We that are young

by Preti Taneja

  Almost running, Sita ducks down a side street – a dead end. She climbs the steps and finds herself at a small park, a stamp of grass fenced with rusted wrought iron. The Jhelum is here: sludge-brown and weed strewn. People come here to walk, to sit as if it was a holiday and they have come to taste the air. The benches are occupied by young men, robbed of any more to do in the late afternoon than argue or reminisce, or watch the birds swoop over the water.

  She watches shikaras slide past. She is trying to see the city for itself. But her films – her books – and the feeling again, it could almost be Cambridge – with students punting down the river past the deep wine cellars of John’s and King’s and Queens’. The golden light flickers off the water, the colour of her last year in college, when all she had to worry about was bagging a seat under Nehru’s bust in the college library (good luck while she crammed for her finals). The need to smoke makes her dizzy and brings the river towards her; it swings away again, back to its brooding meander.

  Sita is lost in the life created. The city is crumbling, pock marked and ruined, neon lights illuminate the shop fronts while posters of boy’s faces are put up – there, on that wall, so many old posters – and women search the decades for their missing and their dead. Under the kangri smoke, the smiles, the sharp tang of a people who are always on their guard. She still does not understand why Papa and Kritik Uncle want this hotel so much. Go India, Go back! She has seen the graffiti carved into the trees.

  How was the hotel approved? Who allowed it? Who agreed? She knew Kritik Uncle would never tell her the full story. He would say that is something that nobody, not even a spy, can ever really know.

  A group of young men walk by. Tourists, like her. One in a crimson hoodie and jeans. He’s tall, she thinks. Good-looking. The thought surprises her. The others he is with hang back a little, except one – almost as tall as the hooded guy, with ears like handles on each side of his head. She tries not to smile at them. But it feels good, for a second, to imagine meeting a stranger, falling into some kind of flirtation. For most of her ‘friends’ in Delhi, that is the romance of Srinagar. The boys pass behind her, and carry on down the bund. The one with the ears looks back briefly – almost, she thinks, as if he is going to raise his hand and salute her.

  She leans forward over the railings, looking down the river towards the Zero Bridge. A few houseboats bob gently as the call to prayer crackles across the water, raising the birds, so many birds, all the different birds she cannot identify, circling over her head like an aarti blessing, disappearing into the clouds. It is nearly sunset, the temperature is dropping. She can taste the winter on its way.

  The sun has set, leaving smoky grey dusk. Sita clutches her coat, wishing for a pheran and a kangri to keep her warm now the light has gone. She retraces her steps, wondering if her mother ever walked here. She has been warned that wild dogs plague these streets. She ducks into an old convenience store, stocked with old packets of hair dye and skin lightener; strange 70s models with blond hair and blue eyes stare out at her from the shelves. She cannot see any kind of tampon. Instead, she points to the highest shelf, above the shop boy’s head. He climbs up a ladder and throws onto the counter an imported packet of twenty-four pads: Stayfree.

  She takes a taxi back to the safe house. Every house on the street looks the same – grey, new built concrete, with no detailing. And on the corner – a young man getting out of a jeep – unlocking the door to the house. It is him. He has the same head, the same ears as that boy she saw earlier. One of Kritik Uncle’s, she sighs. No wonder he let her go out.

  She counts the five paces from the gate to the door. As she steps into the hallway she listens for movement. Kritik Uncle appears from the kitchen, still wearing his pheran, the turban obscuring his face.

  —Sita? Enjoyed your walking? Good. Come. We are all waiting for you upstairs.

  —Is Papa awake?

  —You should be the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes.

  This is what Kritik Uncle always says, every single day; he means to charm her, she thinks. When she goes to Papa, he does seem pleased to see her sometimes. More often, he does not. Some days he does not recognise her at all, and calls her Nanu instead.

  —Let’s see what the doctor says. Did you contact him?

  —Our local nurse is here. He at least has been watching your Papa non-stop.

  Her confidence shrivels at the cold in Kritik Uncle’s voice. Everything about him makes her feel ten-years-old again. Bookless, under-travelled, dependent on Gargi for every permission to speak, laugh, skip.

  —Let’s go and do the puja, he says.

  He follows Sita up the narrow stairs. More concrete, more grey walls. The skylight casts squares of blue on them. Sita pulls her dupatta over her head and crosses it around her neck. Perhaps the ends flick Kritik Uncle; if they do, he doesn’t comment.

  The ante-room is a grey box, the carpet a dull brown. A sheet has been laid over it. The men – there are fifteen here, at least – should be in business suits, but they are all in kurtas, in pherans, in jeans and jumpers. For all these years, they have had no work except spying for Kritik Uncle, with skills they learned from constantly being watched. Now, they sit, saying nothing to her at all – but all wondering where she has been, who with, doing what-all. In the centre of their circle, a pundit, naked to the waist, his red beads dark blood blisters against his skin sits in front of a foil covered brazier, waiting to begin the prayers.

  Sita pulls her slipping chunni over her head again, and sits cross-legged next to the pundit. A spoonful of dirt, a match – the flames hiss and rise. She stares into them. What did Ranjit Uncle do to Radha? How did Bubu Jiju die? Where is Jeet Bahiya? Why hasn’t Gargi even tried to fix this? Why hasn’t Kritik Uncle? No one will tell her anything – only that her sisters let her father go wandering in Dhimbala basti in a storm.

  —Om, shanti, shanti Om, she prays with the group.

  Don’t die Daddy. Come back. Please, she thinks. Don’t leave me alone with these men. I promise I will never leave again.

  The door to the inner room opens. The nurse comes out. He is a middle-aged man, with bony hands clasped across his pheran. His clean-shaven face is expressionless.

  —How is Bapuji? Sita says.

  —Ma’am he is sleeping.

  Above the makeshift mandir hangs a black and white photograph of Papa as a dashing young man with full dark hair, a forehead with no lines. A marigold garland adorns the frame, as if he is already dead. She swallows, needing water, trying to stop her tears from choking her as they rise, betraying her as they fall. Grief roars in her ears.

  —Hai Bhagwan merciful and compassionate! she prays. Joh toota hai, usse sahi karo. Papa ko bachcha mat banao, bring him back from where he has wandered, bring him back to me.

  She gets up and picks her way forwards through the seated worshippers to the inner door. The nurse holds it open; she hesitates then feels him gently pushing her. The sensation of his hand makes her want to scream.

  —Come Madam, come. Don’t be scared, I am sure he is calm now.

  Does the nurse think her disgust, her rage is against Papa?

  —Paas aajao, he says. Let him see you when he wakes.

  The music stops. The whole room is watching through the open door. Papa is in the bed chair, wrapped in woollen blankets. His gaunt face the only part visible. Sita. Bend your head, licks your lips, touch them lightly to your Papa’s. This is what the men outside expect of her. She kisses Papa’s forehead. The smell of jasmine and, underneath, a stench that proves he has been dressed but not washed. Can a job never be done right? Or is this also her task to complete?

  —My dear Papa. Sabh kuch theek ho jayega.

  —Yes, says the nurse. Kiss, and make it all better.

  Sita ignores him.

  —Papa, what were you doing in the basti? Who sent you there?

  She sweeps her hand along his forehead, smoothing the white hair down.

  —Sita Rani!


  It is Kritik Uncle; he is standing behind her, a fraction too close.

  A whispering sound swells behind her and she realises again what Radha has always tried to teach her. Giving the appropriate performance takes skill. Encore.

  —How could Gargi and Radha have done this? she says.

  —Actually, seriously, says the nurse.

  —These white hairs, these poor wrinkles.

  —Of course, she is right, this is the story, Kritik Uncle says.

  —Should such a man have tackled poverty and filth alone in the slums? Sita says. This time she does address the nurse; he only replies,

  —Nahin beti, do not talk about that time.

  —Did you face the thunder and lightning all alone on that terrible night, like the hero that you are? You could have been struck, or hurt, and no one was there to help you.

  This, they like better. None of them realise she means them to.

  For good measure and to make sure she does not speak one word of how she really feels, she decides to act out what they expect of her, Bollywood style. The tearful death scenes of grand old men watched over by hand-wringing daughters, mourners, brave sons, all weeping and wailing. She drops into Hindi, says Dada – to them it will sound more poignant.

  —Aap kaise chale gaye, itne gandh mein, in filth, with those pigs and donkeys in Dhimbala, haan? Chi, chi, Dada, forced to wade through mitti and shit in such heavy rain, as if the sky was weeping, Papa, weeping on your head! It is a miracle you are still with us, that your mind has stayed so strong. This is the power you have Dada, please, wake up! Wake up!

  Hands try to restrain her from throwing herself onto his body – or are they pushing her forward? All the while she is thinking – let me go. This is not my voice, not me, not me, not me, not me, not me – so many times that she cannot tell what is real anymore, whether the acting is a lie or the lie is an act, so maybe she meant everything she said, or maybe she did not.

  —Sita Ma’am, be calm.

  —Sita Madam, be quiet.

  —Sita Madam, sing to him.

  Do the people around Gargi constantly tell her how to behave? Is she forced to fight with everyone she speaks to?

  —Papaji? Are you there?

  There is a groan. Sita is almost pushed out of the way. With Kritik Uncle, she heaves; she props the back of the bed up, swinging the last third down so her father’s feet dangle, naked, a few inches from the floor.

  —What!

  He comes awake in a roaring stink of breath. His arms push the blankets; they claw the air towards her. Sita tries not to move or wince. He starts to speak in mid-sentence, as if he has been talking for hours and they have not been able to hear.

  —Aré maya, what is this? Yes? No?

  He looks around at them, one to the next to the next.

  Sita takes his arms, she tries to fold them back into the blankets. He keeps escaping her, slapping the sides of the bed, then reaching up towards her again. She tries to tell him who she is; she asks him how he is feeling. He looks at her, then around. The men from the havan are filling the doorway, watching her in Papa’s room, listening to him ask what he has done that his dharma keeps him here. And begs that this time – this turn – he finds some peace. He looks at them as if they are his gaolers and he is so guilty.

  She has never seen his face like this. She was expecting confusion, yes – but perhaps, also, sweetness. The way he used to be after eating a delicious hot halwa spiked with almonds. Instead he looks wide-awake. Cunning, even; calculating. Tricksy.

  —Papa, can you stand?

  —This world? he says. He looks around.

  —How it binds, he exclaims. What visions it gives!

  His eyes challenge the room to reply. Then he focuses: Sita. His face softens. He reaches out and strokes her cheek. The split skin of his fingertips scratches her lightly. His voice is soft.

  —Who does not know such a beautiful hoor? Where did you die, that you are come here?

  The men move forward, filling the room; they gather around the bed. Sita is crushed as they try to touch her father’s hand, his feet, his hair.

  —We should leave him, he needs rest, Sita says. No one listens. Kritik Uncle? she says. Tell them.

  —No, no, he is awake, says the nurse. He is fine, he will speak, says one of the men. Let him speak, says another. Don’t speak until he speaks—

  The words flip and list over each other: he is right as rain, he is a hero, he is Devraj, he will speak.

  —Main kahan hoon? Hum kahan hain? Is it morning? Get up! Get up! Or am I still dreaming? This is not my body. See this hand? Not mine. This is my daughter’s leg!

  Papaji pinches his own thigh. The skin turns red. He roars.

  Sita does the only thing she can. She bends, feeling the crowd around her step back. One man after another gets out his mobile phone. Why? They point at her. – Are they? Ah. Ready to record this classic moment. Sita stretches forward, her chuni slipping down her arm. In a gesture she has not made since Gargi had to bribe her with ladoos, she reaches out her hand with a clink of gold bangles, to touch her father’s feet.

  —Ram Ram, Papaji. Ram Ram.

  Tears begin to slide down her cheeks. Then she steps back as her father shifts himself down the seat. The covers crumple in front of her; he is reaching, trying to touch her feet in return.

  —Papa! She catches him in her arms.

  He lets her take his weight. She must use her whole body to raise him and ease him back into the chair. It is difficult – he wants to know why she has brought him here, he accuses her of having no respect, of dressing him in borrowed clothes. She struggles to calm him, aware that no one – not Kritik Uncle or the nurse – is helping her. He points over her shoulder at Kritik Uncle, demanding to know who he is.

  —You’re in rags, he says. I don’t like this thing. And you! (He looks at Sita.) Don’t cry, your tears will wet my feet. I hate to have wet feet. Wife of a Raksha! Didn’t you go to Sri Lanka? Are your sisters here too? I will never forgive them.

  —Never, never, she agrees.

  (Let all here understand he is never going to be well.)

  —So, is this how an old man must die? Then make it quick, I am a chicken ready for the chop. Chop chop.

  Papa sits back in the chair and closes his eyes.

  —We are in Srinagar, Papa, Sita says.

  She strokes his hair, she reaches out to take his hand.

  —We are in a safe house, a nice new house. And on the hill, the new Kashmir Company hotel is looking so beautiful, waiting for you. Everyone is waiting for you.

  —Natak mat karo. I deserve more.

  A shaky laugh escapes Sita. Even like this, Papa knows her. She is ready with her most witty retort when the nurse clears his throat behind her. He reaches an arm across her towards Papaji, forcing her to step aside.

  —Sita Madam, he says. Don’t speak about the past now, or Bapuji will only get mad again. He should not be reminded of all he has lost, but made to stay calm and quiet.

  If Radha were here, a raise of one eyebrow and a cutting remark, a flick of her hair and a sharp turn of shoulder would shame them all into obeying. If Gargi were here, they would not even dare to open their mouths.

  —See if he will sleep some more, and tell him he should rest, the nurse says.

  —Will you come and walk with me Papa? she says.

  She moves away from the nurse.

  —I will walk, agar tum walk karogi, lekin dheere, her Papa says.

  The nurse shakes his head. He retreats back to the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

  Keeping her back to him, she helps Papa to get back onto his feet. No one comes forward to help. Over her shoulder Kritik Uncle and the rest of the men are talking, fussing, she thinks – waiting for her to show her mind.

  —Kritik Uncle, she says, in a voice like Gargi’s. Send your spies to see what my sisters are up to. I want a full report. How dare they do this? They must be reckoned with. And get all t
hese men out of here: I want to be alone with Papa. One of you tell the cook that for this evening, tari wala chicken, chawal, moong ki daal. Papa needs solid food. Make sure the curd is fresh. In the next few days we want to eat a wazwan, all sixteen courses: the cook should slaughter the lambs.

  Kritik Uncle inclines his head, as if he always knew she could give orders like this. With a small smile he calls her dear and says that he will do everything she wishes; also that she must fight the good fight.

  Before she has time to think about that, he leaves, and the followers go with him.

  Now alone, now. Sita helps Papa out of the chair. He seems so fragile, on the surface so sweet smelling – almond oil from his nurse’s hands. Shall she walk him, up and down the room? She knows invalids need exercise. The world shrunken to country – to state – to house – to room – to body – taking these small steps. And she wants to comfort him, but all she can think is a story that was told to Gargi by their mother, who learned it from her mother and so on, going back, right to the beginning. Gargi told it to Radha and Jeet – and whichever of them was there to tuck Sita in told it to her, over and over again.

  Papa leans on her neck and arm. She takes small, close steps with him across the carpeted room. Sita begins to tell the story of the farmer’s wife and the honeybee, in words as near to the original as she can remember. It begins with the farmer’s wife, who has fled from her home to the forest.

  —And why had she done this?

  Sita asks Papa the question, waits, then tells him: the village headman was a tyrant. The farmer’s wife met a honeybee, who asked why she had fled, and when she heard the answer, replied that she too had been tyrannised.