by Polly McGee
‘This, my friends, is what the dogs of India are capable of.’
Gaurav made sure the cameras had ample opportunity to capture close-up shots of his injuries. He lowered his shirt in slow motion to accentuate the agony he was feeling.
‘I sustained these gashes on the frontline, doing my duty for the people of New Delhi as the Acting Acting director of New Delhi Municipal Council.’ Gaurav paused, winced, held his side, then straightened to his full height. ‘Not sitting behind a desk,’ he continued his monologue. ‘Not shooting salvos from behind a newspaper masthead, but fighting for the citizens so they don’t have to endure the suffering and terror I have witnessed.’
Gaurav put his hands on his hips and lowered his head. He was taking a moment, a true hero pushing through the pain. He raised his head again and made eye contact with the camera once more.
‘I have made one mistake, however. And it is a mistake that God showed me the other night during prayer. I have maligned one of our true protectors and heroes, having been duped by the cunning kutta to blame a devoted foot servant of all Indians.
‘A monkey didn’t push a grown man off the balcony – how absurd. It’s clear from the bite on his forehead that a dog attacked him. A dog bite, just like mine. The gentle monkeys are innocent.’
He let this significant policy backflip sink in.
‘Furthermore, we have no evidence to support the so-called hero dog having saved that poor woman. Did no one consider that the man was saving her from a dog attack – and had his throat ripped out for his trouble?
‘With the greatest respect,’ continued Gaurav, ‘I’m not sure an elderly, concussed woman is a reliable witness. The New Delhi Municipal Council is one hundred percent committed to its enhanced animal-eradication program.’ Gaurav paused and scanned the media to make sure that all eyes were on him. ‘We will now be concentrating on the sterilisation or euthanasia of all unregistered dogs found on the streets within our jurisdiction. The monkeys are sacred and will be treated as such.’
The press pack went wild, hurling questions and eliciting positions from Gaurav on the current climate of pro-dog, anti-gender violence. Gaurav took them in his stride, using all his acting skills to simultaneously appear both empathetic to women and a leader against the scourge of dogs. He kept the reporters captive by describing how he had fought off the savage pariah dog that had been captured from Kamla Nehru Ridge and had set upon him in his own garden, leading to his lacerations.
When asked by one of the few female reporters present how he thought the women of New Delhi were going to react to his claims about Poona’s injuries, he thanked the gathered press. No more questions today. Gaurav walked towards the house. The flash of cameras sparked behind him; Paksheet waited for him at the bedroom window.
***
Sita hit mute on YouTube, her mouth pursed like she had just chewed on a Chatkora peel. Bloody fraud. She had dressed that wound. There was no way that it had grown to three times the size of the little nip she’d cleaned up. Sita was sure it was pure theatrics.
‘The nerve of that man,’ Sita said to Poona. ‘I can’t believe he speaks to his mother with that lying mouth.’
‘He’s deluded if he thinks he can lie to the people and get away with it. And I am not elderly!’ Poona shook her head, muttering to herself about repulsive reptilian civil servants.
Sita wasn’t so sure about the people’s appetite for swallowing lies. She saw that happen every day in her line of work, with few repercussions.
‘I have my own secret weapon. You’ll see.’ Sita shut the laptop and packed it in her bag. ‘Anyway, Aunty, enough of this depressing talk. When are they letting you out?’
‘Two more days only, God willing, they are just deciding whether they need to operate. I told them I would most certainly heal myself.’
Sita laughed, knowing that if Poona decided to heal, she probably would. ‘Have you got everything you need?’
‘Oh yes, bachana, Baj has been an angel, bringing me news and treats every day. I’m fine – except for Rocky running away again.’
‘I’m sure he’s fine, Poona, he has more lives than a cat that kutta.’
‘He’s in danger, Sita. You heard what that animal Gaurav said he’d do to the dogs. Promise me you’ll try to find him.’
Sita assured Poona that of all the dogs on the street right now, Rocky was one of the more identifiable celebrities.
‘But that makes him a target,’ Poona said. ‘I won’t rest until he’s back inside the safety of Hastinapuri’s gates and registered to me.’
‘You’re going to have to rest or they will keep you in here and cut up your shoulder.’ Sita leant over and kissed Poona on the head. ‘He’ll be fine.’
***
Gaurav pulled at the gruesome latex wound stuck over his original dog bite. The scab underneath tore away with the prosthetic and the wound began bleeding anew. He looked at Paksheet for sympathy; it had been his idea after all to hold the press conference and create the drama around the dog bite.
‘It’s quite painful, you know. Are you sure I shouldn’t get it checked out?’
Paksheet gave him a withering glance and returned to dismembering the jackfruit Gaurav had fetched for him. He flung a piece at Gaurav, which landed on the floor, splattering over a priceless carpet.
‘Sorry, Hanuman, you’re right; I’m being a baby.’
Paksheet tipped the remaining fruit on the floor and swung down from the table he was sitting on. He ambled over to the bed and stretched out, scratching his head for a moment, then lay waiting. After a minute or so, he let out a piercing, impatient screech. Gaurav finished applying antiseptic to the smaller but angry-looking bite on his side and went over to his master. He knelt down over the prone body on the bed, and with his hairbrush began grooming Paksheet with gentle strokes.
Chapter Twenty-five
In the Doghouse
Gajrup, Geet and Akash stood inside Mumbai airport. Gajrup was nervous about flying. He slid a glance at the duty-free store in the distance. Its Diwali-festooned stands promoting an array of top-shelf liquor products were like a beacon.
‘Papa, c’mon, this is a really bad idea. Just stay in Mumbai with us,’ Geet pleaded.
Gajrup shook his head. He had made up his mind, and could rival Malina for stubbornness if he tried. ‘Nihin. It’s what Mummy wanted.’
‘What she wanted for me, not you.’ Geet appealed to Akash for a voice of reason.
‘Geet’s right, Gajrup-ji. Australia’s so far away, you’ll have no friends, no job, no family. Malina was trying to do the right thing for Geet. Let it go now, stay here, we’ll take care of you.’
Gajrup shook his head once again. He was going to honour his dead wife’s wishes somehow. Better late than never, right? He could have saved her; he could have been more supportive of the idea when she was alive. He could have forced Geet to go, been a strong, authoritative father figure like Malina had wanted. He could have done something more. Anything.
Gajrup had, however, returned his wife’s body with dignity to the village they had grown up and got married in. He had found their son in Mumbai against all odds, and told him how his mother had had a terrible accident with an unlabelled bottle of what she’d thought was headache medicine. And he had told Geet how proud Malina was of him. And how she’d wanted him to know that she’d just wanted him to be happy, whatever he chose to do or be.
‘Please, Papa, just think about it a bit longer. You’re still grieving; you’re not thinking straight.’
Gajrup hugged Geet. ‘Goodbye, Son.’ He shook Akash’s hand warmly, and nodded to him, tacitly acknowledging his new place in the family.
Akash handed Gajrup one of his business cards. ‘Don’t forget, here’s my number. Call us as soon as you arrive.’
Gajrup nodded and walked towards the domestic terminal.
***
They watched his skinny frame shuffle away.
Geet grabbed Akash’s hand. ‘Let’
s go. I can’t stand this.’
Akash squeezed Geet’s hand in reassurance and they walked together arm in arm to the kerb to where Akash’s driver was waiting. They sat in the car in silence.
‘Do you want to go?’ Akash asked.
‘Where – to Australia?’ Geet was shocked. ‘No, I want to stay here with you.’
‘No, meri jaan, to the crazy wedding.’ Akash thought for a minute. ‘And you’d love Australia …’
***
Gajrup looked back over his shoulder. They were gone. Geet was a good boy. And Akash, so handsome, so educated, so accomplished. Malina would have approved, he was sure of it. He thought about Malina, closing his eyes for a moment, the noise of the airport abating. In his mind she was floating over him, gazing down, serene and divine, with her hair loose and softly falling over her shoulders. Gajrup imagined her on a spectrum between Parvati and Radha.
A bump from a wonky baggage trolley stacked high with designer bags knocked him out of his eulogising. A well-dressed man in his early twenties with a tightly wound turban cursed Gajrup for getting in the way, his wife sniping from the sidelines about his driving. Gajrup pulled the printed itinerary out of his other pocket and read it again: Air India, Mumbai to New Delhi non-stop service. It’s what Malina would have wanted. He looked across to the Aladdin’s cave of alcohol, hearing its siren song.
***
The foyer of Hastinapuri Estate was finally quiet. Breakfast was over and Baj was polishing the grand wooden dining table. He laid out the cloth placemats and napkins for lunch, replaced the vase of flowers in the middle and positioned the silver condiment tray. Baj stood back, checking his handiwork. A stream of perspiration ran down his forehead and dripped onto the table.
There was one more guest arriving today, after which they would have a full house. Poona being out of action in hospital at such a busy time meant that extra staff had been called in to help. This was a relief. Aside from the assistance, it allowed him to almost completely avoid seeing Lola when they were on shift. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see her. Baj was rarely separated from her in his thoughts, but the revelation about Gajrup had been a trident through his heart. He still couldn’t fathom it. Why would Lola be getting married to Gajrup? How could she love that drunkle widower? And what would Gajrup’s motivations be, aside from Lola being beautiful, funny, kind, smart and a great cook?
Baj shook his head to the flowers and condiment containers, dripping more sweat in his disbelief. There was something not right with the whole situation. Gajrup had been away since Malina’s funeral. When would he have had a chance to even propose to Lola … unless they’d been having an affair before Malina’s death. That thought stopped Baj in his tracks. He physically had to hold on to his heart with the implications that had on everything he knew or thought he knew about Lola. Could she have used Geet as a cover for her relationship with Gajrup all along? Baj’s head was spinning; he gripped the back of one of the dining chairs for support. Love was indeed as complex and as devastating as films had led him to believe. And it made you feel feverish, nauseated and light-headed.
‘Excuse me.’
The voice came from behind Baj, interrupting his catastrophic scenario planning over Lola’s romance with Gajrup. He turned around. Standing less than a metre away from him in a floral-patterned dress, denim jacket and carrying a large sunhat was Preity Sahni. Baj opened his mouth to speak, then fainted.
***
Lola was in the garden throwing Rama a well-chewed cricket ball. Rama was in that transition from puppy to dog where parts of his body looked like they had been grafted from a larger animal. The sunshine and puppy fun were a tonic after the last few miserable days. Lola stood with her eyes closed, her face turned to the sun, trying to enjoy the moment. The sun triggered prickles of a sneeze and with a violent achoo her reverie was broken. There was a sickening irony at play, thought Lola. When she’d been in love with Roshan, someone else he didn’t love was marrying him and Lola was counting down the days till her world ended, and now she was getting married to someone she didn’t love and counting down the days until her world ended. It was a repetitive loop of stupidity.
Lola threw the ball. Rama retrieved it and brought it back. She threw it again.
The worst part was Baj finding out the way he did. How could Lola explain it to him without it making her seem like a mercenary and a fraud? And she was both; the evidence was on her phone. Lola was cursing herself for letting him edge his way into her mind, and if she was honest with herself, her heart. It felt like rejection groundhog day, except this time he wasn’t conveniently at another restaurant across town. He had been skilfully avoiding her, however, since that night in his apartment. She didn’t know which day his birthday was, so she couldn’t stage a grand reconciliation event and get him to hear her side of the story while she begged for a second chance. And a second chance at what? His surprise outing that night could have involved taking her to a great spot to buy fresh fish. Why would he even be interested in her? A moment of shoulder touching after a few whiskies didn’t mean anything. Perhaps he thought she was a pushy lush. She had clearly displayed she was not worthy of his kindness and integrity, and he probably had lots of beautiful Indian girls queuing up for his attention.
Rama let out a frustrated yelp. He was sitting waiting for her to throw and she had taken her eye off the ball. Lola threw it as hard as she could in frustration. It bounced off a pot and lodged in an ornamental tree outside the dining room.
‘Naughty, Rama. See what you did.’
Lola stomped and Rama ambled over to the tree. He jumped determinedly upwards in the direction of the ball. As Lola stretched for it, she took a peek through the dining-room window and saw Baj sitting in one of the large upholstered chairs with his eyes closed, and a very attractive Indian woman perched next to him. The woman seemed to be fanning him with a sunhat, rubbing his shoulder in a far too intimate way. Lola had the sudden impulse to throw the cricket ball through the window at the head of the woman. The patient thump, thump of Rama’s tail on her foot tempered her urge. She dropped the ball on the ground, turning sulkily towards the kitchen.
‘Game over,’ she told the disappointed dog.
***
Lola was preparing for lunch. She slapped a ball of chapati dough down onto the kitchen bench. A puff of flour rose up in the air, particles of wheat clinging to her face and eyebrows. She took the rolling pin to the chapati with verve, venting her frustrations and fury on it. Poona watched her silently from the doorway with amusement. This was more like the kitchen vibe she remembered.
‘You have reincarnated Malina?’
Lola looked up in surprise. ‘Aunty!’ She dropped the belan and wrapped her arms around Poona.
‘Careful of this thing,’ Poona said, gesturing with her head towards her arm in its sling.
‘I can’t believe you’re standing here – I thought you weren’t allowed out yet.’
‘I can be very persuasive, and Chatura is back today, so they knew he would make sure I behaved.’ She laughed. ‘To be honest, I think they were sick of Sita trooping through with cameras and journalists every other day.’
Poona surveyed the kitchen. It was ordered and tidy. Everything was carefully decanted and labelled. Jars of preserves and pickles were lined up. Strings of chilli, garlic, curry and bay leaves hung from hooks.
‘Bahut achar, Lola. It’s like a different place since you’ve been in charge.’
‘Baj and I gave it a spring clean last week.’
Lola’s face started to tremble, which she tried to suppress, but soon big gulping sobs burst out of her and tears began to drip down her floury face, leaving doughy trails on her cheeks.
‘Meri jaan, what’s all this?’ Poona rubbed her back maternally with her unbound hand as Lola burst the dam of her hurt. When the sobbing and shoulder heaving abated, Lola straightened up, embarrassed.
‘Sorry, Poona, it’s … I’m just relieved you’re okay.’
Sita’s voice rang out in a disembodied approach. ‘Namaskar. Poona, are you ready? Preity is here.’ She rounded the corner to the tableau of Poona and Lola.
‘Lola – oh, my God, your face, what’s happened?’
Lola was unaware of the tragi-comic flour-and-tears Pierrot clown mask she had created, but Sita’s shocked reaction made her self-consciously swipe at her tears and try to rub her face clean.
‘Hi, Sita. Yes, poor Lola. She’s been making enough onion bhaji to feed an army. I had to make her put it away; my eyes were smarting, too.’
Sita nodded with sympathetic understanding of the power of onions. Poona turned her head so Sita couldn’t see her wink at Lola.
‘Lola-ji, I want you to have Friday and Saturday off this week. It’s Choti Diwali and Chatura and I will have a low-key gathering in the evening if you want to come. You should spend the day shopping or sleeping or whatever; you deserve it and you’re exhausted. Everyone will be checked out by then and I’ve decided we’ll have a break to recover from the last few weeks.’
‘Kripya, Aunty.’ Lola managed a smile.
‘Okay, Poona – come and meet Preity, then we’ll get you prepped for the interview and the march.’ Sita herded Poona towards the door. ‘Today the women of India get their fifteen minutes of fame.’
***
Baj was in bed, still slightly feverish, comforting himself the best way he knew how. The credits rolled on a grainy version of Dil Chahta Hai. There it was, the Sydney Harbour Bridge. So expansive. What a feat of engineering. He imagined Lola walking underneath it, marvelling at it with him as they held hands. He imagined them having a drink together as Amir Khan had done in the film. Lola’s would be garnished with a cherry. She would smile at him shyly, the lights of the city twinkling as the bright Australian sun set behind the bridge. Baj substituted Preity for Lola in his mind. She was sublime, but surreal, like an avatar. It felt wrong, so he morphed her back to Lola. It had been a shock to come to from his faint and have Preity kneeling over him. She was so kind, making sure he was okay before he carried her many bags to her room. Baj, however, knew his love was only for one woman. Lola Wedd.