Babyji

by Abha Dawesar

  “What are you thinking?” I asked.

  “That we shouldn’t have an affair anymore,” she said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because you are young and I am old. Because they molested you, but I am guilty too of the same.” I knew that all this would never have come up if it hadn’t been for Jeet and what I had said about him being young. I was closer to her son’s age than hers.

  “I seduced you,” I said.

  “You are barely the age of consent. This is statutory rape.” Before I could protest she added, “In the eyes of the law.”

  “Spare me your legalities,” I said as good-naturedly as I could. I was getting irritated.

  We heard a whine from the other bedroom. It seemed her son had woken up. India sighed and got up to go to his room. I followed her. He was already out of bed when we opened his door. I hadn’t remembered India changing his clothes before tucking him in for his nap, but he was now wearing only a long striped pajama top. He had his arms out in a Christlike pose and looked up at us and said, “Hello, World.”

  “Hello, World,” India said.

  Then he came over to me, a whole lot friendlier than he had been before his nap, and said, “Hello, World! Hello, World!”

  “Hello, World,” I said, my heart feeling more protectiveness than it had for anyone, ever.

  “I have to go now,” I said, bending down to pat his head. India and he walked me to the door, and as she closed it behind me she said, “I have to think some more.”

  I walked back to my house wondering if India would seriously stop our affair. The thought of not having her in my life made me feel as if there was a hole inside my stomach, so big that I didn’t exist. If she withdrew herself from me I would wither away. I thought of her all the time. I imagined talking to her in my head whenever there was something I wanted to share.

  That night I clutched Rani as we slept, hoping she would fill the hollow spaces that India might leave.

  I got up the next morning remembering the sex-ed talk. As soon as assembly was over I got the senior girls to troop into the auditorium. A slide projector was already set up. When the counselor walked in with the doctor, I asked the girls to stand up and applaud. All the girls were sitting cross-legged on the floor on dhurries. Three metal office chairs were placed at the front. I invited the doctor to sit in one.

  “Hello, friends, we’re finally old enough to learn about the facts of life. Our esteemed doctor will answer some of our questions today. But first Mrs. Shah will introduce our chief speaker,” I said. Usually I would have sat on the chair in front with the guests, but I wanted to sit next to Sheela, so I went and sat on the floor.

  After the counselor’s intro, the doctor stood up and fussed with the slide projector. The first slide was the word STD. “Children, I will first tell you about STDs, and then I will answer any questions you have about sex or STDs,” she said. The girls sat with uniformly wooden expressions on their faces. The doctor talked a little about sexually transmitted diseases, including HIV, and opened the floor to questions. There were none.

  “Children, if you have always wondered about something, this is the time to ask. We won’t pass judgment on you. It’s natural to wonder about sex. Don’t be shy,” Mrs. Shah said.

  “Mrs. Shah is right,” the doctor said.

  A hand shot up in the back of the room. It was a girl I knew only by face.

  “Yes?” the doctor said.

  “Ma’am, what happens if a man and woman have sex before marriage? Why is it wrong?”

  “It’s not medically wrong. Our society does not accept it, that’s all,” the doctor said most matter-of-factly.

  “Doctor, how can you say that? Everything is wrong with premarital sex,” Mrs. Shah said. She was all worked up.

  “Mrs. Shah, I am here to answer medical questions. The students must learn which activities are dangerous to their health and which are merely a matter of social mores.”

  “Young children should not be having sex, Doctor,” Mrs. Shah said. I thought they were going to have a fight.

  “The question was about premarital sex. How old were you when you married, Mrs. Shah?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “All I’m saying is that if you had been an unmarried nineteen rather than a married nineteen, it would have made no difference from a medical perspective,” the doctor said.

  The room was silent. I finally raised my hand to ask about something I had not understood in the article on Rock Hudson.

  “Yes, Anamika,” Mrs. Shah said.

  “Ma’am, I read in an article that men who have sex with men are more likely to get AIDS,” I said. The counselor didn’t look happy. I looked around at the girls. Some of them looked curious, others blank. I continued, “Ma’am, how do two men have sex?”

  Mrs. Shah was looking apologetically at the doctor. But the doctor didn’t seem to mind.

  “Well, it’s not natural for men to have sex with each other. Sex was biologically designed for procreation, and as you know, a sperm and sperm can’t combine to form a zygote.” She paused.

  Mrs. Shah looked a little relieved by the scientific turn the discussion had taken.

  “But a few men still do have sex with other men,” she continued. “Such men are called homosexuals. And yes, homosexuals are more likely to be HIV positive and transmit the disease since they have a promiscuous lifestyle. Do you all know what ‘promiscuous’ means?”

  “No, ma’am,” Ashima said.

  “No, ma’am,” a few more girls chimed in.

  “Promiscuity refers to being sexually active with multiple partners. People who sleep around are promiscuous. Anyway, the West is more promiscuous, so the possibility of transmitting the virus is higher. Homosexual men also have anal sex, and the anal area has a high concentration of virus, just like the blood and semen.”

  “Ma’am, what is anal sex?” Tina asked.

  “Do they really need to know that, Doctor?” the counselor asked.

  The doctor seemed to weigh the question in her mind for a second. Mrs. Shah was squirming. Then, as if she had made a decision, the doctor looked up at Tina.

  “I think, Mrs. Shah, that they should be told everything. That’s a good question. Anal sex is when there is penetration through the anus as opposed to the vagina,” she said, smiling brightly.

  I saw Sheela tentatively wave her arm and pull it right back down. But the doctor had caught the movement.

  “Yes?” she asked, moving toward where we were sitting. She looked at Sheela.

  “Ma’am, if two men can have sex, does that mean two women can have sex?” she asked.

  “No, they can’t,” the counselor said, ignoring the doctor.

  “Yes, they can, Mrs. Shah. Maybe not sex as you know it. Maybe not penetrative heterosexual intercourse,” she said with an edge to her voice. What had been slight hostility between them was now overt. Mrs. Shah had long nails that were painted with bright red polish. I could just imagine her clawing the poor doctor’s face.

  “To answer your question,” the doctor continued, shifting her attention back to Sheela, her voice smooth once more, “women are capable of giving each other sexual pleasure, but once again this will not lead to procreation.”

  I could not tell what the doctor’s real thoughts were on the matter. She looked traditional. Her sari blouse was a modest cut, and she was wearing covered shoes instead of sandals. I tried to put her through the underarm waxing test, but the results were inconclusive.

  “Any other questions, children,” Mrs. Shah said hurriedly. I could tell she wanted to wrap things up, as this had gotten out of control.

  Shruti from my class leapt to her feet. In her high squeaky voice she asked, “Ma’am, my servant boy often wears bangles like a girl. Is he a homosexual?”

  The girls in the room giggled. I thought even Mrs. Shah was about to giggle.

  “Ma’am, we have hijras in our locality. What are they?” another girl asked.

&n
bsp; “It’s not funny, children. There is some homosexuality in India, but since it’s not easily accepted we do not see a lot of it. Hijras are transvestites and sometimes transsexuals. They may or may not in addition to this be homosexuals,” the doctor said.

  Another hand went up. This time neither Mrs. Shah nor the doctor had asked for the next question. The show was rolling. It was a girl from a nonscience section. She got up and asked, “Just because it’s not accepted, does it mean it’s wrong?”

  The doctor smiled at the girl and said, “Very good point. That should be the next topic for the senior debate competition. Science can only observe and tell us what happens in nature. It cannot pass moral judgment. It’s been observed among rats that they inbreed naturally. It’s optimal for them to mate with their second cousins. Genetically, that’s best. Who knows, it may be optimal for humans, too.”

  I turned my head around to look at the reaction of the girls. Everyone was looking at the doctor with open eyes and appreciation. Mrs. Shah looked upset and resigned. She had shrunk in her metal chair. I saw her mutter to herself. She was twisting her fingers. She was barely audible, but I was sitting in the front row and heard, “Homosexuality and incest are perversions.”

  “Ma’am, what’s a perversion?” someone asked.

  “Having sex with a dog would be an example of a perversion.”

  The room had gasped when she said “sex with a dog.” Some of the girls were shaking their heads as if they had been made to swallow lemon juice from their nostrils. They would never look at their Snoopys and Boxers and Fluffys the same way again. It gave me unexpected and immeasurable delight to see everyone getting a jolt. I liked the doctor for forcing them to wonder about something none of them had ever questioned.

  The bell for the first period went off. When I thanked the doctor I said, “I know we all want you to come back, ma’am. I am sure even the boys will benefit from listening to you.”

  The girls cheered. The doctor beamed. Mrs. Shah escorted the doctor out of the auditorium. The girls were in a frenzy as we headed back to class. The boys were already seated. Their session had ended first, and it seemed by the looks on their faces that it hadn’t been as much fun.

  I was dying for the lowdown from Vidur, but Mrs. Thaityallam walked in before I got a chance to ask him. Sheela, Vidur, and I got together in the recess.

  “Shruti asked about hijras,” Sheela said in the middle of eating her tomato sandwich.

  “And the doctor talked about sex with dogs,” I added.

  Vidur whistled.

  “What about the boys?” I asked Vidur.

  “They asked about mast-oo-bration,” he said.

  “Who asked?” Sheela said.

  “Chakra Dev.”

  “What did the doctor say?”

  “He said it wasn’t bad for health,” Vidur replied.

  “And?” I asked. I wanted to hear more. Vidur was turning color.

  “The boys were relieved,” he said.

  “Were you?” Sheela asked. Her face was animated and her eyes full of curiosity. It irked me. What if it made him think she was interested in him? Vidur looked down. He didn’t respond.

  “How often does Chakra Dev wank?” I asked.

  “How often does he what?” Vidur asked.

  “Wank,” I said. I had read the word in a novel by an English author.

  “Does ‘wank’ mean that?” Vidur asked.

  Sheela and he both looked at me. I nodded. Sheela looked impressed that I knew slang that Vidur didn’t. Vidur dropped his voice and leaned closer. He was suddenly feeling comfortable.

  “Chakra Dev says he does it seven times a day. He even does it at school in the bathroom.”

  Sheela gasped and then brought her hand in front of her mouth with an “ohmygod” look.

  “The guy must be loaded,” Vidur said.

  Sheela looked perplexed. I hadn’t heard that term before, either, but I didn’t want them to know that I was unsure of its meaning.

  The bell for the break rang. Sheela went back to her desk. Vidur got out his chemistry textbook. The classroom began to fill up, and H 2S walked in. We all stood up to wish her good morning.

  As we sat down Chakra Dev walked in. I didn’t want Vidur to see me looking at him. I lifted my eyes without moving my head. Chakra Dev had missed some of the hair on the top of his cheek today when he had shaved. A black sprouting was visible. He stared back at me sullenly and without blinking. His lips, his eyes, the angle of his head all conveyed such total and uninhibited disgust that I thought he might want to kill me. He looked infinitely dirtier and more dangerous than the cheapads on the bus.

  ix

  Sagai

  On Sunday evening my parents were invited to the sagai of my father’s colleague’s daughter. We were going to give her two silver bowls as an engagement gift. The sagai was conducted at short notice since the fiancé was in Delhi from the States. My father had come home after cards one day and told us that Mr. Dhingra had to borrow money from his wife’s brother since his own unit trust shares could not be cashed till a few months later. My father had jokingly said that in bygone times, arranging a husband for one’s daughter would have been easier. He had referred to the Mahabharata, in which Draupadi’s suitors had to shoot at a target in motion while looking at its reflection.

  “Mom, I have tests tomorrow. I think I should stay home,” I said. I wanted to have the house to myself. I never had an opportunity to spend an evening alone with Rani.

  “You know Papa doesn’t like it when you don’t come with us to family functions.”

  “The Dhingras are not family. Even Papa only knows Mr. Dhingra and not his wife and daughter. Anyway, aren’t my studies more important?”

  “I don’t think Papa will agree, but you can ask him.”

  I felt small and powerless. I hated to have to ask permission. My desire to spend time alone with Rani was enormous, however, so I ate my pride and asked him.

  “Papa, I have a lot of work today. Can I stay home and study?”

  “We’ll only go for a short while so you can come back and study.”

  “I’ll still lose two hours. Please.”

  “You lose more than that for your school Sports Day practice and your cycling,” he retorted.

  I felt my blood rise. The school Sports Day was my priority. How could he equate it with his social engagements? I didn’t have the courage to argue this point.

  “Papa, I’ve never met them. Why should I come?” My voice came out higher than I wanted it to.

  “You are my daughter, and this is a family function. People are bringing their children.”

  “Why does it matter what everyone else is doing? Anyway, this sagai is only celebrating her engagement, and all it means is that she is going to sit at home cooking for some guy in America.”

  I wanted to do big things with my life. Obviously the Dhingra girl was only fit to be a human washing machine. I needed to study so that I wouldn’t end up like her. I felt a catch in my throat that intensified as I spoke. My body was trembling.

  “That’s enough, Anamika,” he said dismissively.

  I continued standing in front of him, mute, immobile, and unbudging.

  “When you grow up and have your own job you can decide what you want to do. Now you’re going to do as we tell you. Go get ready,” he said. My father would always use “we” at such times, as if his decision were fully supported by my mother.

  I stalked out of the room and went to my bathroom. I was a slave in my own home, a caged animal. A monkey being forced to perform on the street. My heart went out to the people in communist countries who had no freedom, the citizens of authoritarian regimes. My wishes counted for nothing.

  A torrent of words gushed down my brain, words I had to keep to myself. I would not be free to say what I thought till I was on my own, drawing a salary, independent in my means. I had years to wait. I went into my bathroom and let myself cry. I turned on the water to muffle the sound.
I couldn’t stop.

  I washed my face and then looked in the mirror. I told myself to calm down. I reasoned that they couldn’t stop me for long. And even if I was forced to act a certain way, my mind was free to think. I have lovers, I thought. Once I was an adult I could earn a lot of money and do as I pleased. I would flaunt my freedom and my wealth. Fighting for my freedom now would waste my energy; an argument would get me nowhere and might invite further curtailment of my freedom. I told myself that till I was eighteen I did not have any rights, even in the eyes of the law.

  I took a deep breath and went to my room to change. There was a soft knock on the door. The door opened and Rani walked in.

  “Little princess. My little prince is going to a sagai today,” she said. Rani thought I was excited about the evening outing. She reminded me of India’s son, not sure if I was a Bhaiyya or a Didi, a prince or a princess.

  “I tried to get out of it, but he would not listen,” I said.

  “My prince will dress up and look beautiful and have fun,” Rani cooed.

  “I hate sagais, marriages, namkarans.”

  “When I was a little girl, my family went to my cousin’s marriage in the next village. I’ll never forget the colors, the dancing and singing.”

  I couldn’t explain to her how much I hated my father’s stuffy colleagues in their cheaply made three-piece suits and flashy gold tiepins. They were low-level bureaucrats who hadn’t done well enough on the civil service exams to make the grade for the foreign service or one of the more prestigious departments of the government. Water Works was as low as it got on the list. I would have to hear everyone gossip at the sagai. My father’s friends didn’t read books. Their wives were worse. Everyone was complacent and measured success and failure by the same yard-sticks—car, house, electronic goods. Jhuggi people like Rani thought that a government job was the epitome of power and that a government servant was a very big Sahib. She wouldn’t understand why I adored writers and scientists, intellectuals who could only be measured by the volume of gray matter in their brains. She probably didn’t even know what writers and scientists were. If you didn’t have any education, could you know how knowledge itself was classified? But she did know what a doctor was. Almost everyone knew what a doctor was.