by Unknown
This is the perfect time to confide in my father, to let him in on my secret. But I am too scared of his reaction.
Five days before I was to apply for my visa, I had received a letter from the chair of the journalism school at Ohio State.
It was a reply to my query of whether I could count on receiving a graduate assistantship once I got to Columbus.
The letter contained bad news. All assistantships for the year had been assigned months earlier, it said…I may qualify for one the following year but it is much too late for this year. And then, the death knell: ‘Please do not arrive without securing adequate funding for the entire year.’
Adequate funding for a whole year? After adding up every last loan, scholarship, and every penny that my father can spare, I am leaving for the US with less than four thousand dollars. My out-of-country tuition for fall semester alone will eat up more than half of that amount. I have no idea how much rent, food and other expenses will cost.
So this is where it all ends—with the lack of money. Dad was right after all—within reason, moneyis important. I have been a fool to laugh at him. I remember a ditty Mehroo had made up when I was a kid: No mon, no fun, my son. My face burns with embarrassment at the thought of facing neighbours, friends, relatives, all of whom think I am to leave for America in less than a month’s time. I feel bitter, as if life has played this terrible joke on me. To bring me so close to freedom and then to trap me again…I wonder if I’ll ever get over this disappointment, whether I will someday rise above it or whether I will let it sour me, so that I’ll end up a frustrated, bitter woman, angry at her fate, distrusting of happiness. Bombay is filled with people like this.
The worst part is knowing that this setback will crush my father because he will blame himself for it. Already, he has told me repeatedly about how bad he feels about my having to apply to strangers for loans and scholarships. ‘It was always my dream that I would pay for your entire education,’ he says.
‘I am so sorry that I have failed you this time.’ Nothing I say to the contrary makes him feel better. He will be inconsolable once I make the contents of this letter public. He will curse his misfortune, remember every failed business opportunity, apologize to me every chance he gets. He will see himself as the killer of his daughter’s dreams.
To hell with it. I will go to America regardless of the letter.
The alternative is much too terrible. I will arrive in Columbus and pretend that I never received Prof Decker’s letter, blame the irregularities of the Indian mail system. I will go to Columbus and talk my way into an assistantship, make something out of nothing, create opportunity out of thin air. I am my father’s daughter, after all. I can do this. I can do this.
I must be very careful now. If mummy comes across this letter during one of her regular snooping-around sessions, that will be the end of this. I mustn’t let slip any comment that will arouse suspicion. My family is worried enough about my being this far away. All along, I have assured them that I will find my way once I get there, told them that assistantships are there for the asking at American universities. They must not sense any wavering, any doubts on my part, at this late date.
Best to destroy the letter. I read Dr Decker’s brief remarks a few times, committing them to memory. Then, I tear it into tiny pieces. But I can’t risk putting the pieces in the garbage.
I open the window to my study. The room overlooks a court-yard which the ground floor neighbour gets swept every morning. Making sure that none of the other neighbours are looking, I throw the letter out the window.
I watch until every last piece of my secret flies down two storeys and kisses the ground.
One evening daddy comes home and asks me to go on a drive with him. We park at our usual spot at Nariman Point and then sit on the concrete wall overlooking the water. It is a cool, windy night and the place is filled with couples out on an evening stroll, infants pestering their parents to buy them a balloon from the balloonwalla and old men walking their dogs.
‘I want to tell you something,’ dad is saying. ‘And I want you to remember what I say to you tonight.’
I brace myself for what I think is coming—another lecture about being too impulsive and trusting, the extraction of yet another promise to never drink in public.
But he is saying something quite different. ‘You are travelling further than any member of our family has ever travelled,’ he says. ‘Even I, with all my travels have never been that far. But that is correct—each generation should go further and fly higher than the last. I am allowing you to go because you once told me that it will make you happy to study in America. You remember? Bas, in that moment I made up my mind. Many of my friends are already telling me that I’m mad to let my own child go so far away. But I have always lectured you to have dreams and then to work to realize them. So how can I stop you now? Of course, if even one baal on your head is injured, I will never forgive myself. And when you go, I will lose not only my daughter but my best friend.’
He stops and waits for the lump in his throat to dissolve. I stare wordlessly at the tossing sea, not daring to say a word until I can control my own emotions.
‘There is something I want from you,’ he continues. ‘A promise.’
Here it is. ‘Of course, daddy,’ I say. ‘Anything you want.’
‘Okay. I want you to promise me that if you are unhappy after getting there, if someone treats you shabbily or looks at you funny—after all, darling, you know how these Westerners with their superiority complex can look down on us—but if anybody says or does anything to make you feel small, you just come right back to Bombay. Don’t
worry about air-fare, pride, what people will say—nothing. I will defend you against all that. There is no shame in having tried something and changing your mind. That is not failure.’
I stare at him speechlessly, awed by the fact that in the midst of his own sorrow, in the middle of all the hustle-bustle, he has found time to think about all this.
‘Daddy,’ I say and then I have to stop. ‘Daddy, I…love you so much. I can’t even begin to…’
He smiles and even though it is dark I see so much kindness and love in his eyes, it takes my breath away. I am not worthy of this, I think. I am not good enough for the love of this man.
‘I know, sweetheart,’ he says. ‘I know.’
I put my arm around his neck. We sit there for the longest time, staring at the water pounding against the black rocks, feeling its spray against our faces. Don’t ever let me forget this evening, I whisper to the sea. Don’t ever let me forget how loved I am.
The foam on the surface of the black water hisses as it hits the rocks.
Twenty-four
TIME TO LEAVE FOR THE airport. But how? How to take that first step out of the apartment? This, after all, is the only home I’ve ever known, the house where I’ve spent the first twenty-one years of my life. These neighbours who, with their gossip, their nosiness, and their unsolicited advice once made my life so miserable, are also the same people who have showered me with gifts and blessings the last few weeks. Now, although it’s eleven p.m., the lights in almost every apartment in the building are still on. They are all staying up to see me off.
‘Come on, sweetheart,’ dad says for the third time. ‘We are already late for the airport.’
Still, I linger. Mehroo ushers me before the small altar that has photographs of Babu and my grandparents. ‘Ask them for their blessings,’ she says. ‘Ask them to watch over you. And come back to us soon, accha?’ Overcome by her own words, she hugs me tightly and then starts sobbing softly. I hold on to her. ‘It’s only two years, Mehroofui,’ I say, not believing my own words. ‘The time will go by so quickly. And if I can finish my degree even faster than two years, I will.’
Dad walks into the kitchen. ‘No tears, no tears,’ he says to Mehroo. ‘Today is a happy day.’ But his voice is hoarse and he must suddenly blow his nose.
It was dad’s idea to have a small party earl
ier this evening.
It was a good idea. Having close relatives like Mani aunty and her family over had kept the atmosphere relatively light. As always, I played the bartender, refilling everybody’s glasses, pouring myself a stiff drink when no one was looking.
Dad had opened a bottle of Johnnie Walker that he had saved for ‘a special occasion’. But even the alcohol is not helping me tonight, not giving me the courage to cross the threshold of the apartment and head down the stairs.
Mani aunty comes to my rescue. ‘Come on,’ she says, with her characteristic blend of faux sternness and humour. ‘The sooner we can drop you off at the airport, the sooner we can all go home and sleep. You know me—I need my beauty sleep.’
Everybody laughs more heartily than the joke requires. But things have been set in motion. The two men from the factory who have been squatting on the landing enter the apartment and carry my two suitcases down the stairs. As if some invisible switch has gone on, doors to various apartments fling open and groggy-looking neighbours stand in their doorways. I bend down to kiss Ronnie, my thirteen-year-old golden cocker spaniel, knowing that I may never see him again. ‘Bye, Ronnie,’
I say. ‘You be a good boy, okay? No pulling on your chain when Freny kaki walks you.’ He whines and licks my face.
My family gathers around me. Although they are all coming to the airport, it is understood that this will be the only opportunity for unfettered demonstrations of love. And so it is: Long hugs, tight as a pair of jeans. Kisses the size of Kashmiri apples.
Promises extracted, like teeth at a dentist’s office. Promises to write daily. To call home once a week. To not marry a foreigner.
To not develop an accent. To not forget them. To return immediately, by hook or by crook, if there is a war or something, God forbid. To let them know if I need anything, any time.
Love pouring like sweat out of their faces. Words, sweet as chocolates, tumbling out of their mouths. What sort of fool walks away from this much love?
We start going down the stairs, dad on my right, his protective arm around my shoulder. I will my shoulders not to shake in grief. At all costs, none of them must know how deeply grief is slashing my body. They must think I am happy, excited to be going. That is the only way this night will be bearable for them.
We stop every few feet to say goodbye to the neighbours.
The ones who have known me from the day of my birth, kiss me, hold me close to them, even pinch my cheeks. The newer neighbours shake my hand and say, ‘Best of luck.’ The older ones bless me, ask me to make my mummy-daddy proud. All of them ask me to never forget them. As if there is any danger of that.
We step into the street. My immediate family piles into the Ambassador. Mani aunty’s family follows in their cream Fiat while Jesse and Dinshaw look around for a cab. As we turn the corner, I turn back for one last look at my old apartment building. Before the sun rises on this street this morning, I will be thousands of miles away.
Bombay Airport.
Horns blaring, cars parked illegally, coolies swarming around the vehicles, jostling with each other to earn the right to carry the bulging suitcases of the passengers.
And the crowds. Families of twelve to fifteen people hover round the garlanded traveller. Among the Hindu families, there is much feet touching and head bowing and many blessings conferred.
My own family has grown subdued. Even dad is exhausted from the effort of keeping everybody’s spirits from flagging.
There is a part of me that wants all this to be over soon because I don’t know how much longer any of us can stand this combination of sleeplessness and fatigue and bone-piercing grief.
I look around in desperation for Jesse and Dinshaw. Youth requires reinforcement from other youth.
There they are. Jesse walks up to us in her usual jaunty way, her hands thrust deep into her pant pockets but when she comes closer, I notice that her eyes are red. She has been crying in the cab.
We check in my suitcases, go through the other formalities.
Dinshaw suggests we all move to the nearby café and have a drink. He and dad go up to the counter and return armed with Gold Spots and Mangolas and Limcas. We sip our drinks. I can feel everybody’s eyes caressing me. When I rest my hand on the Formica top of the table, Freny covers it with her own and squeezes it. ‘Thank you, kaki,’ I say.
She squeezes even tighter. ‘You are my sunshine, my pride and joy,’ she whispers. ‘Always keep my collar up.’
Jesse comes up to me and hands me an envelope. It says, ‘To be read only after seatbelt is safely fastened.’ We exchange a glance, a million memories ping-ponging between us. I stuff the letter in my pocket.
There is an oversized clock in the café and every few minutes I glance at it. I have never been this aware of the passing of time. I want to scale the wall where the clock hangs and grab hold of its hand, wrestle with it until it stops its relentless journey forward.
An airport photographer approaches us as we leave the café.
Someone decides that there should be a group picture to commemorate this occasion. I groan inwardly. But I allow myself to be gripped by multiple hands and made to stand in the centre, feel all of them shuffle and shift behind me so that we are in the photographer’s frame. Everybody is trying to touch me in some way—dad puts his arm around my waist, mummy clings to one arm, Mehroo to the other, and Freny and Roshan stand behind me, a hand on each shoulder. We are a multi-limbed organism, all greedy hands and needy fingers, held together by history and memory and love.
‘Say cheese,’ the photographer says and half-heartedly we comply. I smile the dead smile of someone trying hard not to look grim. I look grim.
The camera flashes and its fire makes me blink. I am sure my eyes are half-closed in the picture. But perhaps that is appropriate. After all, I am trying to will away the reality of what is going on, what is about to happen.
We move like a funeral procession through the airport until we get to customs. We stop under a huge sign that says, ‘Only Ticket Holders Allowed Past This Point’. So it ends here.
I want to say so much, my mouth is full of words to say, words as sweet and rich as the mangoes I used to stuff in my mouth during the summer months. And yet…what is left to say that I haven’t said before? What does it mean to say ‘I love you,’ to someone moments before you plunge a knife into their heart? I have wanted this moment of emancipation, fantasized about it, salivated over it, would’ve sold my soul for it. And here it is. All I have to do now is find the strength to walk away from this group of people whose love is the only sure thing in my life. I have chosen this path, created it out of thin air and imagination. Now, it’s time to walk it.
I pull myself away from the last embrace and start walking.
The airport suddenly seems as large and lonely as a city. I am a cold-blooded killer, there is blood on my hands. I have just committed parricide, destroyed the lives of those who have offered me only love. I have stayed up nights plotting against them, prayed to the gods to deliver me from their clawing needs. And the gods have listened. So why do I have this dead, empty spot inside me?
Each step I take moves me further away from them, creates an ever-expanding galaxy between me and all I know. Even now, I could turn back. It is not too late. I could stand still, not take another step. They would come get me. I have choices.
Dad has already told me to rush home if the slightest thing goes wrong. We could get a refund on the tickets. I could stay here, get a job atThe Times of India .
I keep walking.
I turn around to wave. They are getting smaller and fainter by the second, like the setting sun sinking into the ocean. I feel myself grow large and demon-like with each step. I imagine that everybody at the airport can see the monster inside me, that people will avoid me all my life because this dead spot in my heart will grow, will travel up my bloodstream until it settles in my eyes. That I will always be a half-person, living a half-life because of this unnatural act I am abou
t to commit.
I come from a people for whom geography is destiny. My family members have not moved even six blocks from where they were born. Who am I to dare to travel eight thousand miles? Immigration is an unnatural act, an act born out of frustration and yearning. Surely nothing good can come out of such an inauspicious beginning. There is a reason why, for thousands of years, people stayed put. Yes, the history of hu-mankind is also the history of migration but that was different—people moved with their families, their tribes, their villages. This individual taking leave is a twentieth-century phe-nomenon. There is something non-human about this.
Oh knock it off, cut the bull crap, drop this pseudo-historic shit. The fault lies in you. You’re not strong enough to see this through, admit it. Who were you kidding all this time—all the time and money and energy wasted on begging for loans and applying for a visa and getting admitted to a college stupid enough to admit you—all this effort and now, at the moment of reckoning you can’t see it through.
So end this masquerade right now, run back into their waiting arms and tell them you can’t do it. Slam the door shut on dreams of learning how to do your own laundry and staying out late at night and being independent. Trade in vague, ab-stract notions of freedom for guaranteed love. Come on, throw in the towel. You always were a quitter anyway, nobody will be too surprised.
God forgive me, I keep walking. I am approaching a corner and once I turn this corner, my people will disappear from my view. And if they disappear, they, who are all I know, will I disappear too? Will I recognize myself, without the old sign-posts?