Babyji

by Abha Dawesar

  “It makes me sad that you have such a mechanical view of life,” I said.

  “Not mechanical, chemical. There is a difference. Why do you think we are attracted to each other anyway? It’s chemistry,” she said.

  I shrugged and went to the bathroom with my towel. After I got ready I waited on the veranda and looked indifferently at the landscape that had filled me with such delight earlier. Had some strange morning chemicals made me appreciate its beauty? I was sad that everything had changed. India’s degree in chemistry, which had made her seem so modern and sexy earlier, was now causing all these problems. The world lacked luster as a large laboratory.

  Deepak and Arni arrived in a supercheerful mood. The servant had packed us a big basket with fruits, sandwiches, and water. The drive in the hills was soothing. There was no traffic on the road. The beauty of the hills and the hum of Deepak’s car lulled me into another world.

  “What do we live for?” I asked no one in particular when we were on our way.

  “A good beer. Some R & R at the end of the day,” Deepak quipped.

  “What’s R & R?” I asked.

  “Rest and Relaxation,” Arni said.

  “In other words, sex,” Deepak said.

  “You mean drugs,” I said.

  “No, I mean sex,” Deepak said emphatically.

  “You mean sex with Arni,” India said, suddenly laughing.

  Arni blushed.

  “I’m not allowed anything else,” Deepak said good-humoredly.

  “You were allowed enough in your past. All that travel— Brazil, Argentina, Norway, Italy. Should I start counting,” Arni said.

  I knew the capitals of these countries. When Arni mentioned them I could imagine their rough locations on the globe, their major relief features, and the bodies of water near them. But I had never imagined their women. If Rani, Sheela, and India differed so much, I could not even imagine what people on other continents were like. I felt in sudden awe of Deepak.

  We stopped at a pleasant spot to eat. After we ate our sandwiches, Arni and India brought out a game of cards. Deepak announced he was going for a walk. I said I would go with him— it would be my opportunity to ask him questions about sex. I was most interested in knowing about French women. Were they all like Sartre’s Lulu? Arni and India didn’t even look up from their game of cards.

  Deepak and I walked at the same pace, our right and left feet hitting the ground at the same time. It was like marching in the school Sports Day. I liked him more and more with each step we took.

  “How many years have you worked?” I asked him.

  “Just three.”

  “And before that?”

  “I was in America studying.”

  “Did you like it?” I asked.

  “It wasn’t all easy. I had to wash dishes,” he said.

  “I thought people had dishwashers.”

  “I mean other people’s dishes. I worked part-time for one year at a catering company. I didn’t tell my parents about it,” he said, looking at me.

  “Are you a brahmin?” I asked.

  “Yes. My family is very strictly vegetarian. We don’t even eat garlic or onion. Touching anyone else’s dirty plate is out of the question. I had to scrape meat off the dishes,” he said.

  I imagined a plateful of remnants, stinking of bones and meat. Other than occasionally washing the plates of immediate family members, I’d never touched dirty plates with my hands. My parents were extremely finicky about that sort of thing. If nonvegetarians invited us to their house for dinner, we were careful not to let the serving spoons for the meat touch the vegetarian dishes.

  “How horrible! Didn’t you suffer? And how come you drink?” I asked.

  “Drinking is different. There are no dead animals involved. Watching my friends eat meat was never easy, but touching that stuff was awful . . .” he trailed off.

  “I don’t want to have to do that,” I said.

  “After you do something like that, you realize you can do anything to survive. There is no shame in any work that you do. Within three years of washing a plate I got a job, earning more than the seniormost person in the IAS,” he said.

  He was probably earning more than my father did. Still, the idea of having to clean meat-polluted dishes was very demeaning. Only cleaning the toilet was worse.

  “How did you do so well?” I asked.

  “As soon as I graduated from the one-year master’s program in engineering, I joined a great MBA program, graduated, traveled for a few months, and found a job,” he said.

  “Why didn’t you tell anyone about the catering job?” I asked.

  “My parents wouldn’t understand. They would feel really bad, as if I had been forced into doing something because of dire circumstances. You know how it is.”

  I nodded. “Did you have a steady girlfriend there?” I asked.

  “Yes, she was from Poland. She had left when it was still an Eastern Bloc country. She took evening classes at a community college and got a degree. In the daytime she was a housekeeper.”

  “Is it different to sleep with a foreigner than with an Indian?” I asked.

  “It was my first experience. I really loved her. She had a much harder life than I did. It made me realize that my life in India had been very sheltered.”

  “But was it different?” I was hesitant to use the word “sex.”

  “She was different. I think every person is different,” Deepak said.

  “Why didn’t you marry her?”

  “I wanted to come back to India. She wouldn’t have fit in here. It wouldn’t have worked.”

  “How many girls was Arni going to count in the car?”

  He chuckled. “I wanted to live my life in real freedom for a while before marrying. I traveled,” he said.

  “Did you go to France?” I asked.

  “No. I almost made it, but I met an Italian woman and decided to spend a few extra weeks in Florence.”

  We had sat down on a large rock and were staring at a radio tower on a hill in the distance. The breeze was cool even though the sun was shining.

  “So do you think R & R is what really counts?”

  “No. I was just kidding. One has to travel and see the world to decide what’s important. In the end I decided that freedom is important, but it’s not everything. I need India for my soul.”

  “I want to travel like you,” I said. I needed India for my soul, too, I thought.

  “You should. You’re the perfect age. You would soak up new experiences like a sponge. Your world would just explode with choices. You have to do it,” he said, grabbing my elbow. Then he reached into his back pocket and took out a business card. He handed it to me. It said “Managing Director.”

  “Call me anytime you want to talk,” he said. I could tell he really meant it.

  “Why did you do drugs last night?” I asked.

  “Just to loosen up. I had a tough few weeks,” he said, looking at me.

  “Isn’t it just an escape?”

  “I guess I needed an escape. I don’t do it often. I don’t see the harm in escaping now and then. It makes life more liveable. Maybe you’ll try it one day,” he said.

  “I’m never going to do drugs,” I said.

  “Anamika, the important thing is to make something of yourself. What you do on the side, whether it’s sex or drugs or eating or training for the marathon, that’s on the side, that’s your business.” He put his hand on my shoulder when he spoke.

  “I really want to make something of myself,” I said, turning to face him.

  “Yes. You must establish yourself before you get married,” he said.

  I wanted to remind him that his wife had decided to just sit home and do nothing after marrying him. But I didn’t want to be like Arni anyway. “Why did you marry Arni?” I asked.

  “Traveling alone made me realize I had no single person to share all those experiences in my life with. I wanted someone who would be my partner in the real sense
of that word.”

  “Do you share everything with Arni?” I asked.

  “Almost everything. I will always be a separate person, but marriage is about finding a common base, some place to call home. Some place to come back to when you are tired of fighting your battles out in the world,” he said.

  I thought of Rani when he spoke of home. I had left for this holiday with India without thinking much of Rani. I knew Rani would be there when I returned. I didn’t need to work hard to keep her. I was exploiting her just like all the Madames X, Y, and Z exploited their servants.

  When we returned, Arni and India had just ended their game of cards and were talking.

  “I miss Jeet. He’s with his father now, but as soon as we go back he will spend ten days with me. Ten uninterrupted days,” India was saying.

  “Oh, Aunty!” Arni said, reaching out for India’s hand.

  When India saw us approaching, she said, “Ah! They are back, let’s go.”

  We gathered our basket and walked to Deepak’s car. I took the key from his hand and opened the trunk so he could put the basket in. After he slammed it shut he put his hand on my head and said, “I like you.” There was something paternal about the gesture. Adit and India, who were almost three times my age, were full of lust toward me, but this guy who was barely a man was not.

  “Did the two of you have a nice walk?” India asked us in the car.

  “Yes. I want to travel like Deepak,” I said.

  “Don’t drive her away from us,” India said to Deepak.

  When we reached the compound, the servant opened the gate and ran to the car. He opened the trunk and took the picnic basket inside. India and I got out.

  “Let’s leave by noon tomorrow,” India said to them.

  “Bye, Aunty.” Arni waved from her seat.

  When we were back in the bedroom and had taken off our shoes to relax, I said, “I am sorry about this morning.”

  “You’ve forgiven me for having had a puff of weed?” she said somewhat sarcastically.

  I didn’t want to fight again. Speaking to Deepak had made me feel as though the world was very big. My trials and tribulations of the moment seemed petty. In fact I was sure that at the end of my life even my current love affairs would seem of little significance. A single shower of rain out of seventy seasons of monsoons. A moment. I was sure it would be years before I met anyone who would be my partner in the world.

  “I think it’s your business if you want to escape now and then, that’s all,” I said amiably.

  “I think we should go up to the terrace after our showers and check out the view,” she said.

  India decided to shower first. By the time I was changed and ready, she had left the room. I walked up the stairwell and stood at the top of the landing. India had her back to me. Her face was lifted a little. She was smoking a cigarette and looking out at the hills. She had wrapped a thin men’s dhoti around her waist and was wearing a flowing white kurta . Her hair was loosely coiled in a bun. I thought of paintings and great books as I watched her. I knew then that I would always be in her grip, because like my other India, the greater India, she had a hundred different moods. She could surprise me when I least expected it and be many things all at the same time. I could imagine famous classical musicians from the old days composing ragas for her and kings asking her to be their queen. Simply standing on the terrace, striking her pose, she could transform into the whole history of art and inspiration, a nation, a land.

  “You didn’t go outside, Babyji?” the servant asked as he climbed the stairs with tea.

  I walked out of the shadowy landing area and went to India. She greeted me without turning.

  “What were you looking at?” she asked.

  “Your clothes are so white, they make your arms and face look darker,” I said.

  “Do you think fair is lovely, just like everyone else?” she asked.

  “No. I think you are as beautiful as our country itself,” I said.

  We sat on the terrace looking at the sky. I thought of the conversation with Deepak. I wondered how he had successfully settled with Arni after having sampled women from so many parts of the world. Did Arni rank the highest? For me it was as important to settle with the best person as it was to make the best of myself.

  “You are very quiet,” India said.

  Was I with India because she was the best person? I had had so many bad thoughts about her, but now I felt different. It made me feel as if I’d betrayed her. My love could not exist in the world of flaws, fleas, inebriation, plumbing problems, and endless brain chemicals gushing out like streams because one ate chocolate.

  “Love can only exist in perfection, and perfection is impossible,” I said.

  “There you go again. You’re so abstract. What does that mean?”

  “Do you love me the same way and as much all the time?” I felt presumptuous saying she loved me, but I couldn’t come up with a more delicate formulation.

  “No. Sometimes you’re distant, and I love you less. But I really do try to see you for who you are and accept you for yourself. I wouldn’t want you to force on an act when you’re with me.” Her voice had become very calm. It almost seemed like she was listening to herself articulate her thoughts. I felt enraptured. I felt as if she had a secret wisdom that was eluding me. She felt like India, a mysterious country thousands of years old. Books could be written about her, but under all the written text and the coats of paint, deep inside her womb was something no one had yet grasped. This was why the Moghuls and the English, the Portuguese, the Dutch, the French, Coke and Pepsi, Star TV, everyone came, conquered, camped. It wasn’t the spices or the Koh-i-Noor or the cheap labor alone but a tantalizing and unreachable quality that you could always glimpse but never grasp.

  When she spoke about love, it didn’t seem like treason. For me, love had to be total or it could not be. The affliction of binary love—maybe Mrs. Pillai could posit a solution.

  “And your love, does it change?” she asked.

  “It’s absolute,” I said. It was true because when it was less than absolute it turned into vapor and ceased to exist altogether.

  After we finished our tea we went downstairs and watched the news. Schools in Delhi were still closed. North India burnt like a large funeral pyre. The smell of kerosene and young upper caste flesh invaded villages where the reservation policy made no difference because there were no schools, no colleges, no drinking water. I wanted to make the same kind of heroic statement. I wanted to burn, too. I wanted to sacrifice myself for the right thing, for justice, for my pure brahmin genes, and for India. It almost didn’t matter what the cause was. Giving one’s blood, sacrificing one’s life, was what was important. The holy country bathed in the blood of a hundred races. Her rich soil absorbing the sap of her children. Her hills, valleys, and rivulets like the breasts of a mother.

  We ate a quick dinner and retired to the bedroom. After the servant had cleaned up and turned off all the lights, we heard him leave from the back entrance. The house was ours. The translucent whiteness of India’s cotton clothing and the smell of sandalwood soap on her skin filled my senses. The dhoti unraveled quicker than a sari. It took me to the universe of sensations and spontaneous living, driving out my doubts, at least for the moment.

  xxi

  Birds of Paradise

  As we returned from the hills, the industrial towns on the outskirts of Delhi seemed more decrepit than before. India’s house was on the way to mine, so Deepak dropped her off first. When he pulled up to my gate I invited him and Arni in for chai. Arni said she was tired, but then my mother came out and insisted they come in for tea and some halwa Rani had made.

  “Thank you for taking Anamika to Kasauli,” she said formally.

  “Aunty, it was such a pleasure to talk to her,” Deepak said.

  “Yes, Aunty. She’s so mature,” Arni said.

  As they were finishing up their tea my father arrived home from the office. He shook hands warml
y with Deepak. My mother got into a conversation with Arni about whether Arni should have children right away or wait. They spoke in hushed tones. Deepak and my father started discussing some bureaucrat they both knew. Deepak handed my father his business card, the one that said “Managing Director.”

  “Babyji, you look happy,” Rani said once they had left and I was back in my room. I wasn’t sure if I was happy because I was back or because I had gone away. The intimacy with India had made me feel older. The conversation with Deepak had given me a concrete idea of all the things I wanted for my future: Florence, Rio, and the pay of a senior bureaucrat when I was still in my twenties.

  The drive back had left me exhausted. I fell asleep without eating. When I awoke the next morning it was late. My parents had already left for work. I spent the day organizing myself and getting back into the rhythm of work.

  At dinner my mother told me that Vidur and Sheela had both called in my absence. I decided to return their calls the next day when my parents were at work so that I could speak to them freely.

  “Rani knows the alphabet up to Q now,” my mother said proudly.

  “Will you show me later?” I asked Rani. She nodded.

  My father, who had not commented on our teaching Rani before, looked at her directly and told her to keep it up. She smiled with her head turned down.

  “I think I should call my mathematics teacher. She said she would give me free tuition,” I said to my parents. After dinner I nervously dialed Mrs. Pillai’s number.

  “Ma’am, this is Anamika. I am calling about tuition,” I said.

  “Sure, child.”

  “When can we do it, ma’am?”

  “No one has called me for tuition, so I can come to your house,” she said.

  “That would be great, ma’am.”

  “I can come at eleven thirty tomorrow.” I thanked her and hung up.

  It was the first time I had spoken to a teacher on the phone. I told my parents and Rani that my teacher would be coming over. Rani asked me if she should make lunch for us.