The Man Who Would Not See

by Rajorshi Chakraborti

  How could someone be so cagey, slippery and downright untrustworthy in one setting, and so open and easy at home? Wasn’t this where I was expecting to be gobbled alive? Isn’t that why — even more than my much-repeated concerns about disrupting our home life in Wellington for too long — I only came for four days? To dip my toe, test the waters, buy some more time for my conscience, and run?

  Why did you play it that way round, Dada? I still haven’t figured it out. Wouldn’t it have made more sense to be the lamb when luring me and the tiger once I was here?

  Of course it was far too late in Wellington to call Lena and tell her about my first meeting with Didi’s son — that would have to wait for our Skype chat in the morning — so all my excitement, relief and joy at how the day had unfolded poured into my evening call with Ma. I couldn’t stop: there was so much to share — about Moushumi’s hospitality and Dada and breakfast and Paakhi and Aaliya regularly stopping by and the two hundred and fifty plants in the nursery and Moushumi’s lovely mother, and then Jhappi, the next Kishore Kumar, although I stopped short of mentioning the tantrik, and of course nothing yet about Didi still being alive. That, I had decided, was best handled in person, during my three days in Calcutta on the way back.

  Ma was polite and seemed to be listening, although nowhere near as enthused as I had hoped, given that she was possibly more anxious about this trip than I’d been. I was disappointed at her lukewarm reaction, as if nothing Dada (or anyone associated with Hazaribagh?) could ever do would be enough to win her trust. After a while, after asking about her day and racking my brain for anything more to tell, I alighted upon a small story Moushumi had shared over parathas at lunchtime.

  ‘Achcha, Ma, did Didi ever tell you about these girls at school who bullied her? While she was living with us and had joined Modern High, there was this group that picked on her and called her “Howrah” when they learnt that’s where she’d once lived. And apparently that’s why she asked to quit the school bus and preferred to walk, because the bus was where the teasing was worst. I never knew that until today.’

  On this occasion, Ma wasn’t slow to respond. ‘If you want to learn more, there’s a lot more to tell.’

  Of course I heard the shift in tone, but decided to meet it with a straight bat. ‘Certainly, Ma. I do want to know. That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Fine. Then here you go. Let’s test your memory now. Do you remember me coming home one evening and finding you watching TV on the sofa holding onto your Didi, who was seated beside you? You had your arms tightly around her and your head on her chest, and I shooed you off the sofa and onto another chair and told you never to sit like that again, and to your Didi, who had been sitting bolt upright and looking most uncomfortable, I asked the question later when you weren’t present whether this had happened before, you taking the chance when no one else was around to get close to her. And without speaking, she looked at the floor and nodded. Does that jog your memory at all, me coming into your room to let you know that if you were ever found again sitting like that, it would be your father who dealt with it?’

  As a matter of fact, I couldn’t recall having thought about the incident in decades, to the point where I wasn’t even sure whether my hug had been innocent (what show or movie had we been watching, Ma? That would help to know) or at least partially hormone-driven, as my mother seemed to have immediately decided. I was certain neither of our parents had mentioned it as a reason when Dada and Didi were sent away. But while I was trying to figure all this out and think of something non-inflammatory to say, Ma hung up without another word.

  Suddenly, although I mentioned nothing to the others in the room, I was angry. Fuck conciliation. How many walls of self-protection are you going to put up, Ma, to look away from the fact that you, and yes I too, have not given a shit about half our family? Everything you and Baba did always had its reasons, and somehow those pesky stepchildren of yours, and sometimes that son as well, were to blame for each regrettable decision!

  Well, fuck you if you reject this chance to be forgiven. I for one would enjoy the comic spectacle of watching you continue to believe that Didi is dead, right up until the day Dada and I are able to bring her home. Perhaps Dada has been right all along: one must deserve to know.

  And Ma, darling, love you as I do, another bit of advice: save some of that self-righteousness for later. You’re going to need it, because there’s another delicate subject I haven’t even broached yet.

  We need to talk about that piece-of-shit social climber, who never once spared a backward glance for the people he had used on his way from Nawabganj, Hazaribagh, to that three-storey house in Ballygunge.

  My football-juggling father extraordinaire.

  Yes, I see the ingratitude, and the irony. I’m the son who lucked out. I should be the one idolising him.

  But just now I don’t feel so lucky. What I feel part of instead is a group of three kids whose parents let them believe they were to blame for everything.

  How might Didi have felt when Baba and Ma had announced their sudden decision, although they’d insisted she was the ‘blameless one’ and was free to remain with us? Would she have wondered about the so-called incident on the sofa, and whether it had added fuel to my parents’ harshness?

  And if that was true to any extent, it might merely be one of many things she had taken upon herself (perhaps from even earlier, such as when Baba left her mother), all of which one day made her feel that — for no reason apparent to anyone else — she had to immediately quit her world.

  I have tried to accurately depict my mood that night after the phone call with Ma. It might have been reductive, not to mention self-exonerating to a great extent, but suddenly it felt like I was seeing my ever-doting parents from other people’s angles.

  Then things took such a turn over the next twenty-four hours that I didn’t speak to my mother again on this particular visit.

  I didn’t get a chance to learn more about my sister. I didn’t get a chance to confront or accuse Ma.

  What happened next no one saw coming, although it was caused solely by everything I had done.

  Lena

  Moushumi joined us on the Skype call today, just after I’d learnt from Abhay that he was going to visit an astrologer this afternoon who was ‘completely blown away’ by Mira’s horoscope, but that he still hadn’t managed to meet Praveen for one reason or another. Which is why I didn’t have a chance to say ‘Please don’t take my daughter’s horoscope anywhere, and by the way, where was I when that was being drawn up?’ But those were my exact words in the second text sent right after the Skype. Anyway, what Moushumi felt she had to clarify was that it was probably nervousness more than anything that was keeping Praveen from meeting Abhay.

  ‘Last night he was genuinely called away, but I believe he might come today. Jhappi and Paakhi will tell him how Abhayda is, and then he’ll come. Ashim and I will also call him just to be sure. But the people we really want to see in Hazaribagh are the two of you. That’s the promise I want to hear.’

  Even with the erratic pictures that sometimes trailed their voices by as many as two sentences, her warmth and sincerity were clear. Abhay was smiling beside her. He asked for Mira once more because he had a new game to show her. They could play it on Skype itself.

  Mira heard me yelling about a new game and turned up. She’d actually had a good day at crèche and with Nana, and we were going for a bike ride around Karori Park after this call. She was down to being very comfortable on one trainer wheel already, and I didn’t want her to lose practice while Abhay, who usually ran alongside her, was away. So we’d been going for a couple of rounds every few days, and when Baba was back and ready to run behind her holding onto the back of the seat, perhaps that second trainer wheel could come off.

  Abhay’s game of calling out instructions where you had to remember to do the opposite didn’t work great with the video delays we were having, but Mira liked the idea. She wanted Baba home so they could p
lay it properly.

  That was when Abhay mentioned he wanted to ask both our permissions about something, and at least his voice came through clearly while he did so. Moushumi was gone by now, so I couldn’t be sure whether he’d asked her already.

  ‘Darling, how would you feel if Baba were to stay here one extra week? Just seven more days, promise, and no further extensions after that. It’s just that I still have so much more to find out, and three full days simply isn’t enough. But if you’re both against it, then I’ll come home exactly as planned.’

  Mira looked at me, and I said so that Abhay could hear, ‘Sweetheart, it’s entirely your decision. Baba will do what you want.’

  Abhay came up with a sweetener for Mira. ‘I forgot to mention something else. If I can stay one more week and find out everything I need to know, then I just need two weeks when I’m back in my writing studio to write everything up and I won’t use it again. Things will go completely back to normal, and I’ll work from home as I always did and pick you up and take you to everything and go biking. Because I’ve come so far, it makes sense to stay here a little longer and get everything done, so that next time I can bring you here and concentrate entirely on showing you all the fun things to do with Tultidi and Paakhidi. Just one more week, darling, only seven sleeps. Did you know that I dreamt of taking you swimming last night, right here in Hazaribagh, and you were on my shoulders and in your togs and we were running late—’

  Mira expertly clicked on the big red hang-up button. Her father’s face had frozen a while ago. I gave her a hug and said sweetheart, he’s going to give up the flat. That’s a great surprise, right?

  When she pushed away my hug and headed off to the playroom, I said let’s go for our bike ride and if we’re really quick with our three rounds, OK, let’s make it two today, then maybe we can still grab an ice block before the café closes.

  While Mira upturned her basket of felt pens, crayons and colour pencils as if looking for something specific, I sent Abhay my first text. ‘Thanks for the heads-up about the change of plans. It’s going down great here.’

  Three minutes later, after having forced Mira’s sandals onto her feet and led her down the stairs to the garage, but before loading the bike and the helmet into the boot, I sent the message forbidding the horoscope bullshit.

  No immediate reply to either. As we drove down Campbell Street, Mira suddenly said she didn’t want to ride her bike today. Instead she would like to visit the playground at Ben Burn Park, which was just coming up on our left. I reminded her there were no cafés here, so there wouldn’t be any ice blocks afterwards. She replied she could just have one from the traffic-light box at home.

  As I parked, it suddenly came to me that I had a key to Abhay’s studio at home. Mira and I could grab it and go over and trash the place right now. We both probably needed to vent in some way.

  Or else just me tomorrow before I picked her up from Mum’s, cos actually I could live without the guilt of being a bad role model.

  Fucking Abhay was going to take our silence for a yes, I discover from an email that arrives while Mira’s on the climbing frame. I’m standing just behind her, although she’s such an expert now on these ropes and has her route to the top all worked out.

  Sweetheart, I haven’t been able to share everything on Skype because even praising people the way you’d like to isn’t easy when they’re right there in the room. But these guys are an incredible team. Praveen drinks way too much, but you heard how Moushumi speaks even about him. They’re really one for all, all for one, all the way down to Moushumi’s mum and even the neighbour’s adorable two-year-old. What I’ve walked into completely unsuspectingly, imagining if anything the opposite, is something so special, and I don’t know if it began after Didi left or has been this way since the start.

  Basically darling, I don’t know shit. I’m only beginning to discover Dada and I know nothing about my sister, and what I’ve also realised is that I’ve probably never looked with honesty at either Ma or Baba. With all that in mind, the biggest proof of what a blind dumbass I am is that I only set aside four days to be here!!! All I focused on was the two of you and getting back home ASAP and also some unformed anxiety about being in Dada’s backyard but, let alone uncovering more about Didi, how close was I hoping to get to her family in FOUR days?? My plan was so half-baked and last-minute, darling, which is why I need just a bit longer. My being here is necessary in so many ways, for me to learn more but also to be able to show them that, from here on, they can count on me, on US, as part of their team as well …

  I was near the end, but I never finished reading that email. Still haven’t.

  Because right then Mira shouted ‘Look, Mummy!’ and did what she had not once come close to doing before.

  She jumped from the top of the climbing frame.

  Abhay

  I was excited about the astrologer despite myself, and nervous as well despite the past couple of days. After all, I had first been told about Maheshji as a tantrik, even though on that occasion he had given Dada some deeply sane and non-malicious advice.

  Dada arrived from work on his motorbike as Moushumi and I were finishing lunch. Yakub was driving us to Maheshji’s chamber, which was just past Sadar Hospital, when I asked Dada if it was OK for me to stay another week. I mentioned that I had already checked with Lena, but I’d call the airline only if it wouldn’t inconvenience him and Moushumi.

  Weirdly, almost uncannily, he didn’t seem surprised at all. What he said was, ‘I’m glad you arrived at the decision yourself. What I can tell you is that we need you here as well.’

  ‘How did you guess I would want to stay?’

  ‘I didn’t. I only hoped.’

  ‘You did a lot fucking more than hope, mate, as my Kiwi brethren would say. Everything you’ve done since July has directly led to this visit. You are Mister Direct Action!’ But there was no accusation in my voice. I was grinning.

  ‘OK, guilty as charged, but I did pray with all my heart that you’d decide to stay for longer or return soon once you’d met everyone here.’

  ‘What are we going to do about Didi? Do you think it’s something we could all talk about as a group? Including Praveen, Jhappi and Paakhi, of course.’

  ‘If you stay another week, maybe. If you come back as well, definitely. If you leave tomorrow, no.’

  ‘But you guys can talk about it whether or not I’m here. You do talk about it, right?’

  We’d stuck to English right through because of Yakub’s presence in the car, and the subjects of this conversation. Now we’d apparently arrived, and he had pulled over for us to get out. Dada told him to find a park first. Then he replied, ‘Jhappi will talk about anything but. Even though he yearns for her, he cannot forgive her. Praveen cannot forgive himself. Paakhi is the only one ready to talk about her mother at any time.’

  Then he looked at me. ‘Before Chhotka’s wedding in July, among the grown-ups it was just Moushumi and me thinking about how to reach Didi and bring her back. You can’t imagine what I felt when I saw you at the wedding. And Lena too. I felt our team finally has some new members. Now the project can properly begin. Before meeting you in Calcutta, I had more or less put off the search until Paakhi grows up. You see how things are here? Only by staying together and holding hands like a ring-a-ring-a-roses group can we keep going and not fall down. Imagine how it would be if I, or Moushumi and I — or even if I somehow convinced Jhappi to come along — suddenly headed off on a proper search for Didi. Who would be here for Paakhi? Who would be here for Praveen?

  ‘Whatever I did these past six months, I did to learn about you, find out who you have become in the short time I had by pushing and provoking you. But most of all — I admit this and apologise for it — my aim was to bring you here. Just once, after twenty years, by any means necessary, to bring you here.’

  Speaking in English didn’t matter by this point. I’m sure Yakub in the front seat had a fairly clear idea what we were talking abo
ut, two teary brothers and all these names. I decided fuck how it looks, and reached out and took Dada’s hand.

  ‘Why do you think I started going to Maheshji in the first place four years ago?’ he asked. ‘That’s how helpless we felt. We were looking for answers anywhere.’

  ‘And?’ I was curious to hear what advice Maheshji had offered.

  ‘And nothing,’ replied Dada. ‘Nothing about Didi at least, although he has become indispensable to me for other things. He says no one is forcing her to stay away, which is why only she can choose to return.’

  After all that, our own visit to Maheshji was a dud, although a far from boring one. We were back in the car within fifteen minutes. Thankfully Dada didn’t seem offended by what I had done.

  We’d first entered an alley beside a crumbling shopping plaza that was about four feet wide. In walking through we had to squeeze past two barbers attending to clients whose chairs were parked outside their tiny hair-cutting saloon, but one of them greeted Dada and smiled at us. Just around the corner on the ground floor of the plaza was Maheshji’s office, and indeed it was designed like a doctor’s chamber, except in extreme miniature.

  My first thought about the ‘waiting area’ was: it’s half the size of our (average-sized) bathroom at home. Immediately afterwards I modified this estimate. The entire chamber — that is, waiting-plus-consulting area — was the size of our bathroom.

  (So, another of those mysterious Indian astrologers who are revered by dozens of far wealthier clients, which must mean they’re either very smart in hiding from the taxman their unimaginable earnings, or else, one has to ask — are their powers of no use in improving their own condition? Is that the curse they bear for their clairvoyance? Probably, I answered myself, the former.)