A Matter of Time

by Shashi Deshpande

  ‘This hall—you can’t believe the way it was—just a cramped little room, you know, which you entered through a narrow, dingy passage. And so we knocked out the wall here, pushed that one out, put in those two windows,’ his hands move in generous arcs as he gestures and points, ‘you should see the beautiful light that comes through them in the evening ....’

  Suddenly he becomes conscious of Gopal who has been listening as if he has never heard this before. For a moment, Murthy is at a loss; the two haven’t met since Gopal walked out on Sumi. Then he resumes his host’s mask and exclaims, ‘Gopal! Good to see you.’

  He grasps his hand with just that little bit of extra pressure to show that Gopal is more family than guest. Or is it to make it clear that in spite of Gopal’s behaviour he bears him no grudge?

  Introductions are made and Gopal notices that as far as Murthy is concerned he is still a university teacher. Gopal lets it pass, it does not seem important enough to be corrected. Murthy efficiently moves him on to other people, other groups, and though Gopal seems composed and wholly at ease, he is feeling dazed, overcome by the room, the crowd, the buzz of voices. Accustomed as he has now become to the sweaty smell of the ‘boys’ working with him in the press, the strong cooking smells that come to him from the kitchen of Shankar’s house and the fumes of the vehicles that roar in and out of the courtyard, Gopal is overpowered by the heady smell of women’s perfumes and flowers. To talk to so many strange persons, after the hermit-like solitude he has lived in, seems too much of an effort.

  And then he sees Sumi. She is sitting erect in a tall chair, her profile delicate and sharp against the glitter and colour of a Tanjore painting on the wall behind her. A light just above, which illuminates the painting, casts a kind of glow about her head giving her a misty, unreal look. He can see that she has made herself up, something she does only for parties. There was, Gopal remembers, something joyous and celebratory about the way she got ready for such occasions.

  He can see her now, sitting before the mirror, looking earnestly at herself, drawing the lipstick carefully across her lips, pursing them together, a thoughtful look on her face as if she is tasting the lipstick. And then, standing up to wear her sari, her left hand deftly making the pleats, drawing her breath in so that she can tuck them in, patting them flat, smoothing them down. That sari she’s wearing, it must be Kalyani’s, I can see she’s ironed it herself in a hurry, the creases are still there. I can see her impatiently pushing up her bangles each time they fall down to her wrists as she irons, the same two bangles she has worn since we got married, the pattern eroded with the years. ‘I must remake them,’ she says every time she notices them. And then, ‘No, they’re your mother’s, Sudha gave them to me, what does it matter if they’re worn out?’

  Suddenly Gopal catches himself and controls his thoughts. I thought I’d left it all behind, but I haven’t, it’s here with me still and at the sight of Sumi everything comes back. It’s as if she’s brought me the ring and I move from nothing to everything in a flash. Dushyanta had only those few days in the ashram to remember when they put the fish-stinking ring in his hands, but for me it’s years, nearly half my lifetime, all my lifetime it seems to me.

  ‘Gopal!’ Devaki has noticed him. And then there is Sumi smiling at him, without embarrassment, introducing him to the young man she was talking to. She wanders away a little later and Gopal is once again amazed and awed by her ease with strangers. Gopal himself is already bored, there’s nobody there he wants to speak to, except perhaps—Sumi? I must get out of here, he thinks, but Hrishi comes to him with a plate and then it’s too late.

  ‘Well?’ Devaki asks Sumi when they are by themselves in the kitchen.

  ‘Well, what? Devi, I knew you were a romantic girl, I can still remember those awful mushy romances you used to read, but surely now that you’re a businesswoman, you’ve changed? Did you expect Gopal and me to fall into each other’s arms in your living room?’

  ‘Don’t be funny. It’s not that. But ... but ... Damn it, Sumi, you know what I mean.’ Devaki’s tone is impatient, but her eyes are misty.

  Sumi does know what Devaki is hoping for. She also knows that the unshed tears in Devaki’s eyes are as much for Gopal and their marriage as they are for Sumi herself. To both Premi and Devaki, Gopal and she were ‘the lovers’, the touchstone for all lovers henceforth. And there was Gopal himself, who could cross the barrier between the sexes with ease, who was able to do something most men found hard—present his whole self to a female, not just a part of himself.

  ‘You silly girl, why are you crying?’ Sumi removes Devaki’s glasses and gently wipes her eyes with her own sari.

  ‘Don’t! You’ll spoil your sari. And maybe I’m crying because you don’t. You don’t even talk about it, Sumi.’

  ‘I’ve never been able to cry easily, you know that. And what do I say, Devi? That my husband has left me and I don’t know why and maybe he doesn’t really know, either? And that I’m angry and humiliated and confused ...? Let that be, we won’t go into it now. What’s for dessert, Devi? And what pretty bowls! New?’

  ‘Dessert? It’s payasa.’

  ‘Goda-mavshi’s.’

  ‘Of course. And yes, these are new, I got them made recently. I suddenly realized what a lot of silver junk we had at home, so I converted all of it into this. Amma was furious.’

  ‘I can imagine that “Each little spoon has its history. These are Hrishi’s little teeth marks, and this is where Hrishi’s little fist hammered away and Kalyani-akka gave you this when you were a girl—Devi, how could you?” Yes, I know exactly what Goda-mavshi said.’

  They laugh together and it’s as if they have successfully skimmed over the thin ice of Sumi’s uncomfortable confidences. They go out with the sweet and Devaki moves smoothly into her party patter as she goes around with the tray.

  ‘It’s my mother’s theory that payasa should always be eaten hot, to chill it is sacrilege. And you add a spoon of ghee on top, it should look like you’ve kept a shining silver rupee on the payasa. No, really, jokes apart, Amma’s payasa is nectar, “absolute amrut”, my father calls it. Nobody can make it like her.’

  Sumi quickly and silently serves out her tray, taking the last bowl for herself. Pushing aside the slight skin that has formed on top, she begins to eat. Her hair has come loose as it always does after a while, there is a thin film of sweat on her face. She seems deep in thought as she eats, but Gopal, watching her, knows she is absorbed in the pleasure of the moment, savouring the milky sweetness of the payasa, crisping the nuts daintily between her teeth. Someone comes to her, Sumi smiles, pats the chair beside her in her usual gesture and Gopal thinks, she is very attractive, she can get married, maybe I should divorce her, set her free.

  He gets up to go but is buttonholed by Murthy who, slightly drunk, has reached the stage of exaggerating everything—his gestures, his laughter, his emotions. He becomes very familiar and affectionate with Gopal, refusing to let him go, insisting Hrishi will drop him home. He keeps calling out for Hrishi, but Hrishi, noticing his father’s state, ignores him. Suddenly furious, Murthy walks after him and Gopal taking his chance slips out.

  By the time Devi and Murthy drive Sumi home, Murthy’s mood of belligerence has given way to a maudlin self-pity.

  ‘I’m a failure, my only son has no respect for me, look at the way he behaves, he just doesn’t care. Can’t he see how much I respect my father, even at this age I can’t imagine disobeying him, what’s wrong with this generation ....’

  ‘Oh, stop it, Vasu. You know your relationship with your father is a different story altogether. You can’t compare ....’

  ‘Yes, take his side, pamper him, it’s your pampering ....’

  ‘Not again!’ Devaki sighs in exaggerated exasperation. ‘Hrishi is at an awkward age, that’s all. Now what?’ she says in irritation as Murthy cries out, ‘Stop, stop.’

  ‘There’s Gopal.’

  Sumi, a silent passenger so far, comes
out of her dreamlike state and sees Gopal walking steadily by the side of the road, head down, absorbed in his thoughts, unaware of the car that has suddenly stopped.

  It’s only when Murthy shouts out, ‘Gopal, hey Gopal,’ that Gopal slowly turns around to see them.

  ‘Come on, we’ll drop you.’

  Gopal gestures as if to say, ‘I’m all right, you go on,’ and without a word begins walking again. Murthy hesitates, looks at Devi who gives Sumi a quick glance in the mirror, puts the car into gear and moves on.

  A little later Murthy says, ‘I’m cold.’ And gives a little shiver as if thinking of Gopal walking in the chilly night wearing nothing but a thin shirt. Sumi says nothing and Devaki and Murthy are silent too, their arguments forgotten.

  It is a misty morning. Sumi, coming out of the bathroom to the back veranda, finds that Prasad’s and Ratna’s house is no longer visible. The trees are just spectral shrouded shapes. She can hear Shyam’s and Shweta’s voices, but coming to her through the grey muffling cloud of the mist, they no longer seem the voices of real children. Kalyani comes from the backyard, a clutch of curry leaves in her hand. She changes her garden slippers for her indoor ones at the bottom of the steps and climbs briskly up, making ‘brrr’ sounds. She is wearing the old brown man’s sweater she always wears at home. It’s too large for her; lost in its depths she looks even smaller than she is.

  She sees Sumi standing and says, ‘It’s chilly. Wear something warm.’ A slight vapour forms around her mouth. ‘And come in and have your coffee.’

  But Sumi continues to stand there, listening to the sounds from inside, the girls’ voices, the monotonous hum of Kalyani’s radio, the clatter of cups. A ray of sunshine breaks through the mist, feeble, but enough to transform a spider’s web in the wooden trellis into a sparkling, diamond-studded gossamer fabric. Sumi can see the spider still working on it, scuttling to the centre and then back. Over and over again. Busy, she thinks with a smile, with the business of its life.

  ‘Sumi. Coffee.’

  ‘I’m coming.’

  ‘You look cold,’ Aru says to her mother.

  But it’s she, sitting huddled in a shawl, legs folded under her, skirt pulled down to cover her feet, who looks as if she’s feeling the chill. Now she gets up and wraps her shawl round her mother, her hands staying for a moment on Sumi’s shoulders. It is like a hug, and to Sumi, more warming than the shawl. Kalyani enters with Sumi’s coffee, and Charu who has been reading, rocking herself slightly as is her way when reading, looks up at her mother for the first time and says, asks rather, ‘Well?’

  She has the same expression Devaki had when she said ‘Well?’

  In fact, all of them, yes, even Seema, are looking at her just as expectantly. So they knew about it, it was planned that Gopal and I should meet.

  ‘How was it?’ Charu prods her mother impatiently when Sumi does not respond.

  ‘Devi’s party? Good. As always.’

  ‘Was Papa there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hrishi said ....’

  ‘Poor Hrishi is in disgrace.’

  ‘What has he done?’

  ‘Nothing. Been his usual self. Irritating his father ....’

  ‘Hrishi’s an ass.’

  ‘Did you two talk?’ Aru interrupts them. ‘Papa and you, I mean?’

  ‘Yes, of course. We are on talking terms, you know. We aren’t gatti.’

  The childish phrase, the one they had used as children for not being on speaking terms, brings no smile to Aru’s face.

  ‘Aru, that was neither the time nor the place for any kind of serious talk.’

  ‘But, Sumi ....’

  ‘And guess what, Amma?’ Sumi deliberately turns away from Aru and her questions. ‘I met one of your—sorry, I should say our relations.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A young man called Rohit.’

  ‘Rohit? I don’t know any Rohit.’

  ‘He doesn’t know us, either. But Devi said he’s—now, whose son did she say he was?’

  Sumi throws herself with enthusiasm into a ‘now what was his name?’ dialogue with Kalyani. And Aru, realizing her mother will not give her any answers, walks angrily away.

  ‘Lalita. Yes, that’s the name. Devi said he’s Lalita’s son.’

  Kalyani is still puzzled. ‘Lalita? Who’s Lalita?’

  ‘How do I know? You should. But wait a minute, Devi told me that, too. Lalita is the daughter of—of—God, what’s wrong with me? I know it’ll come, it has to. Daughter of—I think I have it. It ended in pati.’

  ‘Raghupati?’

  ‘That’s it. Lalita is Raghupati’s daughter.’

  Charu, who has seemed to be intent on her book, puts it away with a thump and calls out to Aru who, clothes piled on her arm, is on her way to her bath.

  ‘Listen, Aru, we got it finally. Rohit is Lalita’s son and Lalita is Raghupati’s daughter. Right, Amma?’

  ‘So who cares?’

  ‘I do, if you don’t. Tell me quickly, Amma, I can’t wait any more—what is Rohit to us?’

  Sumi stands transfixed by the words, and the lines that she had read in the book on Gopal’s table that day, suddenly erupt into her mind.

  What could my mother be

  to yours? What kin is my father

  to yours anyway? And how

  did you and I meet ever?

  The tears she had controlled then, the tears she had disdained in Devaki’s house, suddenly threaten to claim her. She barely has time to get to her room before they burst out of her with an uncontrollable violence. They flow so copiously it’s as if there is a deep well inside her, a spring that has been tapped by the words of the poem.

  Charu finds her mother sobbing as she has never seen her do before, she sees the wildness, the madness of being lost in a strange world in her eyes and she is terrified.

  ‘What is it, Ma? What is it? Please, Ma, tell me what’s the matter.’

  Her agonised pleas finally fade away into silence as if she realizes the futility of asking and she is content to hold Sumi close and rock her. She rocks her, as if she is the mother and her mother her child, until both of them are soothed into a tearless calm.

  ‘AND WHAT IS he to us?’

  Aru takes up the question Charu had asked Kalyani, in jest, almost in mockery perhaps. ‘Did you and Goda-ajji find out what this chap Rohit is to us?’ she asks Kalyani that evening.

  Kalyani gives Aru a wary look. Is she serious? Does she really want to know?

  ‘Go on, Amma,’ Aru prods her grandmother, ‘you know you’re dying to tell me. Is he a cousin or isn’t he?’

  ‘Cousin!’ Kalyani is contemptuous. ‘Cousins are only in English. An English lady who came to our house once kept calling Godu and me cousins. Godu was almost in tears. Kalyani-akka is my sister, she told her.’

  ‘Well, if he isn’t a cousin, what is he?’

  Kalyani gets herself into a tangle of relationships and names which makes no sense to Aru. ‘Here,’ she offers, ‘let’s write it down, perhaps that’ll make it clearer.’

  When the names are linked by lines, the kinship becomes suddenly clear, it jumps out at them. Even Kalyani is fascinated by the sight.

  ‘My grandfather had begun a family tree, but he could never complete it.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know. He began with us, with my father actually, and he wanted to go on until he got to Vishwasrao, but ....’

  ‘Who’s Vishwasrao?’

  And so Aru, for the first time hears the story of her own past—of Madhavrao Peshwa and Vishwasrao, of the finding of the idol, the building of the temple and the family settling down around it. Encouraged, perhaps, by Aru’s silence, Kalyani moves on to her favourite story, the discovery of the ‘other Ganapati idol’ by her father Vithalrao.

  ‘The other Ganapati?’

  ‘You know, the one in the niche above our front door ....’

  ‘You mean the one outside?’

 
; Aru’s interest, fairly languid so far, suddenly quickens; now she is indeed well and truly caught. Sumi, coming upon them, finds Aru listening with fascination. Her responses—the drawing in of breath, the widening of eyes, the ‘And then?’ that punctuates Kalyani’s narration—are those of a child listening to a story. Sumi wonders whether Kalyani needed this audience to bring the incident out of the past for her, for she herself has never heard it. Nor had she any idea that Kalyani could tell a story so well. As Kalyani speaks, the incident comes alive—Sumi can almost see the shaded grove of trees behind the family temple in Ganeshkhed, dark and secret even during the day. The tap-tap of a hammer loud and clear in the silence. And Vithalrao, attracted by the sound, coming upon a man working on a block of black stone, so engrossed that he scarcely looks up at the intruder.

  It is when Kalyani speaks of her father’s ‘vision’ that Sumi is surprised—not at what Kalyani is saying, but at Aru’s response. There is none of the scepticism she would have expected; the question Aru asks is a straightforward ‘looking for information’ kind of one. ‘A vision? What kind of a vision?’

  And now, for the first time, Kalyani falters. She hesitates, she cannot convey to Aru the full extent of this, the family miracle. For Aru has no idea of the kind of man Kalyani’s father was; he was not a religious man, nor a believer in idols and rituals. And yet there it was—in place of the block of stone the man was working on, he saw a Ganapati idol. Not there, but in a niche above the front door of the house he was building—a niche that he hadn’t planned for.

  ‘And the question my father asked the man—that, too, came out of nowhere into his mind, as if someone had put it there. He had no intention of asking it, no idea—he told me this once—that he was going to ask it.

  ‘ “Will you let me have the idol when it’s complete?”

  ‘This, not knowing that the man was, in fact working on an idol. But the man nodded. And spoke for the first time.