The Man Who Would Not See

by Rajorshi Chakraborti

  Split your dollars between your wallet and an envelope placed inside your document folder under your ticket printouts and passports. Which is to reiterate that while your cards and money should always be with you during travel, and not in your suitcase, you could divide them between two places (for example, credit card in wallet, bank card in folder).

  One final bit of back-up I’d recommend: to have scanned copies of both your passport photo pages, the back pages, and your NZ visas saved as PDFs in your tablet or phone.

  Repeating for emphasis that you should both have two layers ready to put on for when you come out of the airport in Auckland, just in case it’s a nippy evening. T-shirt, sweater, jacket.

  Another (obvious) thing I’d suggest, from Singapore airport onwards, always try and use wifi wherever available and NEVER surf the net on roaming with your phone (in fact, switch data roaming off in Calcutta itself before take-off, just to be safe, to be switched back on only upon return to India). The charges can be astronomical. Load enough credit on your account before leaving for texts and calls, but you’ll probably use FB and WhatsApp anyway, right? And of course you can Skype with Moushumi or call anyone else from our house whenever you like

  Both while leaving India and when you arrive in Auckland, answer every question from an immigration officer with as cooperative and friendly and patient an expression as you can manage. Those at our end are usually quite welcoming; it’s the ones in Calcutta who will likely be more inquisitive, just because they have more time to chat, but in all cases, no impatience, no matter how obvious or intrusive their query. Just get through as smoothly as you can, and remember everything I said yesterday about disposing of all food before you get to the immigration counter in Auckland. That is the one thing they take seriously here. Basically, best to have nothing edible on you at all, not even unopened gifts, and nothing that is made from a plant source, to make sure you can be in your hotel beds tucked in latest by 1.15. And tick all the ‘no’ boxes on the landing card that I told you about.

  Sip lots of water, and remind Tulti of this as well, right through your flight; take your shoes off at the start of both the long flights; and in between sleep or movies, both of you should take regular walks in the aisle and stretch and move your legs to keep the blood circulating. Very important: hydration and moving your legs. But also enjoy a couple of drinks definitely, as well as the great selection of films on offer. Any questions about how the entertainment system works, do ask a stewardess, because it’s great to have the option of so many decent movies on a long flight, especially if you’re having trouble sleeping, although we had to be careful last time we flew not to be seen as having more screen time than Mira, to avoid the charge of grown-up double standards!

  For now, that’s all that comes to mind. You’ve got the aisle seats already, and the airline will send you the check-in notification thirty-six hours or so in advance, so you can print out all your boarding passes at home.

  Can’t wait to have you both here, and apologies again that I won’t be there to meet you in Auckland. What to do between clearing immigration and arriving at your hotel room I’ll send tomorrow in a separate email, complete with map and walking route to the Ibis hotel, as well as taxi numbers in case you need them. All our love. Really can’t wait!!

  PS: Thought I should say with regards to arrival, and recalling my own first couple of years abroad, that everything might seem crazily expensive at Auckland airport — including food and coffees or snacks, or indeed the taxi fare to the hotel if you choose to take one — when you think in rupees, which is why DON’T think in rupees. It’s just not a fair comparison. So spend what you need to, unless it seems genuinely overpriced even in dollars. In any case, all of that I’ll reimburse you, but my point is, don’t worry that it looks too much in rupees.

  PPS: You know we drive on the same side as at home, right? So looking on both sides when crossing any roads with Tulti and your luggage trolley will work exactly the same way

  And in this way, sponsoring every leg of the journey, as well as sending multiple painfully detailed emails to make sure he arrived safely on our doorstep — each of which reminded him afresh not to lose a single cent to data roaming — my husband welcomed the Devil into our lives

  Six weeks later, our guests had long since returned to Hazaribagh, but Abhay was also about to move out of our home, and our marriage was in its hardest phase.

  There was more. My suddenly estranged moron of a beloved was planning a return trip to Hazaribagh at this same Machiavellian brother’s instigation, as the first step in an audacious move to reboot his writing career. It was a combination of dangled carrots like you wouldn’t believe — professional ambition and profound, long-held guilt stoked at once.

  Twenty-seven years after his own unjust sending-away, Ashim had successfully split his brother from his family. An eviction for an eviction, as the old saw goes, and this one was accomplished start to finish in under four weeks!

  Sulekha, my mother-in-law, I hereby seek your forgiveness for any unvoiced reservations I might have held until now about your role in that defining decision. If in fact it was at your insistence, you were right on the money about your dodgy stepson.

  Abhay

  For the first week after Dada and Tulti arrived, I didn’t write, run or play tennis. I didn’t want to leave them alone until they seemed reasonably comfortable with this new environment, had slept off their jet-lag, and knew where everything was in the house, as well as the bus routes if they wanted to head out by themselves. The first few mornings while they slept in, I read or completed my stretches after dropping off Lena and Mira, then the three of us would have a leisurely breakfast and drive somewhere different each afternoon — the South Coast and the Maranui Café on Tuesday (where Tulti and Dada were almost disconcerted by the endlessness of their Jaffa shakes), followed by a ferry ride to Days Bay on Wednesday, Thursday at Shelly Bay with grilled fish sandwiches at Chocolate Fish (that entire week was fantastic weather), and into town itself on the Friday in the cable car to have sushi as per family tradition at Midland Park. We’d picked Mira up from daycare, so she was able to guide her Ashim Jethu and Tultidi the whole way through this hallowed rite, from pointing out every noteworthy aspect of the cable-car journey — its stations and newly illuminated tunnels and waving to the passengers heading uphill at the only point the two cars go past one another, and the hand-stamp you could ask for at the ticket booth on your way out at the bottom — to recommending her favourite sushi at the shop and later showing Tulti how to discard the seaweed she didn’t like the look of from around the rice, and finally a full tour of the children’s section of the central library, where Lena met up with us after work — the books and DVDs certainly (Tulti was familiar with Dora and Paw Patrol, but had her first meeting with Fifi, Angelina Ballerina, Daniel Tiger and the Wiggles), but also the large Lego blocks with which you could build a fortress, and the six stamps you were free to use as much as you liked all over your arms at the children’s desk. Back in Calcutta, at their first meeting five months earlier at our cousin Chhotka’s wedding, Tulti naturally had taken the lead during their play, being nearly two years older than Mira and on her home patch so to speak, although she was growing up in Hazaribagh. Soon enough she would regain most of her confidence and volubility even in this faraway setting but, for now, just during these first days as she adjusted to a totally new country, far from her mother, and where everything happened in an accent she didn’t always follow, it was lovely to watch Mira step into the role of host, pointing out every single thing familiar to her which might be new for Tultidi.

  The following Tuesday evening, after another few days of sightseeing (Mount Vic, the Wainui coast — during which drive both Tulti and Mira had naps in the back while Dada and I listened to Dire Straits and chatted — the Paekak Hill Road and also Te Papa on the only rainy day since they’d arrived), I went for my first run in ten days. I invited Dada to join me, and suggested we could jog around Karori
Park, which was mostly flat, with plenty of benches along the way. Usually I would have done a hill route, which involved seeking out several steep streets to climb on either side of Karori Road in order to get the most grunt out of the two runs I managed to squeeze in each week, but I’d seen Dada struggle on the hills even during our walks around Karori. He was probably twenty kilos heavier than me.

  He said he hadn’t run since playing football at college, and didn’t want to risk a heart attack.

  ‘You can stroll around the park while I jog. We’ll make it a short one, forty minutes max.’ Lena would give Mira and Tulti their dinner. We’d agreed previously on a compromise over bedtimes, because Mira usually went to her room for story-time at eight, whereas Tulti didn’t go to bed at home until after ten. Now both of them had a shared story-time at nine, and then were settled in their respective rooms.

  We turned out to be the same size in shoes, so Dada borrowed a pair of trainers from me. He was starting his third round of the park by the time I’d finished my 7 km (each full lap was a kilometre); I completed my post-run stretches while he caught up to me. On the way home, he said that if India had been anywhere near as uncongested as this, and with such well-maintained public parks to use, people would be a lot more motivated to exercise.

  ‘Very true. And don’t forget the air. I wouldn’t run on the roads in Calcutta because of the pollution. And the stickiness and heat eight months of the year. So easy to tell yourself it’s too hard to do.

  ‘It’s the same with driving,’ I added just after. ‘I feel there’s no pleasure to be had driving in an Indian city. I’d be stressed the whole time. That’s why I never ask to drive while I’m there.’

  Dada didn’t reply to this. I suggested that he get into the habit of walking regularly during this visit and then continue going out for an evening walk, perhaps just before or after dinner, once he was back in Hazaribagh. That’s when even the main road at the end of his lane was most likely to be calm. Of course early morning would be best, but that involved too much sacrifice, I smiled.

  ‘And what about the abductions, Abhi? For the sake of my exercise, should I just head out as you suggest at an hour when no one dares to be outside on foot?’

  I apologised immediately. It hadn’t occurred to me at all that there was any such risk. Dada nodded, still stony-faced for one, two, three more seconds, before grinning broadly and punching my arm.

  ‘Got you, you kyabla. You non-residents are always ready to believe the worst about India, aren’t you, especially when it comes to Bihar and Jharkhand? Do you keep up with any news at all about Hazaribagh?’

  I was still a little confused, and said no, but that he was right to point out my complacency in forgetting the presence of the Maoists, who I’d heard occupied the forests just beyond the outskirts of the town.

  ‘There, you’ve got your buzzword right. Maoists. That’s it. That’s my excuse. I’m so much less fit than you because of the extreme left-wing Marxist-Leninist aboriginal guerrillas infesting our forests. Now there’s a socio-political explanation for an individual symptom if ever there was one.’

  I made sure to laugh at Dada’s rib, although I was clearly its target. But he wasn’t done yet with rubbing in unclear things.

  ‘Achcha, Abhi, tell me, when were you last in Hazaribagh? Remind me.’

  It seemed a neutral-enough query so I made a sincere effort. Not since I was a kid, I said. That time in 1995, I added immediately after. We spent New Year’s together.

  ‘And after that?’

  We’d pulled into our garage by now, but Dada made no move to get out. I shook my head as I switched off the car.

  ‘So your brother, sister, now their families, and your late grandmother have lived in your father’s birthplace all these years, and you last visited two decades ago? No wonder you aren’t sure whether abductions still happen or not. You need to come and take an evening walk to find out for yourself.’

  My response to this was an attempt at a half-smile, and then I left the car. Dada watched me go around the front before opening his door. Maybe he was waiting for my reply, but here’s what I didn’t say to him, and at the time I was proud of my self-restraint: your point is misleading and unfair. Visiting Hazaribagh was never a habit for me, from well before you and Didi moved there, and that was because Thamma never made any secret of not liking my mother. So it wasn’t about avoiding the two of you. Remember how often we had you over in Calcutta instead? Virtually every Puja, wasn’t it, and then one or two winter holidays as well, including those times in Manipur and Darjeeling? And the other reason why twenty years isn’t a fair way to put it is that since 1997 I’ve lived abroad, not an overnight bus journey from Hazaribagh.

  But this was my only brother visiting my home for the first time ever since we were children, so who was keeping score of the odd misdirected dart? I went in for a shower as soon as we were upstairs, and came out to prepare dinner.

  The previous Saturday morning, while Mira had had her swimming lesson and Tulti a very happy splash in the kids’ pool with me while Dada watched (we’d bought her a costume from the reception counter), he’d pointed out afterwards that at home such facilities were only for those who belonged to exclusive clubs in big cities. Of course he was right, 100 per cent and more, but why take every chance to sigh and say so?

  Afterwards, while Mira and Tulti had been mixing and matching different pieces of muffin at Mira’s table in the dining room, and I was getting some tea ready for Dada to go with his lamb pie (we’d stopped at Gipps Street Deli after swimming), he’d said we shouldn’t return to the pool because Tulti would miss it once she was home.

  ‘But you’re here for two more weekends, and she had so much fun today. Plus, it’s good practice for our holiday in Tasman Bay, because there she’ll feel more confident splashing about in the sea.’

  From his chair by the dining-room window, Dada had looked at me as though I were Tulti and he would have to try again with the explaining.

  ‘And what about the first weekend after we’re back, and she asks if we can go swimming on Saturday morning?’

  I’d kept my voice as normal as possible while stirring Dada’s tea, so that the girls, who weren’t paying attention, wouldn’t realise we were arguing. ‘But by that logic, no one should do anything different on a holiday from their routine at home, in case afterwards they miss it too much. In fact, you should never go to a new place at all, especially not one as different as this, just because you can’t replicate it at home.’

  ‘Well, don’t think that hasn’t occurred to me. Maybe coming here was a mistake — I mean, for her.’

  This had been my brother reflecting after six days of uninterrupted sightseeing, with me cooking for them each night and taking them out for lunch and treats every day, driving them from one end of the city (scratch that: of the Greater Wellington region) to another, having planned to put aside my work, and my own normal life, for nearly four weeks.

  And can I add one more thing before anyone jumps to his defence, rushes in to say that they can see his point of view, because the gap between Wellington and Hazaribagh must indeed be vast? This visit had been entirely Dada’s idea, including, or I should say, despite knowing that Tulti’s mother Moushumi wouldn’t be able to come. I really, really hadn’t inflicted this sentence on them, this horrible, misguided plan to make little Tulti feel deprived afterwards.

  A bit of back-story before we continue might be in order, and I could even run this version of events by Dada to confirm that I haven’t twisted anything. Tulti and Mira got along superbly over the three days of our cousin Chhotka’s wedding back in July. We got them together twice more during our time in Calcutta; Dada and Moushumi had come down from Hazaribagh for five days. And all I’d said, watching them play so well together, effortlessly overcoming the slight language gap (Tulti’s English was pretty good, but she had trouble understanding everything Mira said; Mira, on the other hand, had maybe twelve words and four memorised sentenc
es of Bengali to work with), was that it was a pity the two of them lived so far apart, because they would have been best friends. I might even have added ‘Just as we were, Dada, do you remember’, with an image in my head as I spoke of us biking tirelessly around South Calcutta.

  The three of them had left the following morning, and we returned to Wellington five days later. Yes, I admit to a twinge of guilt the afternoon they’d visited our house (the same house in which he and Didi had spent two years as kids), especially because of the fact that they were staying at a guest house in Hindustan Park rather than with us, but I’d asked Ma if she thought she could manage both families staying here, and she’d said six guests including Tulti and Mira would be too hard on Jyotsnadi, who looked after the house and cooked for us all.

  Anyway, that’s not strictly relevant. Dada and I became Facebook friends after catching up at the wedding, which is to say he joined for the first time at my suggestion, so that we would have more regular glimpses into one another’s lives besides staying in touch on the phone. Three weeks after our return he messaged to ask if I was serious about Tulti and Mira having more time together.

  He must have seen I was online, because that was the sum of his opening question: ‘Do you still think Mira and Tulti should spend more time together?’

  Slightly mystified, I replied ‘Of course’.

  Almost immediately he pinged back, as though he had a response in waiting. ‘Well then, it’s up to us as parents, isn’t it? We need to bring them together.’

  ‘Sure. Let’s plan something’ were the best words I could come up with after four minutes of discarding options.

  He took maybe eleven seconds. ‘So you guys come here or we visit u?’