‘Where have you parked the car?’ her mother asked the driver.
It was difficult to navigate the crowd with children, especially little girls. But suddenly something happened and they saw the policemen charging towards them, shouting violently. The crowd turned into a mob: people were running amok, some fell down, others moved through the crowd in a frenzied and uncontrollable way. The girls were crying, including Maya and Kamala; Maya the louder of the two. Kamala, Maya and Madhavan saw it all, the other children might have seen as well because they all started crying too. But they couldn’t believe what they were seeing. In front of the people who had come out after the show, amidst the crowd, two men went berserk and killed each other. With their dying breaths they said something, their ultimate, final words, and the reports travelled through the crowd in less time than required: they said it was not murder but suicide, a planned suicide by both the parties. The men were dressed alike, in the same tight-fitting, striped T-shirts and pink pants, and they had even tied colourful bows around the knives, but the knives themselves were deadly, with long concave depressions in the metal blade meant to inflict maximum damage. They might have swirled the knives, twisted them inside the bodies in the same pattern, maybe a left turn or a right turn or a sharp move upwards and then downwards, for when both of them fell motionless, their right hands were wrapped around the handles of the knives with which they had each stabbed the other’s body, a shockingly decisive suicide. It seemed that they had coordinated the deed to the last detail. No one could do anything.
The deaths shocked the town. Why had they planned this in such a public place, amidst women and children? What was their motive?
The children had forgotten everything about the movie as well as their plans to go to the ice cream parlour. As soon as they reached the safety of their cars, they let loose a barrage of questions.
‘What happened—’
‘Why did they stab each oth—’
‘Was it a real knife—’
‘Was it real blo—’
‘Enough!’ Madhavan’s father thundered. ‘Stop talking.’
Suicides pacts were not common in 1984. The next day, the children saw the men in the newspapers: the youngsters who had committed suicide by stabbing each other.
Maya said, ‘Actually, the papers say they were homosexuals.’
‘What does that mean? What is . . . homo . . .? What?’ Madhavan asked.
‘Actually, I don’t know what it is. I think it means they were pilots in airplanes.’
‘Oh!’
‘But then why should homosexual pilots die like this?’
When had Maya left? Did she say a proper goodbye? Why did she bring back memories of those valiant samurais who performed a planned seppuku in public like two actors doing a street performance?
She remembered running through the festival grounds of the temple with Maya in search of broken pieces of glass bangles. It was fun to play with bangle pieces. In a game, the person who collected more scored more; possession was all that mattered. She thought about having fun with bangles. She had seen Kuljeet wearing green bangles. Green bangles stand for fertility; she wondered why Kuljeet hadn’t conceived yet. Green or red, bangles were real fun. They say the honeymoon ends when the last bangle breaks. Why was Kuljeet still wearing them then? Was she still playing with Madhavan?
Now Kamala’s French toast was inside the black cat. She tried to remember, she forgot. She focused. There were no more eggs. She remembered the tall ceramic jar with a big round belly in which her mother kept pickled mangoes, and she also remembered the circus people who practiced cycle shows. Both the memories served no purpose. Her brain heated her up. She wanted to react. Off she went, out of control. She beat her head. Calmed down. Thought the unthinkable. It sucks, she said to herself. She looked desperate and nervous. After some time, she remembered the words of the Ramana Maharshi. ‘Both remembrance and forgetfulness are part of our pride. Fear comes when the mind pressurizes the brain. Fear is the manifestation, the bubbling up of pride.’ She asked her mind to calm down. In response, her mind stormed through her veins against her brain.
34
‘How dare you talk to me like this?’ said the doctor.
‘Doctor, please, I didn’t mean it,’ said Shaly.
‘I don’t understand why you said all homosexuals are drug addicts, it is rubbish,’ said the doctor.
‘No, I didn’t mean that. I said Kamala has an inclination towards drugs because she is a lesbian.’
‘Again you are talking nonsense, Shaly. There is absolutely no relationship between homosexuality, drugs and AIDS. Do you get me? These are three different things. You said it was you who gave Kamala LSD the first time. Then how come you are not a lesbian? I’ve never heard you admit that.’
‘I am extremely sorry about all this. What I meant was, it must be her distress that led her into such uncertain situations. I couldn’t be the partner she has always wanted in life. It is true, I tried earlier, but my focus was not on pleasing her, rather finding a job for myself in Bangalore and making a name and address of my own. Yes, I was selfish then. I was also suffering from certain other problems . . . It was all such claptrap, I regret it now.’
‘But once you were out of that situation you should have said goodbye to her, you should have admitted your mistakes and helped her break free of disillusionment.’
‘Unfortunately, I couldn’t do that. Madhavan had abandoned her and she was going through a very difficult time in her life. Even her children had some problems by then . . .’
‘Sympathy or empathy—what is it you suffer from?’
‘No, nothing like that. It is true that I love her, sometimes more than I love myself. But not the way you people judge it.’
‘Yes, I can understand your feelings. What you’ve said is partially true. Distress must be the main reason she gave in to drugs. But is suppressed sexuality the only villain? What do you think?’
‘The one thing that worries her is that she’s afraid she’s never been sincere in her life. She strongly believes that she is not reliable.’
‘That’s it! No one is sincere in society. We should be fair to ourselves and our bodies before anything else. Otherwise we suffer. Have you ever been sincere to yourself? Is the life you are living real?’
I should have talked to the doctor more reasonably, Shaly thought later. She felt ashamed recalling the way she had spoken. Was she rude? She couldn’t tell. He was a wise man, no-nonsense. Though he made it sound like LGBTQ people were the only really happy people on earth, regardless of how badly society treated them. They were happy because they were happy inside. A time would come when people would say, ‘Excuse me, my sexual preference is different, I cannot imagine being in a relationship with a man.’
Like they used to say, ‘Excuse me, I am married, I cannot imagine being in another relationship. I am afraid of my husband.’
Shaly looked at her watch; it was getting late. The doctor had asked her to bring Kamala for one more sitting. But Kamala was no kitten she could wrap up in a sack and bring. Anyway, she bought the medicines he had prescribed, tranquilizers probably.
She thought she would spend the night at Jithan’s place. He wouldn’t make a scene if she was a bit brusque. But he felt obligated to not wear anything other than his boxers at home, and he would come two or three times to her bedside during the night, showing off his thighs, which were sparsely covered with hair. In a gentlemanly way, he would ask, ‘Are you sure you don’t want it, baby doll?’ With each peg, he would repeat the question, but he never compelled her to do anything and never admitted that he wanted anything. He wanted to check if his thing would be of any use to her, a self-proclaimed dildo. Who knows what a woman’s bust might look like, and if her nipples poked out through her clothing at the slightest provocation he considered it his responsibility to offer, though the choice was always hers.
She called him, and as expected, he was exaggeratedly happy.
�
��You are my trophy friend, baby girl, you need not even call ahead. Just step in and the house is yours. I only have Bacardi and vodka though, hope you can adjust, baby.’
What a bore, she thought. She hated the way he called her ‘baby’; she was not a baby, and she wanted him to know that. She searched for the number of Meru cabs or that of other taxi services. The call was not going through and it was really getting dark. She tried some other phone numbers, but it seemed that her phone had stopped working; her network had jammed or didn’t recognize the shift that took place between states—it happened sometimes. It was then that she noticed a familiar figure moving falteringly across at the other end of the pavement. Following him in a hurry, she saw Madhavan’s car drive by with Parvesh at the wheel.
Madhavan, who was sitting next to Parvesh, saw Shaly clearly. For a second, his face twisted in a grimace, and the next second it brightened with some remote hope: Have they returned?
He remembered the day Kamala had almost drowned in the lotus pond while swimming. She was a little girl then, and if his memory served him, she was just trying to swim then, in her own way. It was he who had grabbed her hair, pulled her to safety and dragged her out of the pond. She had already taken in some water and he had to give her CPR. When she came back to her senses, she said boastfully to whoever came her way, ‘It was my brother who saved my life.’
Now he recognizes the tears in his eyes, his little sister.
It was Uncle Raphael, her teacher from Mizoram. He was walking leisurely like someone who wanted to be the last always. When Shaly recognized him in the moving crowd, she walked faster to reach him and hugged him from behind.
‘Jeez, I can’t believe you’re here,’ she said.
Raphael was startled and turned around nervously.
‘My God, who is this?’ he shouted, for he was uncontrollably happy. ‘Shaly! You look so different.’
‘Now tell me, what brings you here? Rebels like you in a metro like Bangalore?’
‘I live here these days. There is no one to order me out of here like your father used to do. Those were the days, now that’s something, tell me. How’s Rita Mama, is she all right? Do you live here?’
‘Uncle Raphael, I think it would be better if we could go to your place and sit and talk, don’t you think that would be wonderful?’
Shaly rang Jithan once again.
‘You are not lucky, you idiot trophy friend, I am roasting dragon prawns here.’
‘Let me see if I can make it. Keep some in the fridge, if I don’t turn up you can microwave them and have them in the morning.’
‘I am making some gooseberry chutney as well, baby.’
She disconnected when she heard him call her ‘baby’. She turned on airplane mode and kept the phone inside her handbag. In the auto they sat close, in a warm, comfortable way. Stroking her hands, he said in a sing-song voice, ‘Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light . . .’
Uncle Raphael’s house could not be called a house in the true sense of the word, for it was merely a room on the second floor of somebody else’s house. It came with an attached bathroom, but the flush was not working and the plaster was peeling off the walls. The terrace, with the garden plants neatly arranged in waste bags, was relatively larger than the single room, which contained a bed, an air conditioner, a recliner, a table and chair, some fake paintings on the wall and a mini fridge the size of a large printer where he could keep six bottles at a time.
‘So, you are living in luxury. An AC and a fridge! Fit for a king. Congratulations!’ she said.
‘Just to make certain chicks run into my arms with the growing night chill,’ he said jokingly.
‘That’s the spirit, Uncle,’ she laughed, examining the booze bottles on the table. ‘What are these empty bottles doing here? Are they for show?’
‘Don’t break them. I keep them because they are beautiful. Look at the slender waist, the necks, the fat bottoms, what more do you think a man needs?’
‘If you want beauty in your life, why don’t you set up a terrace garden? Of course, I will have to charge you for the idea, they don’t just flow in, you know.’
‘If only I had some visitors. This is the dump I live in, me, myself and me again, no one gives me a piece of ass, no sense of humour left. No one comes here dear, you’re probably the first person to visit after I settled here.’
‘Don’t call it a dump. It is a den, Uncle. You are the one who is living in here, the lion of the forests.’
She touched a few things on the table and looked at the empty bottles in the dustbin.
‘It seems you drink a lot these days.’
‘Occasionally.’
‘I see a lot of occasional bottles down there. A man must really be lucky to have so many occasions in life.’
‘Solitude is a sin.’
‘And is booze the redeemer?’
‘Sometimes, but it has already made its impression on my liver. Anyway it’s been a long while since I was so happy.’
‘Now, don’t get emotional.’
‘For this old man your visit is like a dream—I believe, and I do not believe. It feels wonderful.’
Raphael poured vodka into Martini glasses.
‘Let the eyes, liver, and heart go with it, but the right-sized cocktail will never stop finding its way into the sexiest Martini glass. Cheers to all the happy fools of the world.’
‘Cheers, but I would have preferred a rock glass. I took these Martini glasses out just to please you. I know the things girls like.’
‘Luckily I don’t belong to the usual “chick” category, Uncle, feel at home. Cheers again.’
This was the fourth time Madhavan was trying Kamala’s landline after he had left Peacock Bar. No one was answering. What did that mean? It could mean only one thing: they were all back, in Bangalore, near him. Since he had quarrelled with his father over the land sale issue he didn’t feel like calling him and asking about their whereabouts. He tried her mobile number, the automated answer came in Malayalam and he understood they were still in Kerala. It was good Shaly was not with them. Was there a chance they had fallen out with each other?
‘No, I haven’t quarrelled with her, uncle. The thing is, Rita Mama hates to see me. I have tried my best but it seems impossible. Sometimes she doesn’t recognize my presence at all, or she shouts at me or curses herself.’
She lay down tiredly in the recliner, watching him make the bed. It was not a recliner where you could stretch out your body, but it was comfortable.
‘Come on, you can sleep on the bed now. I’ll sleep there,’ he said, pointing to the recliner. ‘You should be treated like a princess. Do you want a T-shirt or something?’
‘No, thanks. I guess there is enough room for both of us on the bed. As you said, you keep the air conditioner on high so some chicks can hug you tight.’
He walked over to the table, and mixed himself another drink.
‘Do you want to lower the AC?’ he asked.
‘No, I want you to stop drinking now. The air conditioner is fine. What I can’t bear is the sight of people doing harm to themselves.’
‘Ah, dear Paul Mauriat, don’t get too emotional.’
‘Yes, I admit, I was always bad with guitars, I couldn’t even hold my striker properly between my thumb and forefinger. Such a failure! But I love emotions, I love Mauriat, and I want you to stop drinking now.’
‘That was orchestra and a grand piano, not for beginners to strum on their acoustic guitars, but there is nothing wrong in giving it a try, like we all do, like we are always doing.’
‘Thanks for reminding me, now drink and die,’ she said, moving to lie on the bed.
He poured the rest of the vodka into the basin and turned the lights off. With heavy steps, he went and lay down beside her. She hugged him tightly and wept for a while. He ran his fingers through her hair, neither of them saying anything. It seemed they were remembering how Mauriat echoed through the hills of Aizawl, wonder
ing who introduced him there and when—not so great compared to the great masters and a bit too emotional, but lovable, adorable all the same.
After some time he said, ‘Try to sleep, my darling baby.’
Shaly had the feeling that this would be her best sleep in a long time, no troubles and no worries. She heard the forest echoing the strums of guitars; she saw herself lying on the bare earth, the trees surrounding her; she felt herself becoming the darkness.
Children used to call him Raphael the Rogue with love. He was straddling his fifties, and was a rebel among the teachers, who had been expelled from the school three times and taken back out of love. He taught the children rebellion, he asked them to fight.
‘How can you be at peace and eat like pigs when Irom Chanu Sharmila is leading a hunger strike in the neighbourhood?’
True, the children thought for a while, she lived in the neighbourhood. Invariably, all of them belonged to the seven sister states. Sharmila had vowed not to eat, drink, comb her hair or look in a mirror when she started her fast. She was protesting something called AFSPA, their parents said. They had heard their parents speak about her at home, though they could not understand what it was all about. What were the children supposed to do about something they did not understand, something their parents themselves were not sure of? Raphael the Rogue would shout: ‘Children should do nothing, absolutely nothing, and when the kidnappers come to abduct the children, the others will do nothing. Those children who shudder in the face of the news,’ Raphael continued, ‘are the promises of tomorrow. The others will go on enjoying a good meal and a long and slow crap in the toilet.’
He made the children stand on their desks in a circular pattern and then taught them a poem that was not prescribed in their textbooks. He said it was by Gerard Manley Hopkins. Together they sang, and it was like a prayer,
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