The Boy Who Loved

by Durjoy Datta

  ‘Vedant spends lavishly,’ she said. ‘You two should come home sometime.’

  ‘What’s the point? It’s not as if you’re missing out on anything.’

  ‘C’mon, Raghu.’

  ‘Fine, fine, I’m sorry. But you can’t expect me not to be grumpy.’

  ‘I had to leave the way I did. You know that,’ she said.

  ‘What about Tauji–Taiji? They haven’t come looking for you?’

  ‘They don’t know where I am but I called them, asked them to not look for me, or I will go to the police. Tell them about the assaults.’

  ‘You would do that?’ I asked.

  ‘No, but they thought I would. That’s why they couldn’t even ask for the scooter.’

  ‘As happy as I am to see you I know you’re going to leave. You have been looking at the clock for the last fifteen minutes. So let’s go.’

  ‘Are you going to be okay?’

  ‘As okay as I can be without seeing you for days on end.’

  ‘Raghu.’

  ‘I am not saying that to make you feel bad, which you probably are. But I had to say it to someone.’

  ‘I know. I had to say something to you as well,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you.’

  She put on her helmet and sunglasses, which were a new addition, and we rode off towards my home. Maa–Baba had always told me sunglasses weaken the eyes and slowly rob one of his or her eyesight. I wonder if it will happen to her. Will she one day stop seeing my love?

  ‘I will see you later?’ she said after dropping me and kicking her scooter back to life.

  I nodded.

  She put it into gear and had only driven a few yards when I started to run after her scooter. I was on my knees, blinded and choked with dust when Brahmi noticed me in the rear-view mirror. She took a swift U-turn.

  ‘Raghu? What were you doing? Why were you running?’

  ‘Don’t go.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can’t bear to not see you. I look around in school for you and you’re not there,’ I said, the words streaming out of my mouth, unchecked.

  ‘. . .’

  ‘I’m sorry but I am doing badly in school. I need you there. Didn’t you tell me the same? You needed me? Now where am I supposed to go without you?’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘Why don’t you say something?’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘I can’t call you. I can’t see you. I don’t have any secrets of ours to hide from Rishab and Sahil. You don’t even care about Mina any more. Don’t you think she misses you?’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘Why am I the only one talking? Why are you not saying anything?’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘I’m sorry. Did I say too much? I will not. You can go. I’m sorry to have stopped you.’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘I just wanted to tell you that I will be there if you need me.’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘Unlike you who just walked away.’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘Of course, you have your reasons.’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘And you don’t need me. You have your brother to take care of you.’

  ‘. . .’

  ‘Bye. I love you. I’m sorry. I will just go now.’

  She reached out for my hand and hugged me. We cried in tandem for a bit, which was liberating. Then she left without a promise of when she would be back to see me again. I couldn’t bring myself to ask that one thing that was gnawing my insides—why does she lie to people about her parents?

  11 December 1999

  I don’t want to be a whiner but eight days have passed and I haven’t seen her or talked to her. How difficult can it be to pick up the phone at a PCO and call? If his brother spends so lavishly, I’m sure he can pay for a few odd phone calls. What if she has found someone among the people whom she called ‘we’? Or am I thinking too much?

  That one time Maa went to Madras for a teaching assignment, Maa–Baba used to talk just once for a few minutes every week. Dada and I have heard the stories scores of times, especially when the telephone bills are high.

  ‘What’s there to talk about every day?’ Baba used to scoff. ‘Maa and I used to get two minutes a week! So we chose to say things that were really important.’

  This isn’t much different. Just because local calls are cheap, and technology is where it is today, I can’t afford to be spoilt.

  So I’ve decided that starting today, I will try to be more interested in things Sahil has to say about coding or hacking or whatever he does with the PowerBook, and be more involved in the fights Rishab and Arundhati often find themselves in.

  Charity begins at home, and so keeping that in mind, I volunteered to take Boudi for a scan at the nursing home. Dada was suitably impressed when he found out.

  I wasn’t allowed inside the scan room but later they showed me images of the baby who had grown to the size of a hardcover novel.

  ‘During the scan, they make you listen to the heartbeat as well,’ said Boudi. ‘It beats faster than ours.’

  ‘Don’t you feel betrayed? The least a child you helped bring into this world can do is match your heartbeat.’

  ‘You’re missing her that much, haan?’ asked Boudi.

  ‘Wouldn’t you miss your—hopefully—daughter when she is no longer inside you? From where you’re responsible for everything about her, where when she suffers you suffers, to when suddenly strangers who don’t know the pain you and your child jointly suffered mollycoddle her, love her, and she finds comfort in their arms, laughter and smiles, her memories of your womb a distant past? Won’t you miss her then?’

  ‘That’s a really strange but deep analogy,’ said Boudi slowly.

  ‘I’m as surprised as you are.’

  When I came back, Maa–Baba had a thousand questions about the visit. Dada had put a temporary ban on Maa–Baba visiting the nursing home with Boudi for their appalling behaviour in front of the doctor, after the doctor called Maa–Baba out on their blatantly superstitious beliefs regarding Boudi’s pregnancy. They had fought with the doctor, called her incompetent, and the nursing home a fraudulent institution.

  13 December 1999

  Just like that time Maa–Baba had spent apart, another intermittent call came from Brahmi today. She called from the office landline and the call lasted less than three minutes. But three minutes is a lot I have heard Maa–Baba say, and you really can say the most important things to each other in those three minutes. And even though I didn’t know when or whether she would call at all, I had prepared what I could say in those three minutes. Things that mattered, things we would remember telling each other years later.

  I could have told her how Maa–Baba were furious to know that Boudi had chosen to travel to Bangalore for a day on work. How Maa had blocked the door and screamed, ‘No, you won’t go! You’re not putting my grandchild at risk. I don’t care what the doctor says. She’s a fraud!’

  How Dada had grumbled, ‘Maa! Please, it’s important, let her go. It’s a meeting with the CEO!’

  ‘I don’t care if it’s a meeting with god himself,’ Maa had said and how Maa feigned fainting, and Dada rushed to her, made her lie down on the sofa, and Boudi fanned her with a magazine. Of how Baba rushed to Dada’s house—hovered for a few moments outside the door —and then entered the house saying a prayer, and then took Maa’s head into his lap and whispered her back to life, and then accused Dada for Maa’s recent health problems.

  I could have told Brahmi about my doubts about the genuineness of Maa’s fainting episode, which I had expressed to Baba, who had looked at me agape, insulted and then showed me the reports of Maa’s health check-up.

  ‘You think we are lying to you!’ Baba had shouted and thrown a bunch of prescriptions at me.

  Her blood pressure has shot up dangerously, and both of them are taking sleeping pills.

  I didn
’t tell Brahmi that.

  What I also didn’t tell her is that Dada–Boudi had lied shamelessly to Maa–Baba afterwards. They told us that Boudi had cancelled the trip and I had believed them. But later that night when I dropped in unannounced to tell Dada about Maa’s reports, her blood pressure and sleeping problem, Boudi was gone and so was her packed suitcase.

  ‘She’s going to return tomorrow afternoon. Just handle Maa–Baba till then,’ Dada had said.

  So I did that. I came back home and lied to Maa who looked pale but smiled thinking her son and daughter-in-law were stubborn but also pliable.

  I didn’t tell Brahmi all this, instead I told her I loved her, I missed her and that I could spend the rest of my life sitting next to the telephone waiting for her call.

  She on the other hand wasted the first ten seconds in silence and then told me she loved me too. There was no joy in her voice. Unlike me, who had things to tell her, important things, she had nothing but a rough silence for me. She talked in an alien voice, formal, the one she reserved for teachers.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ I asked.

  ‘Why would anything be wrong? Everything is perfect.’

  ‘Is there something you want to say?’

  There was a pause after which she said something absolutely meaningless, ‘What’s up?’

  Why would anyone ask that question?

  ‘Nothing. I’m talking to you.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘So nothing has happened that you might want to tell me about?’

  ‘No, Raghu. What will happen? I work, I go back home and I sleep. Work’s hectic and my sleep schedule is all topsy-turvy. I have to be up the entire night.’

  ‘We used to be up the entire night,’ I said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what else?’ she asked.

  I lost my patience here and asked her to get back to work. Without a word of protest, she said okay, and disconnected the call, not bothering to tell me when she would call next.

  17 December 1999

  As it has always been, secrets hardly remain hidden from Maa. So when today, Maa gruffly shook me out of my bed, asked me to put on my clothes and come with her, I knew something was up.

  We left in a hurry and were at Dada–Boudi’s place by seven-thirty. Maa rang the bell impatiently, and when there was no response, she turned and sprinted towards the bus stop, her chappals slapping furiously against her heels. Dada–Boudi were waiting for their office bus, chatting with their colleagues.

  ‘Maa?’ they both echoed seeing us there.

  Maa held Boudi’s hand and started to pull her away in full view of her co-workers.

  ‘Maa? What are you doing?’ asked Dada, embarrassed.

  Maa chose not to answer and pulled her farther away from the bus stop.

  Their office bus ground to a halt. Everyone’s eyes were stuck to the pregnant woman being dragged away by her dishevelled mother-in-law. The conductor called out and slapped the side of the bus impatiently. Their colleagues boarded the bus and waited for Dada and Boudi. Dada motioned for them to leave, told them everything was fine, and then went running after Boudi and Maa.

  ‘Maa, what’s wrong!’

  Maa spoke without slowing down, or releasing her iron grip on Boudi’s hand, ‘I know she went to Bangalore! All of you lied to me. Again!’

  ‘Maa—’

  ‘Shut up, Anirban. I don’t mind both of you lying to me any more. What I do mind is you harming your child.’

  Dada and Boudi had nothing to say.

  Maa dragged Boudi and Dada to a Bengali Hindu doctor to get all the scans done again. Boudi’s protests were squashed by Maa’s harsh words and a constant stream of tears. She held Boudi’s hand firmly all through as if Boudi would escape. The tightness on Maa’s face only faded when all the scans came out normal. The doctor asked Boudi to take adequate rest and to not travel without her permission, which I suspect Maa would have asked her to say. Back home, Maa made Dada and Boudi sit in front of her for thirty minutes before she spoke.

  ‘Both of you are old enough to understand what the loss of a child means.’

  She stared at them, waiting for her words to register, got up and we left.

  On the way back home, Maa told me, holding my hand as firmly as she had held Boudi’s, ‘I see what’s happening with you. The girl has left you, hasn’t she?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Raghu, you’re an innocent boy. You don’t know the ways of the world. You think women are innocent but they are not. After all that she did with you, she left you. At the end of the day it’s only family that sticks around with you, is it not?’

  ‘Brahmi’s not like that,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t know her, you do. But remember, we are your parents. We will always be by your side. Who can say if your Boudi didn’t go and meet her parents and her brothers? Family’s always there for you. Didn’t we take back Dada?’

  Another day passed by without her call.

  21 December 1999

  It’s been a month and a half since she ran away from her old life.

  Her name has been struck off the school register for non-payment of fees and insufficient attendance. Shrikant Gupta sits where she used to sit, right next to me, smelling of sweat and kadipatta (curry leaves). Her doodles on the table have been drawn over by Shrikant, her roll number taken over by Chetna Jha. Kritika wears her lab coat and her place in the basketball team is now Mansi’s.

  Like slowly the markers of her existence are being wiped off.

  Today was different.

  When I came back home from the temple—which is a great place to sit quietly and visualize a different life—I found Brahmi’s Tauji–Taiji sitting in the living room, sipping tea. Unlike the last time, the demeanour was calm, civilized even; neither of them was with a bat or an iron rod. I was asked to come and join them.

  ‘They want to know where Brahmi is,’ said Baba. ‘Tell them.’

  They waited for an answer, earnestness dripping from their eyes.

  In a voice as dispassionate as I could muster, I told them, ‘You beat her, you made her bleed, you locked her up in her room, and you drove her away. Even if I knew where she is why would I tell you?’

  ‘Is that how you talk to elders?’ grumbled Baba. ‘Just tell them. They are worried.’

  ‘She’s with Vedant. That’s all I know and thank god for that.’

  Brahmi’s Tauji looked at Baba for help.

  ‘Look, Raghu, you are friends with Brahmi and we understand that. But imagine their plight. What must everyone in their colony be thinking about them? She has to come home,’ said Baba.

  All four adults in the room nodded in sympathetic affirmation. This was society. Four fully grown adults believing in and agreeing to something absolutely stupid.

  ‘No, she doesn’t. She’s happy wherever she is. She has found new friends and a new family. She doesn’t need your benevolence any more. Her past is in the past.’

  ‘Raghu—’

  ‘Please, Maa! You don’t know how they are. They swung a bat on my face, knocked out a tooth, threatened that they would make me disappear. That’s the kind of people they are.’

  Her Tauji–Taiji stood up to leave.

  ‘We didn’t come here to be sounded off by your badtameez, ill-mannered, boy,’ he grumbled.

  ‘We are sorry,’ said Baba. ‘We don’t know what’s got into him.’

  ‘We thought you would understand us,’ said her Taiji. ‘After all your son had run away too.’

  Maa–Baba looked like they had been slapped.

  ‘She’s not coming home,’ I said. ‘If you want to keep up pretences, she can visit your house along with Vedant and me every two weeks for the society to see that the relationship still exists.’

  They stared at me, nodded reluctantly, and left. The door hadn’t even closed when Baba griped, ‘The next time you embarrass us like this in front of guests, I’m going to smack you in the face. They didn’t do anything wr
ong by hitting a girl like her.’

  Maa added softly, ‘Ask him about the condom.’

  I turned and left, furious at Maa–Baba’s endorsement of her Tauji–Taiji’s behaviour. Later that night, I dreamt of Boudi’s delivery and the newborn girl and Maa–Baba’s hovering faces over the crib. Only that they looked like Brahmi’s Tauji–Taiji. I woke up and now I can only hear myself say what I said to them. ‘She doesn’t need you. She has a new family. She has new friends.’

  24 December 1999

  She was leaning on her scooter, the helmet still on her head. That’s how I found her. I felt like Maa. Tears dammed against the cornea, angry tears, tears that make you want to stride over and slap the person for going missing. How long can a person go missing for a relationship to be considered null and void? One month? Two months? Or is it an indefinite time? I’m asking because I need to know. If Brahmi goes missing for three years and comes back equally in love, what should be the ideal course of action? Of course, there will be some anger, frustration, arguments and counterarguments, but in the end all’s well that ends well? Because time is relative, it stretches and contracts, and right now every day I spend staring at the phone is longer than a millennium.

  But of course, till the time I was walking up to her scooter, the tears were in control and I was smiling because she was still my most favourite person in the world. She parked her scooter and ran towards me. She lunged at me and wrapped her arms around me in a desperate embrace. I thought she was taller and heavier.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered continuously in my ear till all my grouses washed away.

  She drove us to Naivedyam, a south Indian restaurant, a fifteen-minute drive away, and insisted I order a lot of food. It was the treat of her first salary. While I ate she played around with her food, nibbling around the edges. I filled her in on the details of Boudi’s pregnancy, about Maa–Baba’s growing fear that Dada–Boudi will do something to harm the child, and Maa’s spying on Boudi to see if she’s still talking to her parents. She nodded most of the time, interested but not engaged. She had nothing to say, nothing to add. She was barely even there. So I turned the conversation to her.