by Anubha Mehta
Why did she look so familiar? I knew that I had seen her somewhere, or that I had seen someone who looked like her, but I couldn’t remember who that might have been.
Just then I felt a movement behind me. It was coming from somewhere close. I stood up in pitch darkness and slipped the photograph into my back pocket. I felt a presence right at the nape of my neck. But there were only so many times that unexplained presences could wander in empty rooms. So, this was my opportunity to be brave and dispel any myths I had about such existences. Gathering every ounce of courage, I turned around slowly. Instinctively I aimed my dead torch straight at my target, as if it was a weapon.
To my surprise, the torch flickered again and shone a faint light on a face that I didn’t expect to see at all.
Powdered, plump, mascaraed eyelashes under sparkly blue eye shadow and bright red lipstick on full lips. She spoke. Her voice was low and husky. “Hello! Who are you? What are you doing here?” She didn’t sound angry.
I attempted an answer: “I … can we go outside please? It is very dark here.”
I saw her turn around to lead the way. In the corridor we had a better look at each other. She was a large voluptuous woman with the air of a pin-up model on calendars sold at bus stations. Her ginger hair was streaked with blonde strands. She was wearing a leopard spotted shirt that opened just enough to imagine every fathomable curve. It was tucked into tight white pants over broad hips and pencil stilettos.
I realized I still had not answered her questions. “I live on the other side of the house. I … I am Veer’s wife.”
“Holy mother of God!” She dropped her formal tone, threw her hands up into the air, and squeezed me in a hug.
“I am Rosy, Veer’s father’s younger brother’s wife. I am Veer’s aunt.”
“Hello,” was all that I could manage.
11.
I DID NOT REMEMBER seeing Rosy at our wedding. Rosy must have known that I was wondering about that. She said, “I … we could not come to your wedding, my dear.” She looked away just in time to hide her face. Then she looked back at me, with moist lashes, her gaze gliding over my every contour. It was her turn to study me.
“I see Veer did not do too badly.” A hot flash of embarrassment at her directness made me blush. “But … wait. You look so very familiar.”
“I have a common face.”
“No, no, it will come back to me. I never forget a face.” And then in the same breath she continued, “Why don’t you come around, my place is just across the hall from here.”
I hesitated. I’d been here a while already and I didn’t want to get into trouble with Veer’s mother, who would soon be back from her day’s excursions.
“Oh, come on, just a few minutes. I would like you to meet someone.”
So I followed her again. She led me to another section of the house, which I would have never discovered on my own. We reached her suite.
It had large windows like the rest of the house, overlooking the garden below. The upholstery and drapes were synchronized in hues of pink, red, and gold, completely matching her personality.
Rosy pulled out a slim Camel cigarette from a gold-plated case, lit it on a cabriole holder, and then rang an indoor brass bell as if to call someone as she exhaled raucously. A few minutes later, a maid entered carrying a bottle of distilled dry gin, tonic, and crackers. Behind her was another figure, a mere shadow. A blue-checked shirt, two sizes too big dropped from scrawny shoulders to cover loose pleated pants out of a 1950’s fashion catalogue. The man had a remarkable resemblance to Veer’s father, though he was much darker, with a high forehead, a long nose, and eyes set deep into their hollowed sockets.
“Meet Veer’s new bride, Maya,” she said, pointing at me. “This is my husband, your father-in-law’s younger brother, Umang.”
I bent down to touch his feet as a traditional mark of respect to elders. He stopped me midway and hugged me instead.
“Well, guess where I found her? In the room!” Her eyes widened as she passed on this piece of information to her husband.
Umang tried to speak but broke into a dry coughing spasm. It lasted for a few minutes. I noticed that Rosy was unmoved. He walked over to the tray and took a sip of tonic, which seemed to soothe his throat.
When he spoke, his words were muffled and hurried: “Welcome to the family, Maya. It is very nice to meet you and our best wishes are with you both.”
Now it was my turn and I asked my first question, diplomatically: “It is so nice to meet you both too, but how come you don’t visit the east wing?” There is an uncomfortable silence and I instantly regretted the question.
Umang answered. “There are no secrets from you, Maya, as you are now family and will come to know sooner or later. So, I might as well tell you. You see, Rosy came into our life to nurse me from a series of illnesses, from typhoid to jaundice and asthma. Rosy and I grew fond of each other and I proposed to her, and, to my surprise, she graciously accepted.” He looked at Rosy and she smiled back languidly.
Then Rosy carried the story: “Just before our wedding, we had to break the news to my new in-laws. They were not happy. They called me many names, and it got worse when they heard that I was the unmarried mother of a toddler suffering from polio and that he lived with my widowed mother in the suburbs of the north. They felt cheated.” She paused.
“After marriage, we set up our home in this part of the deserted house, where no one would bother us. I still remember the chill of our first winter in this house. There was a constant draught that crept in from the gaps in the windows and cracks in the walls, reminding us of the family’s ill wishes for me, and many before me. My son caught pneumonia and never recovered. The following year my mother also passed away. Since then, we have become the forgotten relatives of the Rajsinghanias of the east wing.” There was a distinct bitterness in her tone. I realized that she was talking about Veer’s parents. I understood the pain of being unwelcome.
There was a rustle at the curtain of the inner room. An over-dressed middle-aged man in a crisp white button-down shirt and a lean cut black jacket with a pretentious red rose pinned to its outer pocket came out from behind the curtain.
“Maya, meet Raju, my business partner and friend.” Rosy batted her eyelids at him. “Since Umang was ill most of the time, it was sooo nice of Raju to help me set up my clothing boutique.”
Raju waved his hand in the air at me and then dug it into his pocket to take out a cigar. He started adding to the billows of smoke that were already swallowing up the room. Then he slid next to Rosy a little too snugly. Umang shifted uncomfortably in his chair. This was getting awkward. Without thinking, I pulled out the mysterious photograph from my jeans pocket and held it out to Rosy.
“I found this in the room where I met you. Do you know who this is?” Rosy took the photograph from my hand and stiffened. “Where did you say you found it?”
“In the largest closet behind the jacquard drape in the corner.”
“Yes,” she said distractedly. ‘Of course you would find it there. That was her closet.” I sat up immediately, in anticipation of the information that was about to be revealed. “It is not your fault. How would you know who she was? There must not be any pictures of her in that part of the house either.”
“Well who is she?” I could not contain myself anymore.
“She was Veer’s grandmother.”
I gasped loudly.
Rosy held the photograph up against the sunlight. She looked at me and then at the photograph. Her jaw dropped. She walked to Raju and pointed to something in the photo. His palm flew to cover his mouth. Umang joined their huddle, and his eyes widened. Something strange was being discussed. What was alarming these people?
I stood up. “What is it?” I blurted out.
“Tell her,” Rosy said to Umang.
“What?” I asked again, my eye
s darting from one person to the next.
“Don’t get startled, Maya, but we just realized why you look so familiar…”
“Why?”
“Well, you see…”
“Tell me!”
“You are the spitting image of Veer’s grandmother!”
“What?”
I froze. No, that couldn’t be. These people were delusional. They were making up things. I shouldn’t be talking to such people.
I pulled the photo from her hands and looked at it again.
No, they were not delusional. They were right! I was looking back at myself! But how could this be? I sat down trembling. Rosy handed me a glass of the transparent heady liquid and I felt better. Then she came and sat down next to me.
“Don’t worry, Maya. It’s just a coincidence. Such things happen, you know…” she said in a tone so unconvincing that even she did not bother to finish her sentence.
I wanted to know more about Veer’s grandmother. “What can you tell me about her?” I asked, looking at all three of them. There was a painful silence.
Umang finally spoke: “My mother passed away giving birth to me. This wing of the house was built by my father for her, and it is an addendum to the main premises where you live. Even though I never knew her, I feel her presence here; I feel her in every room. That is the reason I like living in this part. I know that she is close to me. While growing up, I used to come and sit in the mirrored room for hours. Many times, when I lay on the floor there, I could feel her soft caress on my arms. And then I no longer felt like a motherless child. This has been my little secret. Most of this part of the house has not been touched since her time.” He stopped to gather his emotions.
Rosy filled in. “One night, I got home late from my friend’s party and I had forgotten my keys, so I decided to come in from the door that you used today. It was so dark that night that I couldn’t see my own hands. As I passed the mirrored room, I could have sworn I saw her in the mirror trying on her favourite Jamawar shawl.”
A sharp pain pierced through my head. How would I be able to tell them what I saw in the mirror? It was much more sinister than any of what they were telling me. Even I didn’t believe what I saw. But after hearing them , maybe, I could believe a little.
Rosy continued, “I know she was a noble woman, a free spirit, like a guardian angel protecting her home and everyone who lives in it. So I am not scared.”
There was silence again, this time a little less agonizing. No one said anything for a long time. For once I was thankful for the familiar puffing and dragging sound of Raju’s cigar.
“Why did Veer’s parents not say anything?” I asked.
“Well, they wouldn’t, would they?”
“No, I guess not.”
It was all making sense to me. The exaggerated reactions of Veer’s mother on seeing me for the first time, the confusing comments of his aunts on the wedding night, Sheila’s overprotective behaviour. For some strange reason, now that I understood, I felt a sort of relief that their hostility was not towards me personally, but my resemblance to an unpleasant memory, or at least so I hoped.
I wanted to leave. But before I went, I needed to know more. But how could I tactfully ask such personal questions on such a sensitive subject? The clue had to be in the photo.
“Rosy, is that a book in her hand? With the white polka dotted cover it looks extremely stylish, like the rest of her outfit,” I asked pointing to the photo.
“No, it’s a diary.”
“Was she a writer?”
“No, she was an artist. A musician.”
Of course! That explained the sun-kissed room with the tanpura and the harmonium. So she was the mystery musician of this family!
“What was her name?”
“Her name was Gayatri. Gayatri Devi Rathore.”
I imprinted that name in my head, repeating it over and over again. It took me a few minutes before I could ask my next question.
“Rosy, how do you know so much if you have never met her?”
Instead of replying, Rosy abruptly got up and went into the adjoining room. Had I exhausted, or worse, annoyed her with my insatiable curiosity? She returned in a few minutes, and in her hands was a black diary with white polka dots! My heart leapt. My defiance and courage for venturing so far had paid off.
“I found this in an old trunk that was given to me with her clothes. It is hers. Here, do you want to take a look?” She held it out to me.
I wanted to jump and grab it, but instead, I took it in my hands slowly and carefully. It felt much heavier than it looked. The cover was dyed in black homemade ink with batik polka dots on raw silk. The edges were tattered, but the body was still intact, as if the purpose of its life had not yet been fulfilled.
I opened it. The first page had a large dried Banyan leaf, its veins spread out like the map of the Indian North-West Frontier Province. The shrivelled yellow glue had discoloured its edges. I turned the page. And there in the centre of the next page was written: Gayatri Devi Rathore, 2051 Khyber Road, Peshawar, 1946.
I stopped. My mother was from Peshawar. Was this a coincidence? Could this be a clue as to why I resembled her? It seems we both belonged to the same ethnic region.
Under this script was a charcoaled stencilled print of a lone resilient tree blowing in the wind, braving the storm and standing steady. My fingers instinctively traced the bent branches and then the bold strokes of the wind. But my hand ached with its weight. Why was it so heavy? I closed the diary and handed it back. But my eyes were glued on it. Rosy noticed.
“You can take it if you want, it is of no use to me.” I inhaled sharply. My mind yelled to my heart, Stay calm…. Don’t show how badly you would like to take it, or she may change her mind.
With the greatest poker face I had ever practiced, I replied, “Are you sure?” She shrugged. My wish had come true. This time, I tightly clutched Gayatri’s diary next to my heart. The purpose for my day had been accomplished. All I could think of was how to get quickly back to the east wing.
Rosy and Umang walked me out to the corridor. “Come, I will show you an easier way back to your east wing. We often used this to play hide-n-seek as kids.” Umang’s eyes were shining. At the edge of the corridor was a flight of rickety winding iron stairs that lead straight into the back of the garden. “Just follow the path and you will recognize your side of the house .”
I should not have felt the pang that I did saying goodbye to Umang and Rosy, considering the short time that I had spent with these complete strangers. But something so important had just transpired with them that I knew I would carry it with me for the rest of my life.
I ran back. It was almost dark already. I couldn’t believe that I had spent the whole day roaming within the walls of the west wing. Now I just wanted the safety of my room. But more than anything, I wanted to read Gayatri’s diary.
For once I was glad to enter an empty house. I slipped into my room, bolted it from the inside, and opened the curtains to welcome an early moon in an indigo sky.
There was a knock on the door. Oh no, I didn’t want to see anyone—not Veer’s mother, not Sheila. There was another knock. I opened the door hesitantly. Thankfully it was only Bahadur.
“Madam, shall I bring your dinner to your room? I thought that you may want it early today since you have been out?”
“Yes, Bahadur, that would be nice. Thank you.” I was famished.
Then he paused. “Madam, the big Madam was looking for you.” Nervousness gripped me.
“Why? Was she worried?”
Could Veer’s mother have known where I was?
“Oh no, they went out for dinner and will be back late. But she asked me to deliver this message to you.” He dug into his pocket and handed me a handwritten note: Cocktails at six in the east lounge tomorrow evening. Dress formal. Be there.
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br /> I crumpled it into a paper ball and aimed for the dustbin in the corner. Bull’s eye! Bahadur clapped, and I whistled at my own marksmanship.
“And Sheila came looking for you several times,” he said with a half-smile. I knew exactly why he was smiling. I could imagine Sheila fretting loudly to all the maids every time she came to my rooms and did not find me.
A calming chamomile bath soaked my tiredness and drained the dark grime from my body. Within minutes of eating Bahadur’s heart-warming consommé with garlic bread and Caesar salad, I felt energized and ready for the night.
I settled down with Gayatri’s diary on the chesterfield, facing the garden and .opened the first brittle page dated 1946. I began to read: My dear journal, my confidante, and my conscience. I immersed myself into every word.
I must have dozed off sometime past midnight, for when I awoke there were tiny droplets of dew on the windowsill and a faint brightening of the skyline among chirping morning birds. It was dawn, and with it came a special gift , my giddiness and nausea. With a warm mohair blanket still around my shoulders, I strolled down to the lawn. . The cold wet grass tantalized my toes and brought me back to the present.
The black diary lay mutely next to me on the lawn chair. I distracted myself by trying to feed the peacocks hovering in the garden as a part of their morning routine. The wind through the peepal leaves became stronger, turning their whispers into growls.
My head ached with what the diary had revealed. Gayatri’s diary had ended, but I knew that this was not where Gayatri’s story ended. I had so many questions, and I knew it was important to find the answers, for me and for Veer. But I did not know why. Not yet.
I sat near the peacocks, and tried to recall her life. It flew back and, at that moment, I felt that I had somehow been a part of all of it.
12. GAYATRI
July 28, 1946