  ‘Taiji went mad and shouted at me, saying that I must be giving out numbers to boys in my school.’

  ‘That’s not right. Why would she say that?’

  ‘Can you do me a favour, Raghu? Can you call home?’ she asked.

  ‘Me? Why?’

  ‘Talk to Taiji and tell her you didn’t call me? You’re the only classmate of mine she knows by name and she thinks you’re a rascal.’

  ‘But I’m a not a rascal.’

  ‘Please call and tell
her so?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Please.’

  I am the rascal.

  Last night it had taken me an hour of staring at the phone to dial her number. I had practised what I would say. Hi Aunty, may I talk to Brahmi Sharma? It’s regarding the notes she took in the physics class today. The words died in my throat the minute I heard Brahmi’s voice. She sounded different on the phone, much older but without her trademark authority. I called her three more times and every subsequent time her voice became mellower but still as lovely. I imagined her in a T-shirt and a skirt, the phone stuck to her ears, saying, Hello, hello, who’s this? I thought of her not in her uniform but otherwise. It’s probably what everyone does. If you’re used to not seeing someone in uniform you fantasize about them being in one and vice versa.

  ‘Fine, I will call her. But who do you think called at your place?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe someone who likes me and is too scared to tell me. A secret admirer? Or someone who just wants me to be in trouble,’ she said.

  ‘Probably,’ I said.

  Excusing ourselves from the class, Brahmi and I went off to call her Taiji from the school phone. I put in the coin and waited for the call to connect.

  ‘Hello . . . ch . . . Taiji. Raghu will talk to you. He is saying he didn’t call you. I told you he wouldn’t. I’m giving the phone to him.’

  ‘Hello, Aunty,’ I said.

  ‘Sun ladke. I don’t know if you called at my number or not. But if you call in the future I will know. I will come to your house and slap you up in front of your parents. Do you understand, saali? Rakh ab phone. Saala Bangali.’

  ‘Okay, Aunty—’

  Click.

  Brahmi’s face flushed pink. ‘My Taiji has a bit of a temper,’ she said, embarrassed, overhearing some of the abuses.

  ‘This is the first time I have been abused by a grown woman. It sounds strange.’

  ‘She didn’t mean to abuse you. She’s really nice otherwise. Do you want to sit together at lunch?’

  Unlike my lunch which consisted of chapattis (Baba), daal (Maa), paneer (Baba) and raita (Maa), hers was a lone, dry sandwich.

  ‘Mumma keeps really busy. She usually doesn’t have time to cook . . .’

  ‘You can have mine. It’s too much for one anyway. Half of it goes waste.’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’

  ‘I don’t eat so much anyway. Maa gets really angry when I waste food. You will be doing me a favour.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said and dug in. ‘I haven’t had food like this—’

  And just then her voice tuned out and something came into focus. Something I had missed all this while because I could only see her wrists and imagine the stories in the ridges. What I had not noticed were the little welts on her upper arms, behind her ears, on her back. They were purple and blue and red and sad. She had been hit at home yesterday. Was it because of the calls I made? If it was, I deserved the abuses from her Taiji and more.

  As if she had heard the question in my head, she said, ‘I fell down the stairs.’

  ‘Strange stairs.’

  ‘I know. They are stairs I climb every day and yet they . . .’

  She hadn’t expected me to believe her. She wanted me to stop looking. We shared our lunches and still couldn’t finish all the food.

  ‘Pack your lunch and come with me,’ she said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Shahrazad.’

  ‘That’s a slippery slope, Brahmi. Are you sure? Are you really going? I guess you are.’

  She didn’t share my pessimism which was strange. We went to the abandoned classroom again. Shahrazad had grown even fatter in a week but looked healthier. As if Brahmi’s love had healed her, exactly what I was scared about. She came hobbling to see Brahmi, her enormous belly swaying from side to side. Soon she was eating out of Brahmi’s hands, wagging her tail gustily.

  ‘Don’t be scared. She won’t bite,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not scared of her biting me.’

  ‘Oh please. Don’t overestimate yourself.’ Then she talked to Shahrazad in a baby voice. ‘Raghu here thinks you will fall in love with him, my little doggy. Who’s the cutest doggy in the world! You are!’

  ‘No, I don’t think that.’

  ‘Of course he does, Shahrazad. He thinks he’s so lovable that people or dogs will miss him so much god forbid he does something to himself.’

  ‘Now you’re just mocking me. Also, stop with that baby voice.’

  ‘My fat little doggy, will you tell Raghu bhaiya that it’s not so?’ she said.

  ‘Brahmi. We are late for class.’

  Shahrazad hobbled on to Brahmi’s lap, nuzzling her nose into her armpit. Brahmi said, ‘Aw, you missed me! Tell Raghu bhaiya that maybe no one, including you, will miss Raghu bhaiya as much as his floating-soul-thing would miss us. Ah! Maybe that’s what he’s REALLY scared of.’

  ‘Fine, whatever,’ I said and patted Shahrazad, whose eyes reduced to little slits.

  Brahmi laughed. ‘And now pat her with your other hand. See! She likes you. Look at her wagging her tail.’

  I did as asked, first to get Brahmi to stop and then because I liked how Shahrazad’s warm tongue felt on my hand.

  ‘I know you called, Raghu,’ said Brahmi just as we were leaving Shahrazad. ‘STAY, STAY,’ Brahmi had to tell Shahrazad to keep it from following us.

  ‘I didn’t—’

  ‘I know you did. Next time, you can speak. My Taiji thinks something’s going on if no one says anything.’

  ‘Did you know this all the time?’

  ‘I knew it the second time the phone rang. I don’t have secret admirers or anyone here who would want to trouble me. There’s only you.’

  Brahmi could have screamed at me, slapped me around like she would have been by her Taiji for my recklessness. She could have paraded her welts and accused me for it. It was incredibly stupid of her to exonerate me in front of her Taiji when she could have blamed me for everything. She didn’t have to be nice to me when I didn’t deserve it. Why strengthen bonds and make it harder to snap them?

  Couldn’t Shahrazad not have been cute and cuddly? Couldn’t Maa–Baba just be bad people, making it easier for me to leave them and Dada to themselves?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said as the guilt coursed through me. Maybe Brahmi is right about me. My floating-soul-thing would miss them.

  ‘You don’t have to be sorry. You are my friend.’

  ‘Are we friends?’ I asked.

  ‘Are we not?’

  ‘Does it mean we have another person to worry about?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s for you to decide.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘You ask too many questions,’ she said. ‘Do you want to go somewhere?’

  She hadn’t waited for my answer and didn’t tell me where we were going.

  ‘Since when have you been doing this?’

  ‘Eighth standard, I was late to school and I wandered around the entire day. One of the happiest days of my life,’ she said.

  An hour later we were at Nehru Planetarium, our seat reclining, under the stars. I didn’t ask why we were here and she didn’t tell. What she did tell me was about the compost project she’s working on which was our pretext for going missing today. For an hour we travelled around the sun and cruised around constellations and sometimes looked at each other. She pointed and explained to me things she thought I wouldn’t get. ‘Do you want to be an astronaut?’ I asked her on our way back.

  ‘No, I just like to think things beyond this world we see exist,’ she said.

  In the evening, Maa was happy to see the lunch box licked clean. Right now I am now thinking how alone Shahrazad is.

  17 April 1999

  From what Maa tells me, Baba was an accomplished playwright and an incredible actor in college. That one time in college he wrote a play in Sanskrit. None of the other actors in the cast could keep up with the words or intonations or Baba’s strict instruc
tions. Rather than scrapping the play, he played all the roles himself!

  ‘There were only three girls and two boys in the audience and yet he performed like the world was watching, huffing and puffing around the stage, changing voices, genders, even costumes,’ Maa would tell us.

  ‘Then what?’ Dada and I would ask, listening to Maa–Baba’s love story for the umpteenth time.

  ‘I was so taken by your Baba’s performance. It’s then that I first thought of getting married to him. He was a force on the stage. He could have been a politician, I have always told your Baba that.’

  I have no doubt. Dada and I have seen him in action both as sons and students. Parents all across north and west Delhi, and beyond, seek him out to teach their children Sanskrit and English. He tells stories and fables in his class, holding every child’s attention. He was like the Pied Piper before but infinitely more powerful and capable of raising an army of children voicing his opinions, repeating verbatim after him. Age has mellowed him down somewhat. But his very propensity to perform, to enthral, is often an embarrassment, like it was today.

  ‘I liked the lady,’ grumbled Baba about Jayalalithaa, the charismatic chief minister of Tamil Nadu, pointing at the television, veins popping in his neck. ‘But look what she has done!’

  ‘Ishh, turn the volume down,’ said Maa, nudging Baba.

  ‘Turn the volume down? The country’s government just fell and you want me to sip tea and eat mutton chops! Is that what you want me to do?’

  ‘I want you to stop discussing politics with our guests,’ said Maa.

  In the audience were our new neighbours, B.B. Bhattacharya, his wife, Shanta Bhattacharya, and their daughter, Arundhati Bhattacharya. They had shifted into the flat next to ours just a day before. They are a lovely family—arrogant yet humble, rich but understated, beautiful but unassuming. We on the other hand were a bunch of people with megaphones strapped to our mouths.

  ‘We are so lucky they are Bengalis,’ Maa had chimed yesterday when the loaders unloaded their furniture. ‘I will call tomorrow.’