by Roshan Ali
Some things were broken, some self-built crystalline structures about the world were shattered and gone, some clear things were murky, but others, once murky were gone.
The first few days I lay in bed wondering if things were a dream or real. I wished they were a dream, but I knew that they were real.
* * *
We had an aunt, a distant relative of Ajju’s, a cousin of my mother, whose large white house was cool and echoing. It had lawns and a large jackfruit tree. Goose Aunty fed crows, and said they spoke to her. She loved animals but the animals kept dying of overeating; three dogs, two cows, till now, more to come. And she was miserable most of the time and yet managed to disguise her misery with her love for me and Amma. When we visited, the auto drivers would always whistle when they dropped us at the gate because from the gate it was a three-minute walk to the house. Amma was always nervous but I never knew why.
Goose Aunty cooed and welcomed us, her body shaped like a top, draped always in summery light colours, her skin like untouched butter. And she would feed us like we were starved; cream and strawberries, buttery biscuits, foreign chocolates.
But once when we went to see her, sometime in August, just when the flowers were dead, she wasn’t doing so well, with a fever, a cold, body ache. She lay in bed, sniffling, sipping hot water. Amma went to her and pressed her small, cold, soft hand and she smiled at me. ‘Your favourite biscuits,’ she said and pointed to the table. When I sat they began to talk. Amma sat on the edge of the bed and nodded her head. Goose Aunty sobbed and sniffled. ‘The babaji who is in the ashram near 14th Main told me to have two pieces of neem bark mixed with water,’ she said. ‘Neem and milk is even better Donnie,’ said Amma. ‘You know the Ayurvedic doctor there in Moshi Avenue? He said neem and milk is the best. Anything you have, crush neem in warm milk, you’ll be fine.’
‘Dr Aroop? I know him Rukki. He told me wheatgrass and tomato juice.’
‘That’s also very good. You know, last year I had a bad stomach, ask Ib, and I took it in the morning, just one glass. I was fine in one week. That’s all.’
‘That is also very good for skin, Rukki.’
‘Yes, that’s true, Donnie.’
Like this they went on for a while, exchanging medical advice and medical conditions, till a small Nepali maid came in apologetically with a tray of golden turmeric milk and Goose Aunty sat up, sending the bed into violent spasms, and sat leaning against the bedpost.
‘Rukki, do you know turmeric milk is the best? My husband’s second cousin, he had cancer, ya, cancer, imagine, and he was having this every morning. Gone, Rukki! In two years he was fine.’
They shook their heads in awe and were silent for a minute. The little Nepali maid stood waiting in the corner.
‘What about that sadhu who lives in the temple on the hill?’ asked Goose Aunty suddenly.
Amma said, ‘I don’t know, Donnie. Baba says he’s a fraud.’
‘Fraud? Oh my god, I don’t think so at all. See, my husband went there last year once. That sadhu doesn’t talk to everyone, you know. Maybe that’s why Uncle said that. When my husband went, so clever that man is. He told him I would fall ill sometime next year—means this year, Rukki—and see it’s true. It’s written, I’m sure of it, in the planets. Tomorrow the moon is full. We must go and do a prayer there at that temple.’
My mother, slightly shocked, didn’t have time to construct an appropriate answer, and found herself agreeing. So the time was set: tomorrow, 7 p.m.
‘Bring Ib also,’ said Goose Aunty as we left the room, ‘it’ll do him good.’ I smiled and slipped out quickly.
I thought I ought to warn Mr Sadhu. Caught unawares by Goose Aunty could have deadly consequences for both him and her. And there was no stopping Goose Aunty when she wanted to do something. The priest had promised her, she said, that he would take her to the sadhu, that wise and powerful man who had predicted her illness. On the other hand, I had no intention of meeting him after our mountain adventure. I was still angry and bitter, my ego still stung as if a hot coal had fallen on it, and I could not get myself to see his ugly, dirty face. So I passed by the temple that evening and asked the priest to pass on a note. ‘Don’t open it,’ I warned him, ‘he’ll know if you open it.’ The priest was terrified of the sadhu, and shook his head nervously.
The next night we reached early and found Goose Aunty was already there talking in hushed tones with the priest. The priest was in his informal attire; grey polyester trousers and a checked green shirt. When they saw us, the priest disappeared into the temple. ‘He doesn’t like you very much, I believe,’ said Goose Aunty as we approached. ‘You know why, Ib?’ I nodded and shrugged. We entered the courtyard and on the far end the sadhu stood ready. Our eyes met and I thought I saw a flicker of thanks but it could have been my imagination.
Goose Aunty waddled ahead quickly and when she reached him, fell to her knees and touched her head on the floor. The sadhu patted her head and said, ‘Bless you, ma, bless you.’ She rose and immediately began to remove things from her bag one by one: a coconut, incense sticks, some green leaves, money, camphor. In silence she placed these objects by his feet. He sat crossed-legged and closed his eyes.
Goose Aunty lit the incense sticks and began to draw a circle in the air with them in front of the sadhu. Then she began to chant, a shrill, hooting chant that rose and fell in volume. At first the sadhu sat still but after a minute he suddenly cringed and opened his eyes. ‘Ma, thank you, ma, I bless you, may god bless you, may you live a long and healthy life.’
‘Please bless my husband also,’ she said.
‘Where is he?’
‘He doesn’t like to go out, babaji.’
‘All right, doesn’t matter. Bless your husband.’
‘Babaji, bless my husband with a long and healthy life, please. I cannot survive in this world without him.’
‘Ahh, yes, bless him with long and healthy life, he is a good man, he takes care of you, puts food on the table, takes care of plumbing and electric work, bless both of you kind souls.’
She bowed again, repeatedly, and thanked him. ‘This is for your health, babaji,’ she said finally, before rising, and placed some notes in his hand.
‘Please, ma, I don’t take money. If you want, put it in the bowl there for the temple.’
Goose Aunty’s eyes glistened and she nodded, speechless with blessing and specialness. ‘Thank you, babaji, thank you,’ she said and waddled away, and Amma followed her.
I remained in the courtyard. ‘Ib, glad you came,’ said Mr Sadhu, ‘I thought you would never come.’
‘Me too,’ I said and sat on the floor.
‘Shall we meditate?’ he asked.
I nodded and closed my eyes.
After an hour, he got up and brought some tea. ‘How have you been?’ he asked.
‘Confused, lost. Like normal.’
‘Yes, that is quite normal,’ he said, his eyes twinkling.
‘You’re back to cheating people?’ I asked.
His smile went away and he grew serious and straight.
‘That was her first visit, Ib,’ he said, ‘Let her come a few more times and I’ll destroy her world. That’s the only way, or she’ll go to someone else.’
‘I don’t know about your technique. Is it worth the pain for them?’
‘Look at your grandfather,’ he said. ‘After I rejected his ridiculous shrine, he just went to someone else and built a shrine. Now some fraud is making money from ignorant fools. I should have sucked him in and then spat him out.’
‘He would have killed you.’
‘Could be,’ he said, ‘could be.’
We sat thinking for a while. ‘So have you found a job?’ he asked.
‘Not yet.’
‘You know Bagram?’
‘Yes, he said he would give me work.’
‘Go to him, he’ll give you good work.’
PART 3
SIX
I have always set myself up
as an observer of things. I don’t know if this is true, and possibly may be the other way around. But I ignored this little solipsism and maintained my place, at least in my mind, as the one who watches, a stationary thing in the midst of many moving things, a stick in the middle of a river, planted firmly by its pointy end in the real stuff, not the sneaky liquid that flows around.
Others pass. And in the process, I forget about myself till it’s too late and the river is dry. Now a stick stands alone in a vast desert plain and not a drop of water anywhere. And if I was to take a little more credit and call myself a tree, say a peepul tree, then it becomes worse. The peepul tree dries, dies, is dead. This is the image which is most pertinent in my life: that of the dying peepul tree.
As I left home, I felt this movement in me; this same movement of others; felt myself sliding into the waters surrounding; becoming one with the flowing crowd. When Mr Bagram—whom I met first at the library office—offered me a position with benefits, I told him I could not do it because I had other things to do. And I was doing nothing, of course. The city I was lost in had become my home and my home was killing me with nothingness, but I couldn’t join in because joining in was what made the city a giant killing machine. That was limbo.
But finally, I could not maintain this hold of philosophy over life, practical life, and one bright afternoon, went to see Mr Bagram, or Bagram Sir, as his people called him, in his office with a crooked, rusty nameplate and three flaccid plants by the door. Mr Bagram was thin—his face was thin, his eyes were thin, but his ears were thick. His face was always curious and eager and his smile emerged always suddenly, unexpectedly, creating a great stir among his moustaches, and it always remained a few seconds after its time and need, between thin, rubbery lips that sometimes showed flashes of stunning white teeth. He was very dark too and often slipped out of sight, into shadows, between shafts of light, and emerged, like a man made of the dark. From head to small toes, there was very little change in width: hips were uncommon, and shoulders spanned a great little length almost as little as the width of his feet when he struck his impressive pose. With an absence of those trouser-sustaining hips, he was forced to wear his pants just below his tiny chest: And here, quite close to his narrow face, they were held by a thin black belt. But when he stood, a great importance came about the room and caused the others (and there was always someone around him) to hurriedly stand out of fear––respect was the excuse––as if at any moment his height would enable his ready anger to smite them where they sat. When everyone stood, the height advantage rapidly disappeared and then they would try their best to appear hunched and grovel about a bit. In a room, this curious radiance of power from such small, weak quarters gave it a feeling of satire, as if it was part of some play and he would wave his arm to add to the theatre. What he did I never knew, but it was well known that he was a man with connections and was known to help people. He had many enemies too but always appeared to have vanquished them all yesterday with that outdated, out-of-context smile that he carried everywhere like a memento.
Mr Bagram welcomed me into his office from behind his desk with a wave of his thin, dark arm. The office was cool and dark and smelt of ink and paper. The phone rang and he gestured at me: sit. I sat and the others retreated to the corners of the office; there they stood, barely visible, but listening and nodding. He spoke quietly, firmly and politely into the phone. ‘Yes, yes, I will arrange the meeting. But his office must approve first. Please send me the documents, then I will arrange the meeting. He is very busy, you know? OK, sir. Thank you.’ He put the phone down and laughed loudly seeing my face.
‘Ib, you don’t know how things work, young man,’ he said. ‘This is how things work. I have connections, I make more connections.’
Then his laugh condensed to a smile and he asked, ‘Can I help you?’
I told him about wanting a job, a small job, nothing too prestigious. He seemed disappointed that it was such a small favour. ‘No problem, no problem,’ he said and wrote something down quickly like a therapist making notes on his patient. ‘I will find about this, Ib, but just now, from my mind, I can tell you, you know Father George Mathew at the church? You can go there. He will give you work at the library immediately. They have a very good library, you know.’
This to my senses was harsh because by then the respectful fog of religion had cleared and I could not bear to look any more at the details, which were rotten and moth-eaten. He saw the hesitation on my face and leaned forward from behind his desk (the others shuffled their feet behind me) and the many jewelled rings on his thin, dark fingers clicked on the glass-topped table.
‘What is the youth of today doing?’ he said (the others nodded). ‘They are always looking for ideas. For these golden, beautiful ideas to fall like apples from sky, to eat it in your lap. I was struggling here. You see me? Any apple that has fallen on my lap has been rotten. I have become like this, of this much size, not because of my honesty and ideas and good quality but because of connections. Life is connections. Myself am not religious, you see, but I do go to the temple because of my family, of my life and my wife and my business life. I know what you feel––as a young person, I too was full of big ideas and I enjoyed till I realized, till I saw ants one day, in my college. And I thought, “These little creatures are so hard-working, and I am blessed with brains, yet I do nothing, just only waste my time.” So next day I started my business.’ He gestured largely around him to indicate his achievements and his kingdom. ‘We must be like ants, Ib, connect, build. So we cannot be fighting, avoiding, offending people. We connect with other people. We form societies under societies. These days, nobody is teaching things that matter.’
‘I’m nothing like an ant, sir,’ I said.
He laughed. ‘Then what are you, Ib? What do you want to become?’
‘I am more like a tree, sir. I stand and watch things.’
‘A tree? OK, a tree is a nice thing surely,’ he said. ‘We have many benefits from trees, like shade and coolness. But how can a tree move forward and grow? They need water and nutrients, and if there is no rain, the tree will die. But an ant, he will meet along with his family, and they will survive.’ He stood suddenly and paced the area behind his desk. Then he stopped and said, ‘Maybe you are a tree, Ib, but you must try to become more like ants.’
I agreed. There was no foreseeable end to the ant versus tree debate. He was more of an ant man, obviously, and I a tree man, and an ant and a tree, though of the same planet and DNA, are so different that even if they were given voices, they would find it very difficult to discuss things. Such was the case of myself and Mr Bagram; we were of the same planet, yet a world apart. But perhaps he did have a point, perhaps I did need to become more ant-like. At the same time, I was sure that he needed to become more tree-like, but this wasn’t something I wanted to say to him.
‘Where are you parents?’ he asked, sitting once again and leaning forward. ‘They know where you are? You look like someone who is not living with his parents.’ I nodded and he seemed pleased to diagnose the disease.
‘So,’ he said finally, ‘you want to meet Father George? He’s OK, Ib. He’s fine only. No problem with god and all. He will leave you alone to do your work. And maybe later I will tell your name to my newspaper editor friend. You like all that, no?’ I agreed and stood to leave but he stopped me with a wave of his line-like hand. ‘You always must watch out, Ib,’ he said, and now he was serious and concerned, with none of that casual, amused affection with which he normally addressed me. ‘Your face is very scared. They will kill you if they see you are scared. They will take you for a ride. Through the dirtiest streets, through the gutter. You have to act tough, even if you’re not. Like a policeman. Your face is blank, pretend that you know what you are doing. This is what is the secret of India. This is India.’ And the others nodded, agreeing that indeed this is India.
Soon, I began to work in the church library. The library was decent in every way that a library could
be decent, and this wasn’t something I liked. After all, a decent library means it doesn’t have any crude books, and what is literature, the written word, language itself, without crudeness? That doesn’t mean we are all murderers and should be, but in our deepest fantasies, our darkest hours, putting pen to paper: Who else is going to show us ourselves, if not these men and women of language and letters? And as someone called Augie March once said about death and how mirrors work, so indecency is the thing that shows us decency.
In-charge was Father George, a brisk and confident walker, with a distant hairline, like faraway trees on a smooth dark beach (from one angle), and a small, weak face. But his smart walking style didn’t do enough to hide an insecurity that came out whenever he tried explaining things to people, which unfortunately he needed to do a lot. Sometimes, he would come to work late and just sit at his desk, staring ahead of him, like a zombie, or a stiff corpse, till someone knocked loudly on his door. Then he would jump up and begin his day, but the person who knocked would know, that one day if nobody knocked, Father George would be lost.
In a few weeks, the library had become home. I spent the whole day there, or in the large hall, till the maid shuffled in looking tired at six to clean up and weep about life and her drunk husband. I also began to read there, and despised how people interrupted: A young man, my age, looking for meaning, with a meaningless moustache and ugly trousers; an old widow looking for the Lord who, she said, ‘buried my husband of forty-three years, then died with him. I must find that Lord again.’ And of course, I found, god was not dead, but was indeed non-living and in that distinction, it was clear that god had never existed, but was longer-lasting and humourless like a rock or a plastic bottle. On a few occasions, science came, and was promptly thrown out by Father George, who had never asked for outrageous books about evolution and astronomy. ‘Idisay bad precedent,’ he shouted at the disappearing backs of salesmen who, having hurriedly packed up their goods, dwindled into the thick city to peddle them elsewhere, in the same way they would peddle anything else, unaware of their monumental importance, of what it meant, small them near big church.