by Meghna Pant
I lift the girl onto my lap and hug her.
‘Your mother is happy. She has you, no? If I had you, I would be happy too,’ I say.
‘You will not leave me like her and Daddy?’
‘They haven’t left you, Choti.’ I pat her head. ‘Now make your wish before Chameli goes away.’
‘Do you mind if I make a secret wish?’ Choti asks, and when she shuts her eyes, I pray for all her wishes to come true.
~
I’m in my white kurta ready to leave when Choti asks where I’m going. I tell her that I’m going to the post office, though I don’t specify the reason—I need to see if my money order has arrived there by mistake. My pension is late, and since I’ve invested my savings to impress my daughter—paint, pest control, maid, Choti’s gift, a bed and cupboard, Bisleri and Oreos—my money is running out. With eight hundred rupees and twelve days before Dipti leaves, I haven’t refilled my insulin pencil, the only expense that affects me and no one else. There are three hundred units left in the pencil, and these will be gone in ten days.
‘You’re leaving me home alone?’ Choti says, disapprovingly.
‘Kaki is there to look after you, Choti,’ I say in my placating voice.
‘I don’t think Mommy would approve,’ she says evenly.
I take her along to the post office, fifteen minutes away. Choti stays close to me on the broken pavement, and I don’t let go of her hand as she looks everywhere but where she’s walking, wide-eyed at the familiar sights of my life: the Kodak shop where Sheila and me took our first photo together; the Gujarati snacks store whose owner Choksi Bhai says that three generations of my family, save for me, bought enough khandvi to pay for his daughter’s wedding; the Xerox outlet whose proprietor invites me in for a cup of tea.
Choti puts her free hand over her ear. ‘It’s so loud here.’
The sounds of tyres screeching, hawkers shouting, music blaring, firecrackers, honking, all of which my ears have long stopped hearing, engulf me noisily.
‘This is the sound of life, Choti, a way for mankind to tell you that it’s alive,’ I say.
She removes her hand from her ear and says, ‘Can I have an ice cream on the way back, please? It’s very hot.’
I look at the road I’m making her walk on, which serves as a home for cars and cows and chickens and carts and dogs and garbage and beggars, so different from the singleminded roads that she’s used to. I guiltily agree with a yes.
We reach the yellow-and-brown post office and enter the crusted building where a drum of activity is producing a low, steady growl. I instruct Choti to stand by the glue and envelope stand, as I don’t want her to hear my conversation, and then wait for my turn in the long line leading to the teller. When there’s just a glass window between the teller and me, I stick my head into the opening and ask when I can expect my money order.
The teller shrugs, ‘I don’t know.’ Don’t care.
‘Please check. I am running out of money and my daughter is visiting from America.’
‘Then ask your daughter why your money order is delayed. I am sure she can buy this post office with her dollars.’ He smiles.
When I turn around, Choti is standing behind me. I don’t know how much she has heard or understood of our exchange in Hindi. Neither of us says a word, but on the way back she doesn’t pursue her demand for ice cream.
I tell Choti not to tell her mother that I took her to the post office. ‘She would not like you walking on this dirty road.’
Choti looks at me, her expression weary, giving me a peek into what she’ll look like when I’m no longer around. Her tone is grave enough to invite faith as she says, ‘Don’t worry, Nanu. I’m used to keeping secrets.’
That night when Dipti comes home, I ask her when her return ticket is booked for. I want to be sure. ‘Maybe I can come and drop you,’ I add.
‘I don’t remember the exact date. I’ll have another look.’
She sits down next to me on the couch and turns on the TV.
‘Why did I ever want to leave this place? I could live here forever,’ she says, nostalgia softening her face. She turns to me. ‘But that would drive you mad, huh?’
She’s looking at me seriously, and I tell her it would drive Udit mad, not me. She changes the topic, telling me that my niece Tulsi has invited us to her house for lunch that Sunday. I’m surprised, not at the invitation but at Dipti’s readiness to meet my relatives, whom she finds uncouth. She once called Tulsi a village bumpkin to her face.
Finally I understand what I’ve been unable to pinpoint about my daughter’s changed appearance; there’s a vulnerability to her, a hesitancy she hasn’t possessed before and carries awkwardly, like a child who’s given up her personal mythology of herself.
I agree to go.
~
When I’m on the last of my insulin shots, Dipti tells me that they’ll be leaving in two days.
‘Unless you want Choti to stay? Her school semester doesn’t start for another month,’she says.
‘I would love her to,’ I reply. ‘But I—’
I had assumed that nothing more was going to happen in my life. After all, my life’s story has been written, and I’m in its final chapter. There’s no place for a new subplot.
Dipti is studying my reaction, so I continue. ‘Take Choti with you. It’s better not to take a mother away from her daughter.’
Dipti turns away, a tear edging her eyes.
My line has reminded her of her mother, I realize foolishly.
I retreat to my room and don’t come out till my guilt has subsided.
~
The day before they are to leave, Dipti goes out again, so I take Choti to Chowpatty beach. I have sixty-one rupees in my pocket, enough money to get there by bus, pay for two or three rides, and come back home. I don’t mind spending the last of my money, as the new teller at the post office has assured me that my money order will arrive by tomorrow. We reach our destination as the sun is setting, and Choti runs around the sandy beach for a good thirty minutes, stopping only once to watch a performance by a dancing monkey. Having missed my insulin dose yesterday for the very first time, I’m uncertain on my feet and tremendously thirsty, too. But I take heart that such moments with my granddaughter will not come back.
When she’s ready for more, I seat her on a ten-foot-high Ferris wheel and swing her on a merry-go-round, enjoying the flow and ebb of her laughter. At her request, I strap her onto a horse for a ride. But she shrieks atop the horse, asks to be taken down, and then, without warning, jumps off the horse and into my arms. She’s heavy, and my arms are too weak to hold her for even a second.
I drop her.
Time stops.
Immobile with shock I watch as she picks herself up from the ground.
I wait for her to cry, to scream, to be angry with me, but she dusts herself and coolly says, ‘You are very hot, Nanu. I think you may have a fever.’
My gratitude to her goads me into action. I bend down and examine her thoroughly. Does it hurt anywhere, I ask, and she shakes her head: no. Her right knee is bruised, but otherwise she’s unharmed.
‘Let’s go home, Choti. I want to get you into clean clothes before your mother sees you like this.’
I have enough money to take the bus home and start walking towards the bus stop when Choti says she’s hungry. I look at her bleeding knee as I make my decision: we’ll take a taxi back, and I’ll borrow money from the building watchman to pay the fare. I ask Choti if she wants to try the famous Chowpatty beach falooda-kulfi or bhelpuri.
But she’s seen me hesitate and mumbles, ‘Kharwas—’ which she now knows costs next to nothing.
While she is eating Dipti calls on my mobile.
‘Dad,’ she says, her voice curt. ‘I have some news. Bad news.’
I brace myself. The last time we’d started a conversation like this was when I’d called to tell her that Sheila had died in her sleep. Something changed between us after that: our share
d grief failed to bind us. For Dipti, who had not seen her mother’s deterioration, the shock was devastating, the death abrupt. She howled while I remained stoic, having watched my wife fade away, her death a blessed release for her. When I told Dipti that I’d miss her mother, too, she replied, ‘But you’re not even crying.’ Dipti doesn’t know that Sheila saw me in the most loving role of my life, as a husband, and without that identity I’ve never been a whole person again.
Dipti continues: ‘Udit and I are getting divorced. Things have been bad—’
‘Divorce?’
‘It’s not like you didn’t guess by now, Dad. You don’t sound surprised.’ I’m not. The signs were everywhere, but I didn’t want them to crystallize into this. Her voice drops and comes back ‘—not approve, but our minds are made up. I don’t want to end up like Maa, compromising, sacrificing, and never happy.’
I start on hearing this. When was Sheila unhappy? What did she say to Dipti during those long chats I never heard? Why didn’t she show me, tell me?
‘When was Sheila unhappy?’ I ask Dipti.
But she’s not listening. ‘Since we didn’t get married in the States, Udit has left me nothing. Zilch. I came to India to see if I could start afresh. Dad, you there?’
‘You are going to live in India?’ I ask.
The entire deck of my emotional cards lay out in front of me at once.
‘With me?’
‘Well, I’m not going to be a burden or anything. I met a lot of people in Bombay this time who can help me get a job. Obviously it will take time because I haven’t worked since Choti was born. We will have to be patient.’
We?
She continues: ‘But there’s a hitch. My lawyer called from New York this morning about a court date that has opened up for tomorrow. If I make it on time then there’s a good chance that I can at least get child support.’
‘So suddenly?’
‘Well, she’d told me this could happen and that I had to be in New York at all times, but I needed to take a break, come to India, scope out opportunities.’
‘Okay, beta. I will bring Choti home within thirty minutes. Her things are packed. You should be able to fly out tonight.’
‘No, Dad. I don’t have time to wait for Choti. I have to fly out now, immediately.’ She pauses. ‘In fact, I’m on my way to the airport.’
‘What? Just like that? What about Choti?’
‘I’ll leave Choti with you for some time, Dad. Like a week, or two.’
‘How can you leave Choti with me, beta? How will we manage?’ I realize I’m shouting.
‘What is the big deal, Dad? Kaki is there to help. And I’ll be back in three weeks.’
‘But right now you said one or two weeks.’
She grunts, exasperated. ‘Well, I don’t know exactly how long the court proceedings will take.’
‘Beta, don’t do this.’
‘Look, Dad, I’m not happy about this situation either. But we have to adjust.’
‘I cannot look after Choti. It is not possible.’
‘Why not, Dad? I left you two alone so you could get to know each other better, and you seem to like her enough. Just continue doing what you’re doing, and you’ll both be fine.’
‘Dipti, beta—’ it has to be said ‘—I don’t have enough money.’
She laughs now, her chortle full of misplaced, cheerful surprise. ‘No money? You’re sitting in an apartment with more rooms than you can use, a property worth crores, a pool, gym. Of course you have money.’ Her voice becomes edgy. ‘Maa would have never thought of money at a time like this.’
I find it difficult to breathe. My chest is tight. My heart is beating too fast. I sit down on a stone bench, unable to speak. Dipti is silent for a minute before she asks, ‘Dad? Dad? I can’t hear you. Are you there?’
I can’t reply.
‘Dad, I have to go. I’m getting a call from my lawyer.’
‘What did Sheila tell you? Why was she unhappy?’
‘Dad, this is not the time to talk about it. I’ll call after I’ve checked in to talk to Choti. Don’t tell her anything yet.’
She hangs up.
I remain seated, unable to move.
Choti looks at me. ‘Why didn’t Mommy talk to me?’
I don’t reply.
‘Are you okay, Nanu? You look sick.’
I stand up.
‘Don’t be angry, Nanu. It’s not Mommy’s fault. It’s my fault. I made a wish. I told Chameli to make me live with you. This is all my fault.’
Choti is crying. I look at my granddaughter and find that I have nothing to comfort her with. I start walking.
Choti runs after me.
‘Are we going home now?’ she mumbles.
‘Yes, we will walk home,’ I say.
‘Walk?’ she says, stopping. ‘Did you say walk? Isn’t home really far away?’
‘Yes, home is far away. And till then, we walk.’
FRIENDS
It is dark when Bhanu’s eyes open to the sound of her name.
‘Wake up,’ a soft voice whispers. A hand strokes her hair tenderly.
Bhanu takes the hand and holds it against her warm cheeks. ‘Genevive,’ she murmurs hoarsely as her eyes close again. ‘What time is it?’
‘Time for tea, Bhanu.’
Thoughts flood Bhanu’s mind like a cold stream of water and she sits up, wide awake.
Genevive? What is she doing here?
Turning on the lamp next to her bed, the first thing that Bhanu sees is Genevive’s swollen belly. Inside that belly is a baby, warmer than the air around it.
Sick to her bones, Bhanu turns her head towards the window, from where she and Genevive used to pelt unsuspecting passers-by with water balloons every Holi. The panes are streaked and sooty now, a crust of dirt on their edges.
‘Bhanu?’ Genevive says. Her voice wavers gently, like a tiny sparrow hopeful for a speck of food.
Bhanu doesn’t respond, looking instead at her own face, hazy and undefined in the window’s reflection.
The clamour from the street below, the peak-time traffic, reaches Bhanu’s ears with all the ferocity of Mumbai on a Friday evening. This noise has been there all her life and she doesn’t even hear it any more, except in moments of anger or irritation. Which one is she feeling now?
Genevive continues, ‘I’ve made masala chai for you, exactly the way you like it. Without sugar, just a teaspoon of milk.’
‘I take my tea sweet, and black now,’ Bhanu says, flatly lying.
‘Oh—’ Genevive says slowly, as if pulling her voice out of a deep well.
Her breath smells sour, of the sweets she eats all day, the sugar that should have rotted her teeth by now.
Taking a white-and-red packet out of a polythene bag, Genevive adds quickly, ‘I bought your favourite pudina wafers from Camy. Should I get a bowl or do you want to eat from the packet?’
‘I’m not hungry,’ Bhanu replies curtly. She really has no appetite.
Genevive starts shaking her right leg, as if she doesn’t know what else to do with herself. It is rare for her to be the one making up.
Bhanu sees this and bites down on her lip to stop herself from saying something more, something compassionate. It’s an old habit; difficult to break.
Genevive shoves the packet back into the bag, pulls it out again, and then plonks it clumsily on the edge of her chair. It falls to the ground. She doesn’t pick it up.
‘Bhanu, why are you still refusing to see me? I can’t bear it any more. I miss you.’
Her leg shakes harder.
A sharp pinprick of guilt pierces Bhanu. Then she looks at Genevive’s belly, which has grown since the last time she saw her. The loathing comes back.
~
Bhanu and Genevive are childhood friends. They attended the same school, studied in the same section in eighth grade and lived in the same building in Dadar. Initially it had seemed unlikely that the girls would get along. Lanky and dark-skinned, with
a gentle voice, Bhanu lived in the five-bedroom apartment on the fourth floor, where her conservative Marwari joint family had resided for three generations. Genevive, meanwhile, was a gregarious Anglo-Indian girl with radish skin, light tan hair and wheat-coloured eyes. She had recently moved into a studio apartment on the ‘underground’ floor that no one in the building had seen. To add to her notoriety, she lived with only her mother, Carla, and their two cats. In the absence of a credible ‘Man of the House’, mother and daughter were much spoken about. So Bhanu, in the way she ignored the spit stains on stairway walls, pretended not to notice them.
Then one evening, uninvited, Genevive showed up at Bhanu’s house to borrow her textbooks. She had missed school that day—she had a fever that was still running. Seeing her watery eyes, her flushed cheeks and polite manner, Bhanu’s mother welcomed her into their house, and their lives. Over the next few days, Bhanu’s family worried about Genevive’s health and her mother’s absence, making Bhanu carry bajra khichdi for her to school. By the end of that week, they were encouraging Bhanu to do homework with Genevive, on the condition that Bhanu didn’t ever visit ‘that Anglo-Indian house’.
So the girls became friends, and their friendship, like sea glass, grew more attractive with the sands of time, smooth with a happy sheen. They’d walk back from school together, go to Bhanu’s house, eat snacks served by Shardabai, do homework, and play till dinnertime—at which point Genevive would quickly pack her things and leave, saying, ‘Carla will be home soon.’
Through all of this, Bhanu found it easy to keep her promise of not visiting Genevive’s house, since her friend never invited her home anyway.
The first time Bhanu broke the rule was eleven years later—only six years ago—when, without prelude, Genevive didn’t visit Bhanu or answer her calls for four days (the longest they’d gone without talking). Bhanu had no choice. Both the girls were working: Genevive as an assistant to an ad-film director and Bhanu as an interior designer. Despite clashing schedules, they met every other evening at Bhanu’s house (which was now vertically split in half as Bhanu’s father and his brother battled in court over property). So Bhanu lied to her family about having to meet a client and took the lift to the ground floor, below which lay Genevive’s apartment. Slowly she walked down to the dreaded underground level, one rickety step at a time, her feet heavy on the creaking wood, the invisible crawl of cobwebs over her skin. On reaching the only door in the unlit passage, she rang a dusty bell. My Favourite Things played, twice, three times, after which Genevive opened the door. Her face was bloated with crying. She hugged Bhanu tightly and ushered her in.