House of the Sun

by Meira Chand

  ‘There is no way but to declare bankruptcy,’ Mohan argued. ‘It is not so bad a thing. At least we’ll be rid of the burden. We can start again in some new venture, one of my own, perhaps.’

  His father looked up from a magazine, his face folded by deeper worry since retirement. ‘There is bankruptcy and bankruptcy,’ Mr Watumal said mysteriously. ‘Neither is possible for us.’

  ‘But it will happen,’ Mohan yelled suddenly. ‘And a good thing too, I think. We’ll be finished with the whole damned thing at last.’

  ‘You are not thinking of your sisters, nor your own future,’ Mr Watumal said. ‘There is honourable bankruptcy, which we cannot afford. In this, before we say “hands up”, we pay off our debts to as many small creditors as possible. This, if you like, is a gentleman’s bankruptcy. The other way is just, “hands up”. In this even our toothbrushes will be taken over by hoards of creditors, and in the market our good name will be gone. Without a good name nobody will lend money for new ventures, and no one will marry your sisters, or offer their daughter to you. Therefore, this form of bankruptcy we cannot contemplate.’ Mr Watumal sighed and his eyes filled with tears, which he wiped on the end of his kurta. ‘The work of a lifetime has ended like this.’ The weariness seemed to have sunk, like dampness, deep into his bones.

  ‘Wake up!’ Homi blew cigarette smoke across the table into Mohan’s face. ‘We’ve a big decision to make today, remember? Which is the best way to import the first consignment of air-conditioners for the villas,’ Homi said. ‘Whose palms do we grease first, and where do we get the dough to grease them with?’

  Ranjit looked at Mohan. ‘He’s still dreaming,’ he laughed.

  After the last few weeks in the factory, amidst sheets of rusting metal, half-formed pen nibs mounded in drums, the plastic carcasses of ball-point pens stacked in dusty lines, and the reality of the account books, there seemed suddenly something nebulous about the talk of Homi and Ranjit. He stared morosely into his coffee cup.

  ‘That’s Akbar Ali out there,’ Homi said. ‘I hear he’s gone into legitimate business, and taken over Rebotco Mills who were about to declare bankruptcy. He paid off all the liabilities, and now it’s beginning to show dividends. Just picked someone off the street to run it. That’s him, with Akbar, over there.’ Homi looked out of the open door of the coffee shop into the lobby of the Taj. Mohan followed his gaze, and saw Sham Pumnani upon a pink sofa surrounded by a crowd of rough-looking men.

  ‘I know him,’ Mohan scowled.

  ‘Who, Akbar or his street urchin?’ Ranjit asked.

  ‘Sham Pumnani is his name. He lives in our building,’ Mohan explained.

  Both Homi and Ranjit sat forward at this news. ‘Then this is our chance. Get your friend to get Akbar to finance our project. All Akbar wants is to launder his black money and make things look legal. He couldn’t get much more legal than buying from the government. Tell him we’d even be willing to give the project his name, Akbar Villas.’

  Mohan nodded, his eyes upon Sham, who was talking authoritatively to the men about him. Even Akbar appeared to be listening. Akbar the Great, he thought, listening to Sham Pumnani. He wanted to laugh and let out a small, hollow sound.

  ‘A few weeks ago he was called a thief. Birds of a feather flock together,’ Mohan remarked, but in spite of his scornful words all he felt was envy. He had had no idea that, while the word thief was still echoing about Sadhbela, the man had got himself going again and with such limitless, if dubious, backing. Some people had all the luck, Mohan thought. He could see the change in Sham, the animation in his face. Staring at Sham expounding some idea, surrounded by older, listening men in the marble splendour of the Taj, Mohan had a vision of uncomfortable clarity. If luck was not forthcoming, the comfort of his life might diminish to the level of Sham’s own narrow, cheerless existence.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Homi asked as Mohan stood up. But Mohan did not reply, propelled out of the coffee shop towards Sham with a sudden confusion of feelings.

  ‘Some friend of yours?’ Akbar asked, pushing out his chin in Mohan’s direction. Mohan stepped forward, not waiting for an invitation, and seated himself beside Sham. A crowd of dark faces observed him, as he nervously smoothed back his hair. Akbar Ali glowered, projecting power from behind fat cheeks.

  ‘Who is he?’ Akbar asked before an introduction could be made. Sham explained their connection, wishing Mohan had waited for an end to the business discussions in progress before thrusting himself upon them.

  ‘As small children we played together. We are like brothers,’ Mohan explained with an apprehensive laugh. Akbar Ali seemed unimpressed. Mohan stared at him, fascinated by his notoriety. What could have made him pick Sham Pumnani to run his new concern? Where could they have met? The manner in which Akbar returned his stare made him feel uncomfortable, even inconsequential. He had never felt at a disadvantage before, compared to Sham Pumnani. He looked over his shoulder and saw Homi and Ranjit watching him.

  Akbar stood up with a scowl, the men about him scrambled to their feet. ‘We will continue discussions in the Sea Lounge. You join us there when you finish with your friend,’ he said.

  ‘How is it you are working for him?’ Mohan asked when Akbar had gone.

  ‘He offered me a job, nobody else did,’ Sham shrugged.

  ‘There is much risk in working for him,’ Mohan warned.

  ‘If you need money as badly as I do, a few risks are nothing,’ Sham laughed. ‘He’s a good man. Nobody should be judged by their reputation. Anyway, my work for him is very legitimate, nothing to be ashamed of.’

  ‘It is not easy to be the only son,’ Mohan sympathized. He saw himself suddenly in the same position as Sham, now that his father had retired and might soon be as senile as Kishin Pumnani. ‘Your sisters are young and pretty. Who will marry mine, already old and fat? My father has retired, and they are now my responsibility. At least Lata wishes to work, but what can she do? She has no training for anything. My father has put her in the factory to teach her some business, but look at the state of the factory.’

  ‘Things are not good?’ Sham inquired. Mohan shook his head.

  ‘I and some friends have started a new venture, luxury tourist villas. Soon they will be all over India, a national network.’ He explained the details, and cleared his throat at the importance of the idea.

  ‘That is a big venture, a lot of money will be needed,’ Sham said.

  ‘My partners are wealthy men,’ Mohan replied. ‘We’ve had interest from prominent people. If Akbar was interested, we would be glad to consider things. Maybe you could speak with him?’ Mohan asked.

  Sham smiled, Mohan’s sudden friendship clear to him now. He was aware of Ranjit and Homi, whom he had seen making signs to Mohan from across the lobby. He sat back in the chair and lit a cigarette.

  ‘It’s not Akbar’s kind of project,’ he said. ‘What about your father’s factory? Surely you’re too busy there for anything else,’ he said, remembering Lata’s meeting with him.

  ‘Oh, that?’ Mohan answered in disgust. ‘There’s no money there. My father has let the whole thing run down. I’m not interested in manufacture, we’ve too much trouble in this country with labour. There’s no hope for the place at all.’

  ‘Are you sure? You’ve a going concern, something concrete to build up. The tourist villas are still a dream.’

  ‘But the possibilities are limitless.’ Mohan enthused again about the villa project for some minutes.

  ‘You’ve not a single assurance yet from anyone,’ Sham said quietly when Mohan had finished. ‘You’re not even sure the government will be interested in selling.’

  ‘You just wait and see,’ Mohan said. Who was Sham Pumnani to speak to him like this?

  ‘The factory used to do quite well. I remember how proud your father was of it. What happened?’ Sham asked.

  ‘How should I know? I don’t work with him, I work on my own. It’s only now he’s retired that he’s forced me in
to the thing. There’s no hope. It’s best just to declare bankruptcy. The liabilities are too much, the interest on borrowings is killing us.’ Mohan frowned in annoyance.

  ‘Does your father want that?’ Sham asked.

  ‘Want it or not, it’ll happen,’ Mohan said impatiently.

  ‘Do you want me to talk to Akbar about it? He asked me to look for another project, like Rebotco Mills,’ Sham offered. ‘I can’t promise anything, of course. It would be up to Akbar.’

  ‘The factory? Are you mad?’ Mohan said. ‘I’m not interested in that place. It has no future. It’s the villas that have a real future.’ He stood up and turned bitterly away towards Homi and Ranjit. Sham stubbed out his cigarette and walked thoughtfully to the Sea Lounge.

  15

  Each morning Jyoti drove the children to school in her small car. It was a nursery school not far from Sadhbela; and the return journey only took twenty minutes. She pulled her car into the compound of the building, manoeuvring it into her parking place with difficulty. A taxi was wedged inside the gates, and the driver stood talking to the watchman. As Jyoti got out of her car, Dr Subramaniam emerged from his surgery and peered into the taxi. Lakshmi was slumped inside; she was limp and her eyes were closed.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Jyoti exclaimed, hurrying up.

  ‘We know only that she appears ill,’ Dr Subramaniam said. ‘Just now this taxi has arrived with her.’

  ‘Call her mother,’ Jyoti ordered the watchman, who went immediately to instruct Gopal. Jyoti was shocked at Lakshmi’s appearance. She had not seen her since the wedding, which she had briefly attended with Lokumal.

  ‘Nobody home,’ Gopal said, coming up with the watchman. ‘One hour ago they left to visit relatives in Colaba. Only a servant and the sick man are there.’

  Dr Subramaniam prodded Lakshmi casually. ‘There is a high fever,’ he announced.

  Jyoti,’ Lakshmi pleaded. ‘Help me, please.’ Her eyes were huge in her thin face. ‘I’ve no money for the taxi.’ Jyoti nodded and opened her purse. Lakshmi groaned and relapsed into semi-consciousness.

  ‘I will take her upstairs with me,’ Jyoti said to Dr Subramaniam. ‘She can rest there until her mother returns.’ The doctor nodded, and called to the watchman to carry Lakshmi upstairs.

  In the lift, Gopal craned his neck around in interest. As they rose up before the open front door of the fourth floor Mr Hathiramani, distant at the end of a narrow passage, settling for the day upon his bed, gave a start of excitement.

  Jyoti’s home was quiet and cool; the workmen had not yet arrived and Prakash had already left for the office. From behind Lokumal’s door came the drone of prayer, rising and falling above the hiss of the pressure cooker whose weight began suddenly, at full steam, to rock upon a chicken Jyoti had ordered prepared. A strong aroma spread through the house from the kitchen. Jyoti told the watchman to lay Lakshmi upon her own bed.

  ‘Wait,’ she ordered suddenly, she had seen blood upon the end of Lakshmi’s shirt. She ran to bring a rubber sheet, used by her mother-in-law during the last days of her illness. She spread it on the bed, and the watchman lowered Lakshmi down. When he had gone she shook Lakshmi into consciousness.

  ‘Tell me what’s the matter. Your family is out, I must phone your mother-in-law.’

  ‘No.’ Lakshmi roused herself with a cry. ‘They have all gone to visit relatives out of town, that is why I was able to come.’

  ‘Then tell me what’s wrong,’ Jyoti demanded.

  ‘The baby….’ Lakshmi began to cry.

  ‘Oh my God. You mean you’re miscarrying?’ Jyoti asked. Lakshmi would not speak, tears streamed down her cheeks.

  Mr Hathiramani appeared suddenly in the open door of Jyoti’s bedroom; Gopal had already reported the details. He stretched his neck to see into the room beyond Jyoti, who blocked his entry determinedly, an arm across the doorway.

  ‘Her mother is out and this morning my wife has gone to Crawford Market with Mrs Bhagwandas. They will not return for some time.’ He attempted to push his way into the room, but Jyoti stood her ground until at last he retreated, disgruntled.

  When he had gone, Jyoti phoned the gynaecologist. ‘I’ll see her at once,’ he promised.

  *

  In the surgery of the gynaecologist, Lakshmi began to struggle and scream at the sight of the examination couch. She clutched Jyoti’s hand and thrashed about like a wild thing; two nurses were needed to hold her down. Jyoti fled in horror to the waiting room. At last the doctor opened the door and beckoned Jyoti in.

  ‘Is she all right? Can you save the child?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s already gone, and what a mess. We’ll have to operate immediately. It’s the usual back-street abortion,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to work fast to save her. I have an operating schedule this afternoon, get her across to the hospital now. She must have been in this state for days.’

  She trusted his opinion, he was an old family friend and a competent man, but her mind ummed with panic and responsibility. ‘Let her wait here until I can get in touch with someone,’ Jyoti pleaded. He nodded and ordered a nurse to wheel Lakshmi into a side room.

  Jyoti considered calling Lokumal, but then rang Mr Hathiramani; he had responsibility as a go-between in Lakshmi’s marriage, and would act with more alacrity than Lokumal, even if only in self-interest. He soon phoned Jyoti back. He had been up to the Pumnanis’; no one was home yet, and there was no answer from the Samtanis’ phone. He would ring Jyoti as soon as somebody came back. She returned to Lakshmi who stared at the ceiling, quieter after an injection.

  Jyoti drew up a chair and took her hand, hardly able to look at Lakshmi’s face or think of her bleeding, mutilated body. ‘They have to operate,’ she said.

  ‘Who will pay? Please tell them Sham cannot pay any more. Let me take medicine, it is cheaper. I will get better. Sham cannot afford an operation for me.’ Lakshmi gripped Jyoti’s hand.

  ‘It is beyond medicine now. Why did you do it, Lakshmi? It was only a first child?’ Jyoti asked.

  ‘I have done nothing, many women miscarry. It is not unusual,’ Lakshmi assured her.

  ‘You have had an abortion,’ Jyoti replied. ‘Don’t tell lies, this is not the time.’

  ‘No,’ Lakshmi cried out, and began to sob anew.

  Soon Mr Hathiramani phoned again. Rekha had returned and was on her way with Mrs Hathiramani and Mrs Bhagwandas, to the doctor’s clinic. They had arrived back at Sadhbela within moments of each other. Mrs Samtani had also been contacted. She could not return until the afternoon. Lakshmi was to be sent home. If a doctor was needed, she had her own. These were her instructions.

  ‘Don’t let me got back there, tell Ama, please,’ Lakshmi pleaded. The room was a white, light haze about her, cooled by the air-conditioning. She began to shiver, her teeth chattering with the chill of rising fever and an even icier malaise. Suddenly, in this small cold room, the thought, that had for so many days eluded her, had dropped heavily into the centre of her mind. Words began to spill from her.

  ‘She did not want me to have the baby. Oh please, do not let her near me,’ Lakshmi insisted.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jyoti demanded. It was difficult to understand Lakshmi’s incoherent terror, muffled by sobs and chattering teeth. She drew a blanket over Lakshmi’s shoulders.

  ‘Your mother is coming,’ she said.

  ‘She must come home,’ Rekha decided when she arrived. Her face, usually so soft, had drawn tightly together in a strange expression, after the doctor had spoken to them. She stood with Mrs Hathiramani and Mrs Bhagwandas looking down at Lakshmi.

  ‘But if her mother-in-law wants her back there, what can we do?’ asked Mrs Hathiramani. ‘It is the right of the mother-in-law to be obeyed in such matters.’

  Rekha pressed a handkerchief to her mouth in a sudden sob. ‘She must recover, as is the custom with birth, in the house of the mother.’

  ‘In these circumstances it is difficult to say,’ argued Mrs Bhagwandas. �
��She has rid herself of the child, according to her doctor. In these circumstances she is still under the rule of her husband’s house. These are not the circumstances of birth, this is something different.’

  Mrs Bhagwandas exchanged a nod of agreement with Mrs Hathiramani. They were in a difficult position. The responsibility for what Lakshmi had done could easily be made to rest with them; they had presented her as a suitable match for Hari Samtani. They had no wish to share in her disgrace, or the wrath of the Samtani family.

  ‘Afterwards you can argue.’ Jyoti stepped forward. ‘This is an emergency.’ She was angry on Lakshmi’s behalf. She stood up and put an arm about Rekha’s shoulders.

  ‘We cannot wait for her mother-in-law. I will take her to the hospital now, everything else can be sorted out later.’ She was suddenly desperate to get Lakshmi to the operating table, before Mrs Samtani appeared. ‘It is a matter of life or death,’ she said loudly. The doctor, coming into the room at that moment and looking at Lakshmi, confirmed this.

  *

  Later, upon an order by telephone, Mrs Hathiramani’s servant boy, Raju, appeared at the hospital with two tiffin carriers of food. Mrs Hathiramani and Mrs Bhagwandas wished to eat their lunch sitting picnic-style on the floor of the corridor outside the operating theatre. A passing nurse hustled them officiously into a distant waiting area.