Fasting, Feasting

by Anita Desai

  Uma would have thought that she would be the most welcome of all since Mira-masi was constantly visiting relatives, even the most remotely situated, and brought news of them—births, marriages, deaths, illnesses, scandals, litigation, gossip, rumours, prattle, tittle-tattle.... If only that were all she brought, Mama's groan seemed to imply. Unfortunately, gossip was just one aspect of Mira-masi's life—the social one—but there were others that were distinctly antisocial.

  Ever since her widowhood, she had taken up religion as her vocation. Her day was ruled by ritual, from the moment she woke to make her salutations to the sun, through her ritual bath and morning prayers, to the preparation of her widow's single and vegetarian meal of the day (that Arun found so appetising that he wolfed it down in a way Mama took as an affront), and through the evening ceremonies at the temples she visited. Only at night, after spreading out on the floor the rush mat that she brought with her, would she sit down cross-legged and relate to Mama all the annals of the family (Mama was avid to hear the gossip yet bristled to think Mira-masi could consider it her family when she was only the second, possibly the third wife of an unspeakable member of it, so her listening face was contorted with all her battling emotions and was a sight worth seeing). Then, when Mama had been called away by an increasingly irate Papa who did not tolerate his wife's attention straying from him and was being kept awake by their voices besides, it would be Uma's turn. Curling up on the mat, around Mira-masi's comfortable lap, one hand on her thumping, wagging knee, Uma would listen to her relate those ancient myths of Hinduism that she made sound as alive and vivid as the latest gossip about the family. To Mira-masi the gods and goddesses she spoke of, whose tales she told, were her family, no matter what Mama might think—Uma could see that.

  She never tired of hearing the stories of the games and tricks Lord Krishna played as a child and a cowherd on the banks of the Jumna, or of the poet-saint Mira who was married to a raja and refused to consider him her husband because she believed she was already married to Lord Krishna and wandered through the land singing songs in his praise and was considered a madwoman till the raja himself acknowledged her piety and became her devotee. Best of all was the story of Raja Harishchandra who gave up his wealth, his kingdom and even his wife to prove his devotion to the god Indra and was reduced to the state of tending cremation fires for a living; his own wife was brought to him for her cremation when at last the god took pity on him and restored her to life. Then Uma, with her ears and even her fingertips tingling, felt that here was someone who could pierce through the dreary outer world to an inner world, tantalising in its colour and romance. If only it could replace this, Uma thought hungrily.

  It was her passion to attempt this miracle that made her follow Mira-masi through the cycle of the day's rituals, even crouch beside her at the outdoor hearth specially built for her with bricks and clay so that she could cook her own meals at a safe distance from the cook who laughed contemptuously in the kitchen where he fried up onions and garlic and stirred the mutton curries and grilled the kebabs that made Mira-masi cover her mouth and nose with the loose end of her sari and choke. Uma was not allowed to touch anything. 'Did you bathe when you came home from school? No? Did you bathe after going to the toilet? No? Do you have your period now? Don't touch, child, don't touch!' But Uma would only shift a few inches away, still hugging her knees and watching Mira-masi chop up the greens that were all she would eat. Sometimes she was allowed to bring out flour and milk and sugar to her so she could make sweets for the family—those famous ladoos.

  Mira-masi would take her along on her evening visit to the temple for the puja. They would walk down the road together and turn into the lane at the end of which stood a pink stucco temple lit with blue fluorescent tubes and hung with oleographs of Mira-masi's chosen deity, Shiva. Here Uma would be overcome with shyness and hang back at the door, preferring to watch Mira-masi march through, giving the brass bell overhead a mighty clang before going up to the shrine where she mingled with the throng of devotees, all reaching out for drops of holy water dribbled into their cupped hands by the priest with his tray full of red powder and yellow marigolds. Then all the bells would ring—tang! tang!—and the conch-shells blow—hrr-oom, hrr-oom—and the priest would circle a trayful of lamps around the god's head, reciting verses in somewhat nasal Sanskrit, and finally come out to distribute sweets to the faithful. Then Uma would quickly hide behind a pillar. Mira-masi went through these rituals as casually as if she were dusting her house: one would not have thought it was the central activity of her life. It was Uma who failed to take them casually: they assaulted her very being and made her shake like the pennant flying over the temple gate.

  She found it easier to participate in the private arrangements for worship that Mira-masi created whenever she came to stay. An altar would be made by setting out on a shelf, or a low table, or even on a few bricks placed together, the objects that accompanied her when she travelled: a little brass Shiva (she called it golden), an oil lamp, an oleograph, and a copy of the Ramayana wrapped in red cotton. Immediately on waking, Uma would go into the garden—and the dew on the dusty grass would transfer itself to her bare feet and the hem of her nightie—and tug a few roses and marigolds off their stems, or collect a handful of white jasmine that had bloomed in the night and lay scattered beneath the bush at dawn, resolutely ignoring the angry shouts of the mali. Hurrying back to Mira-masi's room, she would place them at the altar, grateful and amazed that she was allowed to perform so important a ceremony with her polluted hands. Mira-masi would seat herself before her home-made altar, her eyes closed as she recited the Lord's names over and over in a fervent manner that made her sway as if she were possessed. In these moments there was graven on her face, as on a stone image, an expression so fervent that it awed Uma. If her eyes opened, they flashed with fervour, almost ferociously. Then she would burst into song and in a ringing voice sing:

  'I have travelled over the earth,

  I have searched the whole earth,

  Now at the lotus feet of the Lord,

  I have found my salvation...'

  and Uma felt she had been admitted to some sanctuary that had been previously closed to her. The nuns at St Mary's had allowed her as far as its portals—the assembly room, the hymn-singing—but she had never been admitted into their chapel, and that was where she had wanted to go, sensing this was the heart of their celebration. Now Mira-masi included her in the celebration, she was counted in, a member, although of what, she could not say.

  THE best part of Mira-masi's visit would be the obligatory trip to the river that Mama and Papa themselves did not permit their children, saying it was too hot, too dangerous, too dusty, too diseased, too crowded—in every way inadvisable. But they could not refuse Mira-masi what was to her a taste of paradise, and allowed her, rather grimly, to take the children when she went for her ritual dip, first taking them aside to warn them not to go near the water, keep well away from the river's edge and keep a watch out for crocodiles and death by drowning.

  The warning proved unnecessary for both Arun and Aruna who went no further than the top of the stone steps leading down to the river, looking down at its sluggish flow and the line of washermen and pilgrims and boatmen with disdain; neither of them would have considered putting a foot into it, or a toe: they were too mindful of their health and safety.

  Only Uma tucked her frock up into her knickers and waded in with such thoughtless abandon that the pilgrims, the washermen, the priests and boatmen all shouted, 'Watch out! Take care, child!' and pulled Uma back before she sank up to her chin and the current carried her away. It had not occurred to her that she needed to know how to swim, she had been certain the river would sustain her.

  Mira-masi had been too immersed in her devotions to notice. Knee-deep in water, she was pouring water over herself, chanting the Lord's name in ringing triumph, oblivious that a boatman nearby had grasped Uma by her hair and pulled her to safety onto the sandy bank where she lay ga
sping and flopping and trickling like a grounded fish. Mira-masi was too gloriously preoccupied to pay attention but Arun and Aruna could hardly wait to get home and report to their parents Uma's ridiculous and crazy behaviour for which both she and Mira-masi were severely reprimanded.

  An idea grew within the family that Uma and Mira-masi were partners in mischief.

  Five

  A BICYCLE rickshaw turns in at the gate and its bell gives an announcing ring; it has a cracked sound—t-rring, t-rring. The family on the veranda lowers its papers, sewing, fans and fly swatters, and stares: no one was expected. But it stops in the portico and a dishevelled figure climbs out awkwardly and throws a bag onto the steps before paying off the rickshaw driver who stands astraddle his bicycle, mopping his neck with his headcloth.

  Mama and Papa squint their little eyes, suspicious and incredulous. Uma goes to the edge of the terrace to explore. Suddenly she shrieks, 'Oh, Ramu-bhai! It is Ramu-bhai!' and goes hurrying down the steps so fast that her slippers strike at her heels—slap, slap, slap.

  Ramu turns around and grins at her. His eyebrows and hair are clay-coloured with dust; his khaki clothes are blackened with soot. Picking up his bag, he gives it a cheerful swing and asks cockily, 'Any room at the inn? Can you have me?'

  'Come, come,' Uma cries. 'Come up here. Mama, Papa, look who has come!'

  Mama and Papa are looking, but with such pinched expressions, such tight-lipped disapproval, that it is clear they do not share Uma's delight in seeing the black sheep of the family who has the bad manners to turn up without notice. Both the parents draw their feet together as if to avoid a gutter that runs too close.

  But Ramu beams at them as if he does not recognise the signs of a cold welcome, or is entirely used to them and accepting of them. He has a club foot and wears an orthopaedic boot to steady him so he clomps across the terrace towards them. The bag weighs him down at one arm so his progress is slow. Uma rushes to take it from him.

  'No, no,' he says, slapping her hand away. 'Ladies cannot carry bags for gents.'

  She titters with pleasure: ladies! gents! 'Shall I get some tea?' she asks eagerly.

  'We have just finished tea,' Mama says, unsticking her lips with some difficulty. 'You will have to order more.'

  'I will get it,' Uma volunteers cheerfully, and lifts the teapot by its handle, swinging it so that she nearly knocks the spout off against the swing.

  'Be careful, Uma,' Mama snaps.

  When she leaves, there is silence for a bit because both parents seem to have decided to use silence as a weapon against an unwelcome guest and insufficiently respectful nephew. In that silence, Ramu lowers himself into a creaking basket chair and spreads out his legs and throws back his head. A mynah on the neem tree that overhangs the terrace is watching his movements and lets out a series of whistles as if in comment upon them. Ramu-bhai returns a whistle to it.

  'Thirty-six hours on the train—third class,' he tells them. 'I feel I'm made of soot.' He slaps at his thighs and shoulders to show them what he means. Then he stamps his orthopaedic boot and more dust flies. The mynah takes off with a squawk of alarm.

  Mama looks as if she would like to do so too. Her lips have narrowed till they almost disappear into her chin. 'And where are you coming from?' she asks. 'Bombay?'

  'Oh no, I have been travelling all over. I went to Trivandrum with a friend. His guru lives there and was having a birthday celebration at his ashram, but the food was so awful, I left him to it and went on my own to Cochin. It was much better—a port, sailors coming off the boats, everyone having a whale of a time. Then I took the boat to Goa where I ran into—'

  'You need a bath,' Mama interrupts.

  'Oh, I need a long, hot bath. In good time. But first tea, please, tea!'

  Uma is hurrying back with a refilled pot. She is humming. 'I've told cook to heat some bath water,' she cries, 'and he is going to make puris for breakfast.'

  'Puris for breakfast?' Papa exclaims, breaking his silence. 'Puris? Puris? Did you say puris?' The words explode from him with both excitement and horror: it is what they have on special occasions. Uma must be out of her mind if she thinks this is one.

  Uma looks at him, then at Mama. 'We haven't had any for so long,' she says apologetically. 'Ramu has come after such a long time—'

  Ramu beams at her as she bends to pour his tea. 'Yes, but I will stay a long time to make up for that,' he assures her and, in the manner in which he glances at his elderly relatives, it is hard not to detect a certain mischief.

  Certainly they believe it is out of mischief that he uses up all the hot water in the hamam for his bath, then asks if there aren't any chops or cutlets for breakfast in addition to the puris, and insists on telling them ribald stories about respected aunts and uncles that neither Mama or Papa want to hear, till he falls asleep on the divan in the drawing room and lies there all morning without thought for the guests that might drop in—even if they do not. In the evening, instead of settling down on the veranda to play a game of cards with his uncle and aunt, he shows a restlessness that is almost like a physical itch. He clumps up and down the terrace in his heavy boots, with a tense air, clasping and unclasping his hands behind his back, now and then running his fingers through his hair and making it stand on end, wiry and streaked with premature grey.

  Even Uma becomes uneasy. All through her childhood she has heard whispered gossip about Bakul Uncle's son: some thought it was drink, others drugs. This is clearly on her parents' minds as well; they refuse to talk any more. Their questions about Bakul Uncle, Lila Aunty and cousin Anamika have been ignored, or answered briefly and perfunctorily.

  'Father works all day, mother goes to lunch parties and plays cards. And Anamika—' thinking of his beautiful and good and loved sister, he gives a small, somewhat wistful smile. 'She wins all the prizes,' he winds up abruptly.

  Uma breaks into the silence that follows.

  'Shall we go across and visit the neighbours, Ramu-bhai?' Uma suggests. She thinks he might be offered a little whisky and water there: she knows Uncle Joshi is partial to a drink in the evenings, especially if there are visitors.

  'No. But Uma, listen. Let's go out. Come on, come on. Yes, yes, you must.' Her suggestion seems to have set a match to dry tinder; he is on fire to get away. 'I'll take you out to dinner,' he offers grandly, throwing out an arm in invitation.

  Papa and Mama's mouths fall open—their lips and tongues look white. Uma squeaks, 'To dinner?' in utter disbelief.

  'Yes, can't one get dinner anywhere in this city? There must be a restaurant—'

  'There's Kwality's!' Uma cries suddenly, making her parents turn their faces from Ramu to her without altering their thunderstruck expressions: what could she be thinking of, suggesting dinner in a restaurant? She has never been to one in her life; how can she think of starting now when her hair is already grey.

  Then Papa gathers himself together. It is up to him to prevent this situation from getting completely out of control. 'No need to waste money by eating at Kwality's,' he says sternly. 'No need. Waste! Kwality's—bah!'

  'Dinner has been prepared at home,' Mama adds, also coming to life.

  'No, no, we must eat out. I insist. I will take Uma out to dinner. The best dinner we can get in this city. Isn't there an hotel, with a bar?'

  Even Uma is shocked. 'Ramu-bhai,' she says in warning.

  But although the parents are stuttering in alarm and outrage, and protesting as furiously as a band of mynahs in the thick of disagreement, Ramu is not to be deflected. 'Can't I take my cousin out for dinner? Didn't you once send me to fetch her the time she ran away?' he reminds them of an intimacy they would have preferred to forget. 'Wasn't I the one who brought her back?' He is pulling Uma to her feet, he is pushing her to go and get ready, he is shouting through the door to hurry her, he has called the mali, who was phlegmatically weeding a corner of the lawn, to go and fetch a rickshaw and—right under the parents' scandalised noses—he has ridden off with her and is wavin
g back with an infuriating insouciance, the insouciance of the black sheep who has nothing to lose, calling, 'Bye-bye! See you! Good night!' and even 'Ta-ta!'

  UMA and Ramu are propping themselves up on the slippery red rexine seats of a booth in the Carlton Hotel's dining room. All the other customers have left. It is late. The waiters lean against the stucco pillars, picking at their ears or their noses, and yawning. But Ramu and Uma do not notice. Ramu summons one with a snap of his fingers and hands him a scrap of paper—one of the bills for drinks that he has been accumulating in a saucer at his elbow and on which he has scribbled something with a ball-point pen—with the instruction, 'Take this to the bandmaster. Tell him to play "My Darling Clementine" for us.' The waiter slouches across to where the musicians, seated on a small podium, are wiping their instruments, talking to each other, in tired voices, ready to pack up and leave. The bandmaster looks across at them, quite evidently with loathing. Ramu waves at him cheerily and calls across encouragingly, 'You're a great band, a great band! You should be playing in Bombay—at the Taj!' They feel obliged then to strike up and prove him right, but their instruments sound like cutlery being washed and flung into a drawer at the end of a party.

  Ramu cocks an eyebrow at Uma and sings, 'O my darlin', O my darlin', O my darlin' Clementine....'

  Uma rolls against the red rexine seat, her hair escaping in long strands from the steel pins that usually keep it knotted tightly in place. It lies untidily about her cheeks and neck. Behind the thick lenses of her spectacles, her eyes roll in time to the music. She takes another sip of the shandy Ramu has insisted she drink and hiccups like a drunkard in a farce about fallen women.