Pluton's Pyre

by Gyandeep Kaushal

  ‘What?’ he shouted. I presumed he’d fallen off whatever chair he was sitting on.What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Hey, I mean, is there something between you guys?’ I preferred not to wait or fumble for words.

  ‘What? No, no way! She’s just an acquaintance, we barely even talk.’

  Frustratingly, a pre-recorded voice message on the station phone played at the same time: The duration of the phone call has expired. What it was really saying was, If you want to continue the call, please insert fifty paise. But since you don’t give a crap right now about this phone call anyway, you are advised to hang up the receiver in its proper place.

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ I said, by way of reply. ‘Hey, Adi, I’m at a railway station and my train just blew the last horn, so I’ve got to go now. I’ll catch up with you sometime later.’

  ‘Wait, Suraj, what were you thinki… ?’

  I took the phone’s advice and disconnected.

  Thereafter I, like a boss, walked into the washroom nearby and decided to leak out all the frustration, and let peace come to me. Aditya’s welcome voice had brought quiescence to my mind. I felt pacified. Surely, there’s no better gesture a man can offer to express one’s peace to oneself than being honest in the washroom, if you know what I mean.

  I freshened up at the nearby washbasin and ran to the coach towards our compartment.

  ‘Here,’ said Daadu, offering me the coffee again. ‘A minute more, and if you hadn’t showed up, I would have thrown it out of the window. Have it down your throat before it starts tasting like the coffee your father makes,’ he said and giggled. For some reason, Daadu’s best jokes were all about Dad—and they were good. ‘Is it still warm?’

  ‘Yes, only a bit though,’ I said wryly. ‘It tastes worse than Dad’s coffee.’

  At that, we laughed together. The way I mixed with Daadu or Naanima seemed to peel off one layer at a time the reason why old people enjoy the company of children more than that of adults.

  ‘Shall I ask you something?’ Suddenly, his convivial mood lost its warmth.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, wondering what it could be.

  ‘Do you like it here? At St Joseph’s? Or do you think Don Bosco’s was better?’ he said, looking at me sharply.

  ‘Well, of course Don Bosco’s was a very nice place, Daadu. I had many friends there. But I guess St Joseph’s isn’t such a bad place either. I hope I’ll be able to settle down there soon.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Of that, I’m sure as taxes. And you’ll make good friends here too,’ he said, and smiled sympathetically. After gazing at the passing scenery outside of the train’s window for a minute, he took my hand, looked at me, and said, ‘Of course, you haven’t received the best of cooperation from people from whom you should.You know who we are talking about.’

  ‘No, Daadu, it’s not that way…’

  ‘No, son, you deserve it. I understand,’ he said, as his grip over my hands tightened and his forehead furrowed once again. ‘I understand that Manu has not been able to act very rationally lately.’

  He heaved a sigh and continued, ‘He wasn’t always like this. I guess we both know that. After your mom passed away, he has been through a lot.At an age when the sunsets seem romantic and life feels just the way you want it to when there are only a few times that it does, losing your wife squeezes out your very breath.You don’t want to move, there’s nowhere to go. That loneliness puts all the music of life to silence for eternity. It blights all the happiness in a man’s life. Loneliness of that sort can turn a man peppy enough like your father was, into history.’

  I looked at him, shaking my head in agreement.

  ‘You know?’ his voice coarsened and his eyes turned a bit wet, as he went on. ‘I still remember how empty and hollow life seemed when your daadi left this world, twelve years ago. And that feeling came even though she’d died a natural death. She had lived her life. But your mother, her departure came earlier than it should have. She was young, and so was Manu.They were so happy together.Your mother was a lovely woman. A loving wife, a caring and cultured daughter, and an affectionate mother, she was.’

  He sighed and continued, ‘I really wish there was a cure to cancer.

  ‘The day she entered our house after their wedding, she added strength and harmony to the family. She was more of a daughter than a bahu to your daadi and me. Moreover, to me, she was a friend too. Her exit was a blow to all our lives. She meant the world to your father. She was like his lucky charm.Three months after marriage, that spoiled brat cleared the banking exams and finally had a job to attend.

  ‘She made him decent; she balanced him. Now that she’s no more, he’s taking life too hard. He’s become the summer winds – it’ll take him a whole season to correct his direction. But all he needs is a little time. Give him time, lad. Do you understand me? You need to give him time.’

  ‘Yes, Daadu, I will,’ I said, looking up at him.

  ‘That’s my boy!’ he said brightly, running his fingers through my hair. ‘I’m sure you will, son, I’m sure you will,’ he said with reassurance. ‘But right now, all I want you to do is study.’

  As if I had never heard that before. Now, I could see the father of my father in him.

  ‘Yes, Daadu.’

  ‘And I hear there are girls in your new school, right? Found a pretty one with big blue eyes, eh?’ he said and winked at me.

  A brief discussion on an assortment of topics followed. I could take a catnap before we finally reached Kanpur Central Station at close to 10 in the morning. After unchaining our only carry bag, we marched towards the taxi stand and hired a cab home, which was about 25 kilometres from the station.That was nearly an hour’s drive.We made it home, nevertheless, well in time, before the puja ceremony.

  Daadu took the carry bag from me and went into his room. The first thing I did was to take a shower. I didn’t want to invite any sarcasm from Dad on a special day like that.

  Dad had everything taken care of. He had had the house washed and mopped cleanly. Everything but the dining table and the four chairs it centred around, was moved from the dining room to other areas, to create space.

  I remember that Dad had always wanted a conspicuous, well-spread, six-sitting dining table. He felt it spoke of a well-provided family and symbolized filled plates. But Mom insisted on a four-seater. She’d say, ‘Ours is a family of four.Why spend on extra chairs? Any day we have a guest, which nobody has very often, we can all eat together on the floor. I’m sure Papa and Suraj won’t mind, and it’s good for posture, too.’

  To which Daadu had nodded in agreement very positively, and had me tip my otherwise immobile head as well.

  ‘Besides,’ Mom had added, ‘I can imagine how complete and fulfilling it’d look when all of us eat together, like a perfect family.’

  Well, if you ask me, I’d agree with Mom’s logic. We were four, so why spend on extra chairs? But no matter how much she wanted it to look like a perfect, complete family; we did have an extra chair now.

  ***

  I don’t remember the time exactly, but around 11:15, about thirty or thirty-five people from the neighbourhood, all wearing white clothes, had come for the barsi. There was room enough for everyone to sit comfortably on the two white carpets spread evenly across the entire expanse of the room. I too wore a white kurta-pajama and, after having seen that everyone was well seated, I joined them in the front row, with Daadu and my father.

  There was a small centre table draped in a white piece of cloth, like a shroud. On it stood a black-and-white framed photograph of Ma,which was garlanded with fresh marigold flowers, and scented with the fumes of incense sticks.

  Our family priest, Panditji, chanted praying for the peace of the departed soul. Our fellow mourners sat in silence, the women veiled with aanchals and dupattas.That went on for nearly half an hour. Puja was followed by an hour-long shok samaroh during which people were supposed to sit quietly and remember the departed soul. I don’t exactly know how many e
yes were moist, as I couldn’t turn back to look, but I remember there was grave silence.

  In that silence you cannot hear anything but the faint breathing of people. There is no music, just the sound of the retiring air that blows. In silence like that, you cannot trouble the mind with thoughts; you can only live the void, the emptiness; you can wear the vibe, which comes to you naturally and drink it all in.

  By noon, the shok samaroh was over.After that, I had to help my father and grandfather in serving meals on pattals to twelve poor Brahmins. Prasad was distributed to the rest, after which the busier people left for work.

  After cleaning the floor and getting rid of the disposable plates and glasses, Ma’s barsi was officially over. But for some reason, after everybody left, I could see myself being plunged into a goblet of familiar sadness. The atmosphere in the house had once again become like on the day Ma’s shraadh had taken place. By the evening, it became worse. None of us said a word, or even ate, although silence and fasting were not ceremonial parts of a barsi.

  The next morning wasn’t very different.We spoke only when absolutely necessary. Dad had to go to the bank as usual. I offered Daadu a hand in preparing tiffin for Dad. He gave me some tomatoes to slice. It never surprised me anymore what a good cook he was—as though cooking was in his blood. After Mom’s death, he’d been doing all the cooking, when it should’ve been Dad and me at his service in his old age. But I wouldn’t say it was completely Dad’s fault either. It was Daadu who wouldn’t let him or me enter the kitchen. Perhaps he liked to cook, perhaps it was his way of connecting with Daadi and Ma—the two most important women in his life—or perhaps he didn’t want to be a burden on Dad and me.

  After Dad left for work, Daadu took his newspaper and reclining chair to the garden.

  Our compound area must have been three, or three-anda-quarter thousand square feet large. It was Daadu who’d built the house in the early 1960s. It had three bedrooms, a dining room, a guest room, a kitchen, and a single toilet and had a built up area of not more than two thousand square feet, leaving open the rest of the land. A couple of years after Dad got his job, he renovated the house. He had the walls puttied and repainted; the furniture repaired and varnished, and put in a few modifications, like new faucets and showers, and a chimney in the kitchen. He had wanted to extend the construction into the garden area, but Daadu resisted and asked for it to be left alone.

  Daadu had always wanted the garden. Besides a couple of short trees, he’d planted flowers: roses, marigolds, dahlias, and a few more types that he liked. The garden spread all around the boundary and in front of the house. He’d taken care of it ever since then. According to him, it was Daadi’s and his most favourite feature.Besides,he’d said, a garden was the element that made a building look like somebody lived there. Otherwise, he’d said, there wasn’t much difference between a house and a stable.

  Daadu was retired now, but he’d been postmaster in one of the offices in Kanpur in his working years. Daadi had been a primary school teacher in a nearby government school. He’d say it was his dream to have a house of his own, as in those early days; he had to live in a quarter that the government had provided him. So, after saving for nearly six years, he bought a plot. Constructing the house took him another four years. For a family that small, the house was fairly sufficient. Besides Daadu and Daadi, there was just Daadu’s dad. His younger brother lived and worked in what was then Bombay, and was still a bachelor. In their own earlier days, my grandfather’s parents had lived in Paraspur, their native village in the district of Gonda, in UP.

  Dad married Mom, in the summer of 1979. Dad was 24, while Mom, at twenty, had just crossed teenage. Dad, who barely had a job at the time of his marriage, hacked the banking exams three months later.That was the reason Daadu and Daadi said Ma was like the goddess Lakshmi for they believed she’d brought good fortune into the family. My mother was educated until the intermediate level and was a housewife. I, the only child of my parents, was born on 29 November 1981.

  After Daadu had finished reading the newspaper, he came to check what I was doing. Finding me in the company of textbooks, which I never liked much anyway, he smiled at me, closed the door, went to his room, and fell asleep. After having sifted through a number of pages that spoke of electric currents and circuits, I grew bored. So I watched TV for a couple hours, before I actually deduced I didn’t have anything to do. So, I decided to not disturb the old man and slid the handle of the front door back a little so Daadu could open it, when he needed to, without having to try too hard.

  I walked down the four steps and went up to the gate. For a second, I wondered if it was right, leaving a sleeping old man alone in an unlocked house.Then, I decided I’d be back from my mini-stroll within ten or fifteen minutes, so it was safe to do so.

  I opened the gate and took a left. Sometimes, it would make me wonder if I was actually in Kanpur, for unlike the rest of the ultra-urbanized city, my house was situated in what looked like the countryside.

  I walked without concern or anxiety. For some reason, it wasn’t the saddest day of my life. Perhaps, it was because of the weather, or because my house strangely reminded me of Don Bosco’s hostel.

  In the neighbourhood, all the houses were almost of the same appearance, at least from the exterior. For a second, I wondered if everybody’s grandfather had been a postmaster. Almost every compound was the same size and every house had trees by their gates, though not all of them had gardens like ours. As I walked through an avenue between trees, I realized that in a minutes’ walk from my house, there was a small open field.A few kids my age were playing kabaddi in the sand. Just when I was contemplating if I could join them the next day, a tthele-wala passed selling paapdi chaat. The odour was redolent of the chaat I used to have with Atul, Sunil, and Dhiren, almost every other day outside the hostel campus of Don Bosco.That I presume was the first thing that altered my understanding of Kanpur, that it wasn’t altogether another world.

  ‘Suraj,’ I heard Daadu yelling from the gate, even before I could think of asking the tthele-wala the price of a plate.

  I had to put a full stop to my explorations and return to Daadu, running. ‘Sorry, Daadu, I thought it didn’t make sense to disturb you.You were fast asleep.’

  ‘Where were you going?’ It was evident that my going out had fermented his temper.

  ‘I was just taking a midday stroll. I wasn’t going anywhere far,’ I said, innocently looking at my feet. ‘I’d be back in another four-five minutes.’

  ‘Look at me,’ he enunciated assertively. ‘From today, you won’t step out of the house without your father or me knowing about it. You aren’t in the same small town anymore, Suraj; you never know who could be a wolf here.’

  ‘Yes, Daadu,’ I agreed contritely, submitting to his overprotective nature.

  He took me inside and we talked for a while, just a little old man-young child talk. In an hour or so, the evening had fallen. Then Dad came home from office and I had to be in my room to study. I would be told as and when dinner was ready. I’d go, eat and sleep.

  My routine over the next three days was similar to that day.Three days later, my school reopened after the summer vacation and I, luckily, could resume my classes.

  ‘Hey,’ said Aditya, my only friend at St Joseph’s and my bench mate, nudging me. ‘How were the holidays, man?’

  ‘Fine,’ I replied offhand. ‘Nothing new.’

  ‘Oh, I was lucky enough to go on a trip to Thailand with my family. It was amazing, yaar.’

  Momentary envy for him followed naturally. I wondered if he was trying to tell me how rich he was. But I remembered he’d told me his dad was in real estate the first day that I’d attended St Joseph’s.

  ‘You were going to visit your naani, right? Did you go?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I did; stayed for a couple weeks.’

  ‘Quite good for a change, I’d say.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Miss Rachel, our class teacher, who ta
ught us history, took the first lesson that day. ‘Boys first,’ instead of a sunny ‘Hi, kids’, were the first words she uttered, as soon as she entered the classroom. She was asking for the essay that she had given us as an assignment for the summer vacations. She wanted us to identify one major problem in society and write intensively on its causes, effects and our views on what could possibly be done to counter the evil. She’d reserved five marks for it in the mid-term exams. ‘And then girls,’ she continued, ‘please form a row and submit your notebooks with the proper page opened.’ She didn’t even bother to receive greetings from the students.

  She was kind of strange. Perhaps, she had a mood-shifting disorder, for sometimes she was very effervescent, while at other times, she’d be, like, so cold.

  The boys from the first and second rows moved forward to form a queue and began submitting their notebooks, as Ma’am made the rollcall. I noticed how Ma’am hadn’t said anything about ‘which row first’ and how students of my class had understood it on their own. It was as though they were all trained.

  Everything was so different here.The students were all well-groomed and so well-mannered. When to stand up, how to form a queue, how to submit notebooks, and how to even sit—they knew it all.

  Unlike at Don Bosco’s, where nobody bothered to take a shower before their roommates advised them to. There, in fact, we had a unique way of greeting our teachers, as the first thing they’d receive from us was the blend of all our body odours, striking their olfactory senses head on. While they had their own ways of acknowledging receipt, by letting go their own elite league of odours.Well, perhaps that was because they had only males for teachers there.

  ‘Guess it’s time for me to go,’ I said to Aditya. I was seated in the second row. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m not done yet, man. But I’ll submit it all right when she yells at me and says she’ll call my parents,’ he said, snickering.

  ‘Oh, cool,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back in a minute, then.’Then pulling out my notebook, I went to join the queue.