Four of Mohan’s shirts, collected this morning from the ironing boys, lay on the bed. She looked at them in exasperation. It was still there, the mild ring of dirt inside his collars, like a smudged pencil line. It wasn’t his fault; nothing could be done. She had scrubbed at some of them to remove the mark, but it had been the collar, not the stain, that had begun to despair and fray. It was in these things, which didn’t talk or, strictly speaking, have lives, that her days played out: her relationship with the shirts, neatly ironed and folded, was so much more direct than any other interaction these days.
She changed the sheets, and decided to go to the temple; this was turning into an afternoon habit. It was partly a pretext to leave the house and take a walk; she saw other women there, who were probably bored, like her.
The apartment block was quiet and sleepy now: a hot diagonal strip of sun was the only living thing in the stairwell. She almost smiled as she recognized her state of mind. Often, on the way to the temple, she’d feel slightly irritated. It was perverse, after all, to go out in the afternoon heat and walk in the dirt beside the main road. As she went, looking down and treading carefully to avoid stepping in anything, she ran through the vegetables left at home and worked out what to cook for dinner. Ashish’s expression as he’d been leaving in the morning flitted through her mind. What had he been up to? He had seemed happy, pleased about something. Her thoughts turned to the most recent episode of Daughters of the House. The misunderstandings between the heroine, Shruti, and her daughter-in-law, Shreya, never seemed to end: it was deliciously vexing. Of course it was unlike real life; when she’d first been married and living with her mother-in-law and sisters-in-law, there’d been no dramatic arguments or cruelties, only ongoing frustrations: her sister-in-law’s perpetual sniping, or Aai, their mother-in-law, with her rules. She’d been a traditional woman, not unkind, but rigid in a way Lakshmi’s upbringing hadn’t prepared her for. The two daughters-in-law had to serve the food and eat later, with Aai; though this didn’t apply to Mohan’s sister, who was a little spoilt. And Aai had a habit, when Lakshmi was slipping out in the morning after having done her chores, of saying, ‘Make sure you’re home in time for lunch’, even when she was going to see her father and her brother.
She turned into the temple compound, a little door set into a wall. How she’d missed her brother in those first days after her marriage. They had been close when she’d been a young child, after their mother died. The sister closest to her in age was envious of her; the elder brother and sister were aloof, already involved in their own lives. Satish had been there, though. He was doing well in college but he had time for her: he would come home in the evening and discuss school with her, or take her outside to play a game of badminton. Even now, those days seemed so near – they were just behind her elbow.
In the temple she said her prayers in front of each idol. At first, she felt slightly foolish doing this; by the end, she was relieved of something inexplicable. The cold stone floor under her feet became associated with handing over a slew of tiny troubles to the gods, who accepted them impersonally. She felt lighter afterwards, and was nearly playful as she circumambulated the inner shrine; she put the palm of her hand on each of the four rough stone walls as she passed. On the way home she’d feel calmer, more confident: she’d think about Shreya, Shruti, and the others, and imagine helping them solve their differences; she’d make them sit down (in her own house) with cups of tea and get them to talk through their quarrels. She saw them smile and relax at the end of these scenes, and though the fantasy made her laugh at herself, it was oddly delightful; the thought would accompany her for some time.
In the courtyard she blinked at the light. An older woman whom she’d often seen here was sitting on the bench where Lakshmi had been planning to rest.
The other woman smiled; Lakshmi smiled back and sat down. They looked towards the gate of the complex; then Lakshmi leaned back and gazed into the papery, shifting leaves of the banyan tree above, where two crows were having an amicably ill-tempered conversation.
‘So quiet here,’ her companion said.
‘Lovely,’ Lakshmi agreed. She adjusted her dupatta, and kept an eye on her slippers, which were near the four steps leading to the main Shiv temple; really, it looked like a low, square hut, except for the decorated roof and the small gopuram, which disappeared into the outreaching arms of the tree. The banyan seemed very contented here, and she thought of those in Saraswati Park, especially the one in the empty plot. It was a tall, handsome, spreading thing – but now it was surrounded by building debris and concrete dust.
The same bird, whose song she almost seemed to recognize, sang and chirruped above them. She hummed the sequence to herself, a fall of four notes in which the first was stressed: MA ga re sa, except that they weren’t full notes apart, maybe half; a plaintive effect followed by a squeak of happiness.
The older woman laughed. ‘Do you sing?’
‘Oh no. No.’ She smiled. ‘Only when I’m alone. I always loved music, but my father never wanted me to learn. We lived in a small place, and he thought my practice would disturb everyone.’
The bird went into an extra trill of what appeared to be sheer joy.
The other woman disclosed, ‘I’m fasting today. Until sunset, then I’ll eat something, but without salt.’
Lakshmi nodded. One fasted for one’s husband, or one’s children, for good health or good exam results; one could fast in order to propitiate a particular god, or even to lose weight. Some people, and this thought made her raise her eyebrows, fasted in order to obtain the same husband in the next life. She’d never kept a fast, partly because Mohan hadn’t encouraged it. This was one of the ways in which their marriage was modern; she also called him by his name openly, unlike many women of a previous generation. And fasting had always seemed peculiar to her, a specious way for women to add structure to the week; it was a voluntary trial that made them feel virtuous, but not for any reason that she understood. However, she knew her part in this conversation.
‘So you take milk during the day?’
The other woman sighed. ‘Water, milk, sometimes fruit; also Lay’s.’
Lakshmi nodded. Potato wafers, not being made of grain, constituted fasting food.
The other woman turned to her. ‘You don’t fast at all? Not even on Mondays?’
She wondered if she should lie and claim to be diabetic. But she smiled instead. ‘No,’ she said.
The older woman shrugged. ‘Well, I must go home and cook,’ she said. She got up a little stiffly; she wasn’t thin, despite, or perhaps because of, all the fasting. ‘Good for you,’ she said. ‘These things are a pain when you start. You can’t stop, and then it goes on, week in, week out.’ Lakshmi smiled, and the other woman waved, an oddly masculine gesture, and began to walk slowly towards the gate.
Lakshmi sat on. It was only five forty-five or so; she’d go home in some time and do the cooking just before they ate. Ashish would be on his way back now, or perhaps he’d already arrived, but she relinquished the thought of hurrying home to make him eat something. She had worried, at first, that he was unhappy living with them, or that he didn’t feel comfortable. He so often lurked in his own room. But then she recognized something in him: the pleasure in quietness, the curious interest in navigating his way through vast spaces of boredom. Anyway, he was quite capable in the kitchen, and if he wanted tea or a snack, knew how to help himself. His uncle would soon be home; the two of them could sit grunting at each other over sections of the newspaper or, as an adventure, make something to eat.
As sunset approached, she felt a small stinging, as though someone had stuck a tiny syringe into her forearm. She wiped at the skin. There was an angry whine: the first mosquito bite of the day. From the main temple came the sound of chanting and more people, some younger as well as the elderly ones, filed in hastily from diverse places, removed their footwear, and hurried inside. A good, strong smell of incense came out: it would soon be time for th
e aarti to start. She didn’t want to go in and wait for the prasad, so she got up and found her sandals in the jumble of others and went out of the gate as the sky darkened and birds began to cry. More people were still coming into the courtyard.
Chapter Six
Just when it seemed the temperature could go no higher and the weather become no stickier, there were storms. A crazed wind rifled through the house, knocking things over; Lakshmi and Ashish ran around trying to shut the windows, but the wind was too strong: it entered and left heaps of a strange, ash-brown dust in the corners of rooms. One night Mohan woke as though to a familiar voice in a dream. The air was cool and moist; outside, he heard the rain.
By morning the world had altered utterly. He looked out of the living room window and saw the grey sky and the rain; the lane was transmuted into mud. The watchman’s hut had magically acquired a tarpaulin over the door; it was time to take out the umbrellas and raincoats. He went to look for them in the passage, where the air hung moist and heavy, as though a low-density cloud was passing through the house. The rain gear was in a plastic bag behind one of the shelves.
Every year when the rains came it was like returning to a well-known place after a long journey. The mind mercifully blocked out the recollection of how it really was: the sodden, dark days, roads full of water, the dirt; instead, as the summer heat built up, one waited impatiently for the rains, when, it seemed, new life would begin. Soon, it would be time for Ashish to start college.
Later in the morning, Mohan walked into the muddy lane. He wore dark trousers and rain sandals, and carried a sturdy black umbrella. When he saw the enormous old banyan in the empty plot he did a double take: the tree appeared to have grown fresher and younger with the new season. Two of the pi-puppies from the lane shivered, drenched, under its overarching arms. The construction workers who were laying a foundation in the plot had made a shrine at the bottom of the tree; they had plastered orange paint on part of the trunk, tied red threads around it, and put a couple of laminated pictures of gods at the base. Recently he’d seen one of them lighting a stick of incense and muttering a prayer there early in the morning. The banyan tree now looked serene and benevolent, the kind of tree village students sit under in a historical film.
He plashed his way to the train station. The back lanes were filling up with dirty water; the storm water drains were clogged. The smell of the first rain – fresh, leafy – brought back memories: walking to school behind his brother, who was charged with Mohan’s care and was impatient in the way of elder brothers, hissing, ‘Come on! Hurry up!’ When they entered the school lane he’d turn with a snarl to remind Mohan that from here onwards they were as strangers to each other. Mohan hadn’t known what it was to have the favoured slot of the first child, so he found Vivek’s resentment comical, even witty. Other memories: running around in Shivaji Park with friends, kicking a ball and getting filthy. One of his classmates had been a boy called Yezdi, whose father owned a bakery; he now wrote cook-books and food columns for the Indian Record. Yezdi had been fat, or at least what passed for fat in those days. Mohan had quite liked him, even admired his audacity. He remembered conversations with the other boy as they walked part of the way home together after a match.
‘My father’s going to scream when he sees my marks from the maths test,’ Yezdi had said, swinging his school bag from one arm. He was never tired after games, mainly because, Zenlike, he attended them without really participating.
Mohan had grinned. ‘Does he always ask for your marks?’
‘Always. And he always screams.’ Yezdi chuckled. ‘Last time he was going to clip me round the ear because when he said, Why is it that my only child can never get above sixty per cent in anything, I said, Remember, I get the highest marks of all your children.’
Mohan had giggled, scandalized but also impressed. ‘What about your mother, what does she say?’
‘Oh, she doesn’t care.’ They had reached the road where they would part ways, and they stood on a corner chatting under a gulmohar tree; tiny, petal-like leaves fell into Yezdi’s hair. Mohan’s shins ached from running. ‘She just wants me to eat well and be happy.’
Mohan had reached out and grabbed a handful of the other boy’s infinitely soft stomach at this, and Yezdi must have puffed his pregnant belly out in valediction; that was his habit. He grinned to himself at the thought. The fellow had been shameless. His face closed: later, they’d fallen out over a stupidity, though it had seemed to matter very much at the time – perhaps just one of those things, an awkwardness seized with relief by boys who silently realized that, as they grew up, they had little in common.
Because of the rain, everyone felt less like moving around. So in the morning, when it was quiet, the letter writers sat under the tarpaulin reading the papers while it poured outside. Legions of ankles and umbrellas hurried past, on their way to offices.
‘Arre-arre-arre,’ said Khan.
Mohan looked up. ‘Hm?’ he said.
Khan waved a page of the Urdu Times. ‘Cinema projectionist Saleem Ansari, alias Munna, twenty-nine, from Albert Cinema, Falkland Road, held for allegedly raping and murdering a girl,’ he said.
‘Him? But we know him, don’t we?’
Khan nodded. ‘He’s been in that area for ever. I remember when he started out at the theatre, he was just a skinny kid who used to hang around outside the projectionist’s office, getting on his nerves.’
‘Who’s the girl?’
‘It doesn’t say – the victim was a twenty-four-year-old woman, that’s all it says.’
Mohan opened his English paper. A short report, in more or less the same words, appeared in the Metro Briefs column that he read daily, a collection of notices and items taken from the police briefings:
Friends of the Trees announces its annual planting drive: saplings include bakul, cannonball and tamarind…
Chain snatching in Wadala…
Maid arrested for theft, Bandra (West)…
Cinema projectionist arrested for rape.
But there was no further information. What could have possessed the young man? He thought of the woman in the green sari – these were the occupational hazards she and her colleagues faced. But perhaps the victim hadn’t been a prostitute – the paper would have said so, surely. Some other young girl, then. Inexplicable things continued to happen, a fact to which the Metro Briefs attested. When the crime was sensational enough the reports would reappear in the afternoon paper, fleshed out and sporting a photo of the accused. The smaller items, though, flared and died in the briefs. He read:
Woman attempts suicide in Shivaji Park
A 34-year-old woman who had drunk a bottle of pesticide was found at about 8 a.m. by morning walkers in Shivaji Park, police said. The woman, who was not named, was taken to Hinduja Hospital and was reported to be recovering.
Things that happened near Shivaji Park always struck him because it was so near the area where they’d grown up (a shard of his mind pointed out that he’d yet to go and see his brother; he’d promised) and he thought, what a way to let a life leak out, poisoned, probably in a lot of pain, twitching in a dusty corner of the maidan and found by a man in shorts, or a woman, a little burly, in salwar kameez and sneakers.
It continued to rain; outside the tarpaulin the air was heavy and moist. Drips fell from the plastic sheeting into a small, reservoir-like puddle that had appeared in the road. Every third passer-by tramped heavily into it, and cursed when he or she realized how deep it was.
Lost lives, Mohan thought, and his mind returned, bleakly and then with forbidden excitement, to Ashish’s suggestion and the book.
‘I want a letter written in Hindi, please.’
It was a tiny, thin, undistinguished-looking man, who wore a clean but threadbare kurta-pyjama and steel spectacles; his hair was neatly oiled. He looked like a computer programmer but turned out to be some kind of guru.
My dear disciple Raju,
I am writing to you from Bombay. Hemant,
Kabeer and I are still in Goregaon. We think of you often and wonder how you are progressing at home.
‘Your student?’
‘My disciple, yes. He doesn’t read English and I can’t write Hindi. He has a lot of problems,’ the man mused. Mohan looked up. Nervous energy seemed to buzz from the other man, as though he existed at a higher frequency than other people. He smiled suddenly. ‘Actually he has no problems,’ he went on, in his accented, odd Hindi, ‘but it seems to him that he has a lot of problems. His father has died, he has to look after the family. He was working here in Bombay but then he went home. He’s young, he worries about his life.’ He cleared his throat and Mohan bent again to the inland letter card.
I hope that you are remaining calm and hopeful and that you find a little time each day to do your spiritual practice. Even if it is for five minutes before you sleep at night it will do you good. Do not worry about money matters, health or other things. We are all with you.
Nityananda.
‘That’s it?’
The other man’s eyes, vulnerable and apparently enormous behind his thick spectacles, peered into Mohan’s. ‘You see, there is nothing wrong with him. His luck is very good. But he worries.’ He sighed. ‘I’m like his parent, his friend, his little brother. He feels alone, that’s his only problem. But it won’t be his problem for ever.’
Saraswati Park Page 6