Priya

by Namita Gokhale

  So we left Pooonam’s hen party together, me and Rajkumar Khanna. I could smell the soothing lavender notes in his cologne when he kissed me good night. On the cheeks. I didn’t tell Suresh the whole story. He wouldn’t have understood.

  ‘I didn’t like what I saw,’ I told him. ‘I’m not going to attend her wedding, and maybe you shouldn’t either.’

  ‘Rajan Sethia hasn’t got bail yet . . .’ Suresh replied thoughtfully.

  And that, finally, was the end of my friendship with Pooonam. I had woken up at last to smell the coffee. It happened that evening: my sense of smell reawakening, with a kiss, though I didn’t realize it in that moment. Suddenly my nostrils had come mysteriously alive again, and I have been sniffing at things in delight ever since—the sweet scent of vanilla in my handcream, the woody fragrance of Darjeeling tea, the intoxicating shower of perfume from the jasmine and raat ki rani bushes around the gate at 18 Dara Shikoh Marg. Even the stink of a truck farting diesel leaves me grateful. And yes, the tender, sad caress of the lavender cologne, which has stayed in my memory.

  Last evening, I was sitting on the swing in the lawn, listening to the wind. It had just rained, and a mischievous breeze was ruffling the neem tree. I had to attend a heavy-duty dinner, but it was a moment of such quiet peace that I didn’t want to let go. From the corner of my eye, I noticed the light in Kush’s annexe bathroom switching on and off, on and off, like a lighthouse on the blink.

  Kush was away on one of his mysterious research trips—why was the light on? I left the evening breeze to its own devices and hurried over to his room. The door wasn’t locked, as it should have been; it was slightly ajar. The bathroom light was still blinking. I switched on the light in his bedroom and looked around. There was a faint smell of incense around. A young man emerged from the bathroom, yawning carelessly. He was wearing only a towel. He examined me with polite curiosity, making me feel somehow like an intruder. We looked at each other in silence. He had a very long nose.

  ‘Who are you?’ I asked at last, after several moments of cordial if awkward silence.

  ‘A friend of Kush’s,’ he replied. ‘A very good friend . . . And you must be his mother?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ I replied, a bit at a loss about what to say next.

  The young man in the towel looked amused by the situation. ‘You must be wondering what I’m doing here,’ he said, ‘but I just stopped by to have a shower.’

  ‘How did you get in?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, I have a spare key to the annexe, aunty Priya,’ he replied. ‘And I shall lock it up again when I leave.’

  Kush’s subterranean life has always puzzled me. But he is a grown-up now, an adult. Ask no questions, that’s the rule with young adults.

  ‘I was just wondering why the light in the bathroom was flickering on and off,’ I said lamely, preparing to leave.

  ‘Oh that,’ he replied, offering no explanation.

  Who was he? Why did he have a key to Kush’s bedroom?

  I’VE BEEN WATCHING TELEVISION ALL NIGHT. THE DOMES OF THE TAJ hotel are licked by flames, its stonework exterior silhouetted by bayonets and television cameras. The Gateway of India is in the background, lit by weird shadows from the blaze. I used to drink coconut water there, and eat bhelpuri. I would stare wistfully at the Taj Mahal Hotel, its turrets and gables and carved cherubim, trying to peer behind an open window or a fluttering wisp of curtain at the guests inhabiting the magical grace within.

  There’s an open window on the television screen, the curtains billowing fire as a desperate guest tries to escape the conflagration. I know that window, I have sat by it and watched the sunset. BR has made love to me in that room.

  The camera shifts to VT. Victoria Terminus is CST now, Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus. Commuters, beggars, policemen, mowed down with AK-57s and hand grenades. The terrorists struck here first, before moving to the Taj and the Trident hotels. I would arrive here, every day, and make my way to the head office. Andheri—Vile Parle—Mahim—Dadar—Churchgate—VT, on the clattering suburban train. When I was young.

  The gun battles are still on. It’s dawn, yet the nightmare continues. This endless siege, with Mumbai hostage to the hatred and desperation these young men carry in their backpacks, with their stocks of RDX and their almonds and energy snacks. They are dressed in Versace t-shirts and cargo pants. They are as young as my sons.

  I’m searching behind the murderous newsclips for the city I loved. A ticker scrolls the names of the missing. The death toll is rising, relentless like the high tide from the Arabian Sea. That’s where these young men have come from, riding the waves. I’ve seen a name on the screen. My mind won’t accept it and blurs over the alphabets as they spell out his name. But in my heart, I know, and it breaks. Is broken. BR is dead. He has, I discover later, been shot dead, point blank, in the Trident, sitting at a restaurant table.

  My favourite author, when I was nineteen, was Daphne du Maurier. My favourite novel was, of course, Rebecca. BR’s flat lay like a jewel in the palm of Bombay, and in our dreams we would traipse wraithlike through it. Rebecca lies on my bookshelf, still. It ends with a fire at Manderley. ‘The sky on the horizon was not dark at all. It was shot with crimson, like a splash of blood. And the ashes blew towards us with the salt wind from the sea.’

  There is no one with whom I can share this loss. He is gone, this man who was once my boss.

  This man that I loved. Once.

  There’s been a cabinet reshuffle. ‘The Aftermath of Terror’, as the television headlines proclaim. The ageing dandy Home Minister has been dropped, and the FM has become the new HM. Suresh has been moved from Food Processing. He has been given Independent Charge of Micro, Small and Medium Enterprises. It’s a real promotion. I should be so proud of him, and of us. But something inside me has gone numb, a bit of me has died with BR.

  Rita Ray has managed to manoeuvre her way up. She’s got cabinet rank, and they’ve given her the ‘Child and Women Welfare’ portfolio. Oh well.

  It is a peculiar city; maybe all political capitals are like that. People from Kolkata and Mumbai are always going on about how elitist Delhiwallahs are. We are suddenly being invited out a lot, and whenever people talk to me, there is a deferential edge to their voices. As though my opinion matters. It’s a strange feeling, but I’m getting used to it. And to the constant grief, which hides behind a cloud of anasthesia. This is how Lenin must have felt when Banwari died. He tried to carry on; one has to. I’m doing a good job, too. Surviving.

  I’VE RECEIVED A HAND-DELIVERED PACKET. IT DOESN’T SAY WHO SENT it. Inside, wrapped up in a crumpled grey-bordered handkerchief, is a Valentine’s Day card, with a blotch of bleeding golden hearts and red roses on the cover. I open it to find a poem, written in purple ink, in my husband’s familiar handwriting.

  ‘My dear dear Pooonam, I love you dumb

  The nice curve of your hips,

  The shape of your lips . . .

  I love you true,

  Without you I’m blue . . .

  Your one and only—Suresh.

  The rhymester has expressed his sentiments frankly. I am devastated. In all these years together, Suresh never wrote a poem to me. I recognize how he crosses his t and the plump loop of the m. Suresh has written this poem. To Pooonam. And she has sent it to me, to show her power.

  I can’t pretend any longer. All the evasions and untruths and half-truths that have held up my marriage collapsed with that silly poem. ‘My dear dear Pooonam, I love you dumb.’ Absurd, really, that it was not a pornographic mms or video clip or any hardcore sexual misdeameanour that spelt out his infidelity, but a sloppy Valentine’s Day card.

  It’s here, in my hands, with their chipped nailpolish and crinkled crepey skin—this love poem by my husband that has not been written for me. I feel faint and dizzy. The pen in my hand is shaking as I write this. But now is not the time to come undone. I must get a hold on myself. There is to be a wedding in the family. The show must go on.

 
I couldn’t get Poonam out of my mind. I needed to fix things, to put a band-aid on it. Who what how could help me out? Not my GK astrologer Goria ji—it was all too complicated to explain to him. I needed a life coach, a psychic fixer. And then it struck me, the way out and the way forward. The fly on the flyswatter. I needed Nnutasha. The new-age mystic, Pooonam’s discredited numerologist. Nnutasha knew the territory, she would guide me about the way forward.

  How to find her? I couldn’t ask Suresh or Pooonam, could I? Searching the net, my expert secretarial fingers located her website. ‘Nnutasian Phantasian: THE QUEST. THE GRAIL. THE JOURNEY. Click here to proceed’. It listed two mobile numbers and I decided to call rather than register online, it seemed less incriminating somehow.

  The gravelly voice on the other end of the line sounded as though she smoked too many cigarettes, and yet it had a husky aftertaste of seduction.

  ‘Who is that?’ she quizzed. ‘Could you sms me your name please? We don’t accept calls from unknown numbers.’

  I wondered who the ‘we’ was, and dutifully smsed my name. Priya. Just that, not Priya Kaushal. Nnutasha called me back that instant, pouncing on me with A-grade charm. ‘Priya,’ she said, ‘I’ve been expecting your call all day! You appeared in my morning meditations, and I could sense your need to reach out, to share your pain . . .’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ I thought, but a bit of me wanted to believe her.

  ‘You were bathed in a misty aura of sky-blue light. But there was a blur of dark negative energy invading it. I see dark forces at work. I can feel bad bad vibes from a bitch bitch woman.’

  I nodded my head in agreement, but kept silent.

  ‘You are nodding your head in agreement but remaining silent. You are nodding, I can see that,’ she said, in that husky compelling voice. ‘Priya, you need to see me.’

  Nnutasha works out of a GK flat, just two lanes away from our rented-out kothi. She lives in Gurgaon. I have to admit she’s very charming. Grey hair with streaks of red and purple in it, and red and purple flat colour on her lips, red above, purple below.

  ‘Do you know Pooonam?’ I asked. ‘She used to talk a lot about you!’

  ‘Do I know Poonam?’ she replied, arching her eyebrows and flicking cigarette ash off an imaginary cigarette as she spoke. ‘Do I know Pooonam?! Indeed I do—I created Pooonam. Sculpted her out of a fat, desperate, deserted housewife, gave her a new name, a new nose, a new butt. I taught her the black arts, and she tried to turn around and use the tricks of the trade on me! The bitch the bitch.’

  Nnutasha lit up a real cigarette, a cheroot, in fact, and began a new tirade. ‘I introduced Pooonam to Manoviraj but she didn’t think twice of cheating on him. A new boyfriend every week— ministers, bureaucrats, film producers, bank loan sharks—anything she could lay her tits on . . . but I guess you know all that already, don’t you, Mrs Priya Kaushal?’

  This had been a bad idea. I didn’t need this Nnutasian Phantasian in my life. But her mood had changed already: she was suddenly poised, melodious and utterly professional. ‘I am a spiritual doctor,’ she declared, ‘a Sufi soul trained in the forty-two Laws of Universal Love. As a renowned tarotist, cabbalist and certified space healer, I offer services in mantra, yantra and tantra, in colour therapy, divination and aura restructuring. In short, botox for the spirit!’

  Nnutasha winked, and held my hand ever so lightly. There was a suggestion of seduction in the way her fingers stroked my palm. ‘Bespoke Cosmic Karma manipulation . . .’

  I noticed that one of her eyelids sagged over, like an old dog’s. Her grape-coloured satin kaftan smelt of patchouli and roses and was edged with a twined gold border. It somehow emphasized her taut posterior, which wiggled provocatively as she crossed the room to light up three fragrant purple candles. She lit up again, bending down to draw on the candle flame, then turned back to stare at me squarely in the eye. The room was filling up with smoke. ‘Let’s not waste time, honey!’ she said, ‘Life’s too short. I have seven years seven months and two weeks left to live. I know, because I know the count of things. And the fact of the matter is, the numbers in your name just don’t add up. I already told your husband that. Become Priyaa, with two ‘a’s not one, and the world is your acorn. Priyaa Cow Shall—that’s who you really are. If you dare to become her. No Pooonam can ever aspire to take your husband away from you, then, . . . If! If you gather the courage to take your destiny in your own hands!!’

  So she knew already. Everybody knew. More fool me, for coming here. But the smell of roses and patchouli had done something to me, soothed me somehow. It didn’t hurt so much, now, to think of Suresh with Pooonam, maybe Suresh with Nnutasha even . . .

  ‘It’s all in the numbers,’ she continued, her eyes narrowing, looking suddenly out-of-focus, even as the loose flap of eyelid drooped lazily over her eye. ‘It all adds up—every single action, every lie, every fraud, every evil intention—the great auditor in the sky adds it all up.’

  ‘But I, Nnutasha, can fool Him with double accounting. I’ll sex up the numbers for you. An extra ‘a’ and a new ‘c’ in your name, and the karmic balance-sheet changes. The interest rates go down, and you start getting the most incredible deals from destiny. Just plain logical mathematics!’

  She stubbed out her cheroot and lit up another one. ‘You for instance are ruled by the romantic moon—number two—and creative Neptune—number seven—while Suresh has the moon, Venus and Jupiter lined up to protect him. His political career will only go up and up and up, especially if you change your name to Priyaa. It will lock your fate to his, and then, together, you will change the destiny of this country. Of the beloved nation, our I- N-D-Y-A-A—maathe mein bin-di-ya . . .’ she spelt the letters out in a musical rhythm, tapping her golden Swarovski-encrusted clogs in beat.

  I came back to my senses. ‘No extra anything in my name for me,’ I said, smiling sweetly at Nnutasha as I spoke. ‘I am Priya Kaushal and I shall remain her. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Shakespeare said that. William Shakespeare.’

  She was still humming her Indyaa song and tapping her feet as I stepped out into the sanity of noise and pollution.

  I mean, the point is that things are what they are. I am Priya and this is India. Bombay to Mumbai, Bangalore to Bengaluru—does it ever change anything? And then perhaps it does. Ms P UmaChand to Mrs Manoviraj Sethia certainly does.

  And I was still hurting, not so much from Suresh’s infidelity as his writing a stupid poem for someone else, not me.

  The truth. It’s a funny thing when it lands like an egg in your face, and you can’t run away any more. But that’s what I did. I ordered a taxi from the local stand, packed a bag with track pants and a salwar kameez, and set off for Rishikesh. I don’t know what pushed me to do it. No Ghafoor, no government car, no husband or sons, or daughter-in-law to be. It was good to be alone, without the usual protective bandobast. Just me, in a taxi, and the potholed UP roads. I felt free.

  After we were speeding out of Delhi, having crossed the congested Noida traffic, I sent a sms to Suresh. ‘Going to seek blessings of Guru.’ I didn’t know any guru in Rishikesh, but I didn’t want to message him about the Valentine card, it would read much too confusedly against a backlit screen.

  The taxi driver was the silent type, addicted to a crackling FM channel which belted out seventies Bollywood hits interrupted by the saccharine musings of the radio DJ. I fell asleep, and dreamt of BR. We were in heaven together, holding hands. I was jolted awake as we reached Rishikesh. I could smell incense, and the scent of the river in the evening breeze. I felt a part of the crowd, and yet alone.

  Then I saw him, a thin ascetic man with a stoop. He wore a saffron dhoti and held a wooden kamandal in his hand. A luminous light, like a full-body halo, circled him as he walked along the river bank.

  I sort of leapt on him and fell at his feet. ‘I need your blessings,’ I said urgently, ‘and your guidance. I need you to explain what I should do.’

  My potential gur
u looked taken aback. ‘Please, Guru ji,’ I persisted, ‘I need your blessings!’

  ‘Come with me,’ he said, in the sort of impeccable English accent a university professor might have. I followed him, and in very little time found myself outside a white building with neon tube lights protruding from it like an antler’s horns. We were beside the river, and I could hear the waters rushing with quick but measured intent. My heart was beating fast too, as though, at last, some joyous secret was about to be revealed.

  The Guru led me swiftly past a lobby full of people who seemed to be waiting for him, as in a dentist’s reception. In the middle of the room was a life-sized gold and marble statue (possibly a samadhi) surrounded by offerings of fruit and sandalwood incense. A giant television screen, playing on mute, aired the current IPL cricket match. I followed him into another, smaller room carpeted in orange. It had a large picture window, which opened onto the river. A moist breeze ruffled my hair, and the almanac that hung on the wall began flapping in some kind of agitation.

  The Guru settled down gracefully on a low stool, and motioned to me to be seated on the white silk floor cushions by the wall. He was silent, waiting for me to speak. I didn’t know what to say, how to begin. The breeze from the river ceased momentarily, then swept through the room again. The waves were beating against the rocks outside. I began in a confused burst about the Valentine’s Day card, and Pooonam, and the three ‘os in her name, and for some reason about Paro, though clearly she had nothing to do with it at all. ‘I can’t love him,’ I confessed. ‘It was an arranged marriage. I’ve tried my best to be a good wife.’ I didn’t tell him about BR, even though I meant to. But that story was over now. He was dead and all that had never happened. ‘I have always done my duty!’ I said wildly.

  He was examining his fingernails, a beatific expression on his face. I had no idea if he had made sense of my outpourings, or listened to any of it. A young priest in a white dhoti peered in and pointed urgently at the clock on the wall. It pointed to nine o’clock. My guru continued to smile and stare at his fingernails. Then he turned to me and looked me in the eyes.