The Rat Eater

by Anand Ranganathan

  ‘Hey Ram.’

  ‘My mother went into a coma…they couldn’t save my father.’

  ‘Ram…hey Ram.’

  ‘That last moment with my father—he held my hand but he couldn’t speak. He had the ventilator on with all that oxygen mask…’

  ‘Ram…’

  ‘But he said what he wanted to through his eyes. He said what he wanted to, I was sure.’

  ‘I am very sorry, Aparajita ben…’

  ‘My whole world, everything, destroyed in a matter of days…’

  ‘Very, very sorry.’

  ‘Suddenly I was the sole breadwinner. An invalid mother, wheelchair bound, who also talked to me only through her eyes. And the talk wasn’t kind. Eyes, do you know, can speak a lot?’

  ‘…I understand, Aparajita ben.’

  ‘Anyway…that was the last time I met Akhil—until now...’

  ‘Akhil?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh. And all this was in…’

  ‘1990.’

  ‘And where was your husband in all this?’

  ‘No, he didn’t picture in all this. Me, Akhil, him—we were the best of friends.’

  Shakti ben had stopped shedding the pea pods a long time ago. ‘So, how did you and your husband…’

  Aparajita smothered her runny nose with her upper arm. ‘He was the only other man in my mother’s eyes. She wrote down his name on a piece of paper after I had pretended not to understand her when her eyes kept pointing to Ajay.’

  ‘Oh…’

  ‘Nothing could be done or delayed further. My fate was sealed.’

  ‘But you did delay it—the marriage, I mean. A full three years beyond your engagement.’

  ‘That was the period in which I got all those tests done.’

  ‘Oh…Tell me, Aparajita ben—did you love your husband then? Do you love him now?’

  Sepia flashbacks rushed through Aparajita’s mind in response to that question, browned and blotched and tattered stills from her life: school school college college college Ajay Akhil Ajay Akhil Akhil Akhil Amma Appa Amma hands hands held held Ajay Akhil Akhil kiss loving arms longing arms kiss kiss Akhil roof moon moon tree moon shade rains rains Akhil Appa Appa Ajay loving longing longing Akhil crying crying fan fan rope fan Akhil crying longing Akhil Ajay Akhil…Akhil.

  The roulette ground to a halt.

  ‘No.’

  ‘And do you still love this, this other…Akhil?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then, why…why?’

  Aparajita hid her face in her hands and cried.

  ‘I think I know, Aparajita ben. You delayed your marriage so you could get all those tests done. And after you knew, you thought, you have got nothing to offer Akhil. And you still think that? Even after all these years, you still think that? Do you? Is that what marriage means to you? Children? And that, too, blood children, Aparajita ben?’

  ‘It is a lot more complicated than that, Shakti ben, a lot more…’

  ‘Tell me. Let me drink all your poison.’

  Aparajita closed her eyes and opened them again, to allow the tears to dribble away. ‘I know my Akhil. I know he loves me still, but after all that happened to me, my family, after what they said and did, I sat back and realised—what you meant just now. Of course, marriage isn’t just children, of course not. But if you can see from my eyes, my marriage to Akhil would have been a selfish act on my part. The companionship of marriage, the comfort and satisfaction that one expects from it…One thinks, “That’s the one for me”, and the man thinks exactly the same thing and we choose each other from a sea of people. We choose a partner because we expect something in return—the companionship and the safety of it. I realised I wanted Akhil for me…’

  ‘But Aparajita ben, that’s one way of looking at it. Didn’t he want you, too? Of course, he did.’

  ‘Yes, of course. That urge to be together, to get married, to stay together—that urge is based on self-interest.’

  ‘But it’s the same between any man and woman; just the truth, that’s all.’

  ‘Yes, but I wanted to give him something. I felt my whole life was meant to give him that one thing.’

  ‘What. A child?’

  ‘Yes, but not just a child…’

  ‘So what if you cannot bear one—there’s nothing more noble and fulfilling as adoption.’

  ‘Yes, you are right, Shakti ben. But it wasn’t just the question of giving him a child.’

  ‘Then?’

  Aparajita pinched her hand in anguish. ‘Oh, how can I tell you…You won’t understand.’

  ‘Try me; tell it to your sister.’

  ‘I…’

  ‘Bolo…’

  ‘I wanted to dilute his blood. Oh, it’s too warped, the thinking. You’ll hate me; you are hating me already.’

  Shakti ben came over to sit next to Aparajita. She pulled Aparajita’s head with both her hands and placed it on her shoulder. ‘No I am not, Aparajita ben. I don’t understand at all, what you just said, but I respect you for having fought all this way, for having tried all options…But make me understand.’

  ‘It’s too difficult, Shakti ben. I don’t even know how I told you what I just did. I haven’t told it to anyone before, not even Akhil.’

  Shakti ben got up and returned to her seat. ‘…So what is it, what did you mean when you said dilute…’

  ‘For you to understand this, I would have to tell you thousands of years of our history, the history that, in one sense, can’t be termed as such, because it is still the present. It is not history, Shakti ben, but to the present, it is the curse of history…

  ‘Who can erase it? Who can make us ignore it? No one. People have tried—great mahatmas have tried. But the mahatma left and this curse stayed.

  ‘Education, learning, knowledge—they have got nothing to do with it. It inflicts us all; rich and poor, illiterate and learned, landowner and landless, man and woman, child and the newborn.

  ‘We are born with it—that taveez that’s tied to the limb of a newborn, it is that, that is this curse. And it was my failure to change the way my people thought about this curse; it was under this curse—as a child of this curse—that I thought, what my best offering to my Akhil was not just the offer of my hand for him to hold and walk in times good and bad; not the offer of my body for him to fulfil his physical desires; the best I could give to him, I thought was my silent protest, my retort: the offer to dilute his cursed blood…’

  ‘Cursed blood? What do you…’

  ‘Not to wipe out his sorrows for him, not to win his battles for him, but an offering to remove the weight of this curse from his children instead. To halve it, with the hope that with time, it would get halved again, and again, and again, and again, until one day, the cursed blood of Akhil would no longer flow in any living vein; it would be diluted, gone, erased...

  ‘And when I found out that I couldn’t even offer that little to him, I gave in to my mother’s eyes, and became Ajay’s wife.’

  ‘But who—what is, this Akhil of yours? What is his curse, as you say?’

  ‘Oh, Shakti ben, that’s all for another journey.’

  ‘Still…’

  ‘He is a Chamaar.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A Chamaar.’

  Shakti ben let out a scream. ‘Bhagwaan. Hey Bhagwaan…hey Ram…Harey Ram! Oh, Aparajita ben—hey Sita Maiyaa. Of all the people—Aparajita, Aparajita ben. Of all the men to choose from in this world. Of all the…’

  ‘I can see even you aren’t unaffected by this curse. It’s impossible for you, too…’

  ‘Oh, Aparajita ben, but it has to be. It must be so—impossible. It is the way of the world. Ben, ben, ben…And what has become of him, this Chamaar.’

  Aparajita clutched the edge of the bench and squeezed hard. ‘Akhil. His name is Akhil.’

  ‘Yes, well, what has…’

  ‘Well, it’s a long story, too long, Shakti ben…Almost 8.30. Look, it’s pitch da
rk outside…’

  Shakti ben turned her head and looked out. ‘Yes, it is.’

  Something caught Aparajita’s eye, something strange. ‘Except for the light coming from the coaches of that train. Isn’t it odd, what you see? Two trains running side by side, maintaining similar speed…’

  Shakti ben had also noticed this curious occurrence. ‘Haan, it is certainly strange.’ She wanted to return to the discussion but Aparajita was transfixed.

  ‘…look…total darkness, but you can see those people by the light of their compartments. A parallel world, a different set, a…a…Oh my God. Oh God! Did you…Did you see that?!’

  Shakti ben jumped out of her seat. ‘Oh God, yes! Hey Bhagwaan! Harey Ram! Kalyug!’

  The whole bay had seen it. Small girls came rushing in and gripped the window bars and tried to push their heads through for a better look.

  ‘Shakti ben, Kamla—do something. That man is stabbing him. Oh God! Can you see it?’

  Shakti ben was trying to get through to the window for a better view. She pulled a child away and extended her arms through the bars, waving them hysterically. ‘Arey, do something—pull the chain! Let’s all shout and alert the passengers of the other coaches. They might not...they couldn’t possibly have seen what we have just seen…Shout! Shout! Someone pull the chain! Look away, Aparajita ben, look away!’

  Aparajita stifled her scream with her fist. ‘Oh God, no. He has done it. That man’s dead, I think. Someone please do something. Call the police. What have we just seen. He is dead. That man is dead. I saw it with my own eyes. He used a knife—or a dagger, was it? Look! He’s thrown it out the window!’

  Shakti ben grabbed Aparajita by her arms. ‘Aparajita ben. Get a hold of yourself. Look away…’

  Aparajita noticed the dagger now lying on the tracks, the light from the train compartments making its steel glint. The bejewelled jade-coloured grip sparkled, and the horse-head…Aparajita froze. ‘Oh God, no…No! It can’t be. It just can’t…’

  ‘What? What can’t be?’

  ‘What time is it? Where are we? I must get down.’

  ‘Aparajita ben, you can’t! We are moving…’

  ‘But I must. How far is IIT from here? Someone please pull the chain. Here, I’ll do it.’

  Shakti ben shook Aparajita by her shoulders. ‘IIT? But we are past it. And look. Someone has pulled the chain in that train. It’s alright. The police will be there in a minute. Calm down, ben, you need to calm down. No, don’t pull…’

  Aparajita broke away and pulled at the chain with all her strength. ‘But I must. Oh God. What have I seen! I must, I must…Give way, move. Move.’

  ‘But you can’t just jump out like that, Aparajita ben. Wait.’

  Too late. Aparajita jumped from the slow-moving train. She stumbled as she landed on the rubble, but managed to steady herself and run across the tracks to the other side in full view of the stunned passengers who watched her until she receded to a dot on the open stretch.

  Shakti ben remained plastered to the window bars, mesmerised. ‘Bhagwaan. She jumped.’

  Kamla was on the adjoining window. ‘What a woman, didi.’

  ‘But if you ask me, Kamla, a little screw loose.’

  Kamla detached herself from the bars and grinned. ‘You mean, mad.’

  ‘A complete nutcase.’

  ‘Still, a hell of a timepass, wasn’t it?’

  Shakti ben smacked Kamla on the head with the back of her hand. ‘You mui. Now pass me that cauliflower.’

  Myself Jam.

  Venkataramanujam. And your good name? My berth is lower. I have tied my new Samsonite suitcase to the leg of the seat with a Swiss lock. It will rattle a little. Sorry for the inconvenience when you sit down. Your wife can take the upper berth. The step ladder is here. Little dirty. Cleanliness in India has gone to the dogs—Swachh Bharat or no Swachh Bharat. What can the train do when people are dirty? Yourself? Ah, Patwardhan, I see from your VIP tag. Chitpavan? Brahmins, no?

  Good, good. The journey will be peaceful. I saw on the list that the fourth passenger is a Bengali brahmin. Very good, very good. Bengalis are good people, like us south Indians. And like you Maharashtrians. Quiet, cultured, God-fearing, and classical music inclined. How else do you explain why so many singers come from our regions? Only Devi can explain. The fourth Bengali passenger, he can keep his harmonium on top there, between the berths, next to the fan, behind the tiffin box.

  Ah, the train finally moves. One can say goodbye to the station filth. Yes, yes, just throw the plastic cup under your seat. Cleaner will come to pick it up. You only have to look away and lift your legs when he sweeps it out.

  Just coming back from America, California, after visiting my son. First baby. Boy. Boy. His. My wife is staying back—to bathe the baby every day in olive oil and help with cutting vegetables and washing clothes. Custom. We have a three-month visa but I had office work. Little leave only. What to do?

  My son went on an H1 visa and is now permanent citizen of America. Mows the lawn every weekend. Also barbecues. He eats a little meat and is social drinker only. Nothing at home—no, never, not even onions. Outside also only due to friends. What to do. Good fellow; when he knew we were coming, he filled the fridge with vendekkai, katrikkai, shundakkai, pavakkai—all available in Mountain View, little cheaper than Palo Alto, but a little costlier than San Jose which is full of loud Mexicans. But in Mountain View, so many Indians I saw, it looked like Pondy Bazar in Mambalam. Only Ratna Stores was missing. Otherwise noise, smell, people—almost the same.

  Brilliant boy. First class first throughout. Only self-taught. Was playing chess from age two. IIT, IIM and then Stanford. Started tuition in India when he was eleven. Other colony boys when they were three. But he took tuition only when eleven and that too only for calculus. Maybe because of pollution. Sinus. But now big house in Redwood City and has white Americans for neighbours. No blacks on their street. You take 101 from San Francisco airport, get off Middlefield exit, go till you cannot go anymore, then turn left and from there it is a straight road to his house. I used to walk every day to the mall. In fact, spent all my time in the malls. Even got idli and vadai there.

  And there’s also a Hanuman temple nearby. Swimming pool also, but my daughter-in-law does not wear a bikini. One piece. Like a sari—one piece. From a good home, in Tirunelveli. Very, very homely. Watches only Tamil and Hindi films all day, about gods and goddesses. Does not stir out of the house. My son also good husband. Handicap 24 because he cannot leave home. Otherwise, he would have handicap 4. Life is about give and take. Some adjust here and there.

  Oh, my wife also has a handicap. She is hard of hearing. But she has packed food for the whole journey and some pickles, too. You can also have. We have extra spoons. Nothing like Indian women, I tell you. What is there in foreign—you tell me what is there in white skin? We are also returning from Seattle. Our son is also very brilliant—IIT, IIM, Harvard. But he married a foreigner and that too, black. Too black. What can one do, world is so globalised nowadays. Her parents are from Burundi. I didn’t even know such a thing existed. Much darker than Obama. Much, much more visibly dark. Real black you should see, but how can you. Like in Africa. Cannot see her at night, so black it looks like blue. They have one issue. A girl. As dark as Obama. Grey you can say. Diluted, by the grace of God. Her name is Abigail Varalakshmi. She will be attending bharatanatyam classes soon. Also judo but we are not happy as she will grow muscles like that Williams who plays tennis. Sari blouse will not fit. If she marries a white man when she reaches the marriageable age, we are hoping children will be almost white. Dilution.

  That is our only hope. Dilution. Only hope, I tell you.

  Where are you going? We are also going to Bangalore. We will be getting off at the Cantonment. We have one unmarried daughter. Very clever. Plays the veena. Only one problem. She wears thick glasses. So many refusals. But she is happy and very adjusting type. Doesn’t use any make-up. Not even snow. She taught our
daughter-in-law Cindy how to make all the dishes that my son likes. They often have guests, so we also taught her some foreign dishes—cabbage bake, potato bake, all without onions. You know these foreigners, they only eat bread. No culture. No music. Only hippies playing guitars.

  She is studying BCom in GAS—Government Arts and Science College. Will pursue PhD after marriage. In America. We are looking in America. Good girl. No bad habits. Goes straight to college and comes straight home. Her name is Soundarya. She can also play the tabla—but not much as that gives muscles. There’s one more thing. Her menses were late and my wife was very worried. She is also a manglik. Do you know any good astrologer in Bangalore? We are Iyengars.

  Shameless we are not. Insincere we are. Kind we are not. Curious we are. Stylish we are not. Clumsy we are. Modesty escaped us, leaving behind arrogance. We all went to IIT, we all went to IIM, we all speak English, we are all brahmins, we will all go to heaven where we will find that our creator may have had another view of all what we hate and love.

  We are probably the only people on earth who rush inside a train that is not scheduled to leave for the next two hours. To catch a seat in a fully reserved train where we too have an assigned seat. It’s just to ‘catch’ that little extra—konjum something. Or me, myself and my own. How is it possible for complete strangers to discuss minutely private details about each other and then get off the train and walk away without so much as a goodbye? How is it possible to share a meal one instant and swear at each other the next? How is it possible that with so much brilliance brimming over, India has not placed too many innovations in the global market? Any? Indians do very well when they go abroad. Didn’t you hear that on your train journey? Didn’t your train journey educate you enough?

  Train journeys are where we let all our complexes hang out, where we smell a high-caste fart and taste a low-caste pickle, where nothing is taboo, where we mingle and detach, mingle and detach, where our darkness is visible.

  By the way, there was something very fishy about that Bengali woman on the upper-side berth. She was travelling alone. No bangle, no sindoor, wearing a Punjabi salwar and talking on her phone all the time. Eessh. Everything is even more visible when it is dark.