by Nillu Nasser
“You wanted to punish him? What did Akash do?” The lack of censure in Ruhi’s voice almost became Jaya’s undoing.
Her voice sounded alien, even to her own ears. “Didn’t Maa tell you? Akash is in love with another woman.” A bitter laugh, laden with shame, pierced the tranquillity of the gardens. “Because he lay with her instead of with me. Because however different I am from Maa, I too only have a future when a man determines it. I didn’t want to be second best. I wanted to come first.”
“He betrayed you?” Ruhi cried in great heaving sobs, and Jaya reached for her, wobbling on the crutch that prevented her from enfolding her sister in her arms. “Why fire, Jaya? Of all things, why choose that? It’s so violent.”
Jaya hesitated. “Fire. I chose fire because it was there, Ruhi. No other reason. It was the weapon that presented itself.”
Ruhi reached for her hand, making a conscious effort to slow her breath. “You are stronger than this, Jaya. I know it. I won’t let you give up.”
Jaya’s crutch clattered to the floor.
“You’re my big sister. I need you.”
“How could you need me? You are the favourite, now more than ever.” She made an effort to smooth the deep trench lines digging into her brow, the ones that undoubtedly revealed her bitterness. Maybe her sister would know how to soothe her, how to make this all go away. Ruhi soared above challenges. She always knew the right thing to say. Jaya could never compete with that, though she loved her sister for it.
“No,” said Ruhi. “I am the protected one, because you take the steps first. I learn from your triumphs and your mistakes.”
Jaya’s muscles tensed until her shoulders became rocks. Her throat ached with the effort of holding back tears. Ruhi deserved a better guide.
“What do you expect me to do?” Jaya’s voice rose up the octave in challenge to her sister. “In a society like ours, where girls are measured by beauty, what chance do I have? Will anyone respectable even want to hire me now? A married woman, abandoned by her husband, flunked out of university, with hideous scars and a limp?”
Ruhi sighed. “Have you tried talking to Akash?”
“Have you heard anything I’ve been saying, Ruhi?” Jaya swung towards her sister in exasperation. “Akash is not coming back, and that, at least, is a blessing. I’m not what he wants. Maa would force me to live with him as man and wife, and I couldn’t bear that. I can’t imagine his parents taking me back either. Why would they, when their son has abandoned me?” She shrugged, a grown woman lost in the maze of her present. “My bride-wealth was not significant enough for it to be worth their while.”
“You will come home. You will get a job, and you will start over,” said Ruhi. “I believe in you.”
That pressure weighed on Jaya. She saw no way through this forest, even with Ruhi by her side to light the way. “Maa won’t like it.”
“Leave her to me.”
Dr. Tarpana picked up the notes at the end of Jaya’s bed and leafed through them. “How are your parents? The nurses mentioned they haven’t been visiting as much.”
Nothing passed by Dr. Tarpana’s attention. Over the past weeks, Jaya had come to respect her. She set aside the sketch pad she used to while away the hours in hospital, and answered with honesty. “Busy keeping up appearances.”
“They must be worried about you.”
“Yes.” She had been a terrible daughter.
Dr. Tarpana sat down in a chair at her bedside despite the hustle and bustle of the ward. “Never forget how fortunate you are.”
“Fortunate?”
“If you had been found any later, you would have risked long-term disability.”
Jaya grimaced. “Lucky me, it’s just scars, missing toes and a limp...”
“Don’t underestimate the psychological impact, Jaya. If you would just agree to counselling—”
“I don’t need counselling.” What she wanted, more than anything, was to be left alone rather than poked and prodded as if she were a specimen in a petri dish.
“Tell me then, what do you need?” said the doctor.
“Independence,” said Jaya.
“Is that what you’re going to get at home?
Jaya fidgeted with her pencil. “I don’t know where home is anymore.”
“Be straight with me, Jaya, and I can help you. Was this really an accident? There’s a small community for women not far from here. I can get you a place if you need support.”
“How many times do I have to say it?” Jaya examined the tan line on her finger where her wedding ring had once sat. She had discarded it as soon as she had been lucid enough. Ruhi had noticed and fished it out of the fruit bowl when she thought Jaya was asleep. “It was an accident. After all this, you want me to turn my nose up at my parents? How would that look? They are not the bad guys here.”
“Then who is?” said the doctor. The calm radiating from her irritated Jaya.
“Please, stay out of it. I’m going back to my family home. It’s all arranged.”
Chapter 5
Three months later, Akash had grown used to sleeping on pavements. He became accustomed to the musty scent of his own body, and the city’s grime that coated his skin. The longer he stayed away from home, the less he contemplated returning to his social circles. His love for his family had not diminished, but his self-love, poisoned by guilt, ebbed so low that he could not imagine anyone would forgive him. Living on the streets had become his penance for Jaya’s death. At times, he reimagined the chapters of their history, envisaging he’d paid her attention when they had lain in bed together, had lingered to enjoy the taste of her mouth, the touch of her skin, the smell of cocoa butter after her bath. Too often, his rewritten memories morphed into something else entirely, images he didn’t understand: Jaya’s head on Soraya’s body, or soft skin becoming charred by degrees until his fantasy became a nightmare.
He no longer knew the luxury of regular meals. This punishment of his body soothed his spirit, but sooner or later Tariq insisted he eat. Sometimes they frequented Chas Chamak, a nearby restaurant which offered leftovers to homeless people. A queue formed as night fell, and Akash waited silently with Tariq, his embarrassment cloaking him, his eyes downcast, until he realised his torn clothes and unkempt beard rendered him unrecognisable from his old acquaintances. Normal people, those with security and families, averted their eyes from beggars anyway.
More often, he and Tariq scavenged from rubbish bins, targeting the ones near restaurants or grocery shops. Tonight, they were on one of their raids. Tariq, as usual, had buoyed his courage by drinking deeply from the bottle. He leapt from one bush to another, like a schoolboy playing an undercover agent, grinning in mirth. Seconds later, he keeled over on the floor, blue with a hacking cough, a regular ailment from his years on the streets.
“Sshhhh,” said Akash. “They’ll hear us.”
“I feel invincible having you by my side. Let me enjoy it.”
“You want another beating?”
“Nothing I haven’t had before.”
“One day it might kill you. I don’t want that on my conscience too.”
“Lighten up, man.”
They had run into trouble before when searching for food. The best places tended to be in the bins of restaurants, grocery stores and wealthy houses, but they risked retribution if caught. The morality of Bombay had clear definitions. Trespassing was a dangerous game to play, even for unwanted goods. The men of this country did not hesitate to take the law into their own hands. For all his bravado, Tariq was useless in a fight.
Akash lifted the lid on the dumpster and leaned it against the back alley of the restaurant. The last worker had turned off the lights inside the building half an hour ago, but the manager’s car lingered outside. Likely, he had walked home, but Akash didn’t want to take any chances, especially with Tariq in no fit state to be of any use if they were discovered, other than perhaps shoot at assailants with an imaginary gun.
His friend cre
pt up behind him.
“What will we be having tonight? Chicken tikka masala or karahi gosht?”
“You know I’m vegetarian, idiot.”
“Aloo gobi then, or vegetable pilau with raita?”
Akash reached into the bin and pulled out a black bag. He tore a hole in the bag with his ragged thumbnails and stretched the opening wide. The two men crouched over the spilled contents. Tariq crowed with delight when he opened a plastic container and found some curdled bean curry. Akash held his breath as he plunged his hand through the wet and pungent waste.
“I have naan and some mangoes.”
“A veritable feast!” said Tariq, his voice booming in the alley, then disintegrating into a cough.
“Sssh!”
It was a good haul and a few more sacks waited in the dumpster. Akash stacked his finds neatly on the ground and rose to his feet to retrieve another bag. He heard footsteps, their rhythmic purpose out of sync with Tariq’s drunken demeanour. He turned.
“Oh shit,” said Tariq.
A portly man in his forties held a stricken-looking Tariq by the shirt sleeves. His friend wriggled, but the man’s grip remained firm. In his other hand, he held a cricket bat, grey in the moonlight. The man ran a tongue over his teeth, trying in vain to wipe away the tobacco stains there. He addressed Akash. “Are you stealing from me? I know this scum, but you, you’re new around here.”
Akash looked from the man to Tariq then back again. “I’m sorry, Sir. We weren’t doing any harm. It was being thrown away anyway.” The contrite tone he adopted hid a steely core. Perhaps he deserved to die, but he needed to make sure Tariq wasn’t injured. A man didn’t heal well on the streets; empty bellies, the elements and the lack of security put paid to that.
The man inched forward, dragging Tariq with him, until a hair’s breadth separated his nose from Akash’s. “What’s mine is mine. I can do what I want with it. If I want it in the bin, it stays in the bin. You hear me?”
The bulbous veins in the man’s nose loomed in the streetlight.
Akash’s heart thundered in his chest. He flexed his fingers, then quick as a flash, he thrust the man backwards with one hand while holding Tariq upright with the other. The man’s grip on Tariq loosened as he fell, and together, Akash and Tariq ran, scooping up their finds as they fled.
“I should have hit his bald head with a mango. Now that would have been a story worth telling,” laughed Tariq.
“You’re laughing about this? He could have done serious damage with that bat,” said Akash.
“I know, man. Sometimes it’s good not to dwell,” said Tariq.
Akash’s breath eased as they returned to their den, grateful to be safe. They had been away too long, but thankfully their possessions had not been stolen. Blankets, a tarpaulin, two cooking pots lay strewn on the ground, together with a book of poetry he had found abandoned in a park. He missed books. Akash dropped their haul into a pot caked with food from a previous meal. On balance, it was cleaner than the ground.
“Who was that man anyway? Do you have history?” he called over his shoulder to Tariq.
“Zahid Khan. He owns that restaurant. It’s a thriving business but there’s not a kind bone in him. He’s caught me going through his bins four, five times perhaps. He hurt me pretty badly a few times. It’s his fault I keep going back, though. The stuff they sell there is good, even second hand.” Tariq winked. “Seriously, the daal would make your mouth water. Creamy, with just a hint of chilli. It makes me hungry just thinking about it.”
Tariq settled onto his blanket, and reached underneath its folds to pull out a blunt blade, which he used to peel back the skin of a mango. He took a bite of the flesh and a line of juice slithered down from the corner of his mouth to his chin where he let it remain, oblivious or unperturbed.
“This is freedom, isn’t it? Starry skies above, two brothers out here in a city that’s sleeping, no responsibilities. It feels like Bombay belongs to us right now.”
Tariq, ever the idealist. One day it would cost him. Tariq had been the driving force behind their friendship. In the initial days after Jaya’s death, when Akash had barely eaten or spoken, Tariq had brought him water, gaily nattering away. Over time, his directness and persistence had drawn Akash out of his shell. He had shown generosity in teaching Akash to survive, though Akash had now surpassed his teacher. Tariq had survived more by chance than skill. They bonded over their need to find someone to rely on. Everyone else considered men living on the streets to be untrustworthy and dangerous. It helped to have one another, and for Akash, Tariq’s cheerfulness and zest for life, despite their environment and prospects, acted as a counterbalance for his internal battles.
“Man, it’s hard getting you to crack a smile sometimes,” said Tariq.
Akash shivered. Nights on the streets were tough. At least in the day the hot sun went some way towards banishing the cold that had crept into his bones. He threw a blanket around his shoulders. His wedding ring glinted in the half-light, impotent and sad. “I’ll be right back. Don’t eat it all, and make sure the rats don’t get it.”
“Okay.” Tariq didn’t glance up, too engrossed in his meal, accepting of Akash’s nightly wanderings. He knew Akash’s story and showed no judgement. It might have been different in the real world, where you came by friends more easily.
It had become Akash’s ritual to walk to the shore at night. Tonight, he took comfort from the swirling depths of the Arabian Sea, peace from the breath of the lapping water. The moon peeked from behind a cumulous cloud. The stillness of the air crept into his bones. He was too sullied for organised religion; a lump of fear formed in his throat at the thought of visiting a temple. But he had forgotten neither his God nor Jaya. This ritual had become his nightly remembrance of them both.
First, he removed the blanket from his shoulders and walked into the dark sea of stars, seeking renewal, letting it soak into his skin. He cupped his hands, scooped up some water and poured it over his head, letting the water trickle over him. Taking a rag from his pocket, he dipped it into the ripples encircling him and mopped his bare skin: the creases behind his knees, his arms, his neck, his face. Finally, he retreated to the shore and sank to his knees, drawing his palms together at his heart, holding a picture of Jaya in his mind’s eye. Jaya, innocent and a little afraid, wearing a ceremonial red sari on their wedding day.
“I am sorry,” he said, propelling his voice across the surface of the water. “I wish that hadn’t been our ending. I wish I’d tried. With every part of me, I wish you peace. I pray to Lord Vishnu, who removes our fears, for peace, for Jaya and for me.” He stayed a moment, his head bowed, a burning ache in his throat where his tears had caught. The breeze cooled his wet skin.
It did not occur to Akash to stray from his native Bombay, the city he knew so well. Fortune did not owe him a fresh start; and Akash was unable to take it. His grief spilled into the decisions he made for his future, a form of self-flagellation. He cut himself off from the world as he knew it. A lotus floated past him on the waves of the sea. He followed it with his eyes and then stood to return to Tariq. It was easy to fall into a half-existence, to give up responsibilities, expectations. Akash chose the existence least painful to him; he became a ghost, a half-man, a drifter.
Chapter 6
Jaya woke in the childhood bedroom she had shared with her sister before her marriage. The freshness of the year paired with the bleakness of her situation weighed heavily. Ruhi snored on a mattress on the floor, arms flung wide, the sheets crumpled across her calves. Grey light filtered through the curtains, indicating night had cast off its midnight wings and day would soon dawn. Paint peeled off walls decorated with posters of Bollywood stars: Rishi Kapoor, his head cocked to one side; Sridevi, her eyes rimmed with kajal, heavy jewellery adorning her neck; Mithun Chakraborty, muscular in a vest.
Jaya closed her eyes and tried to sleep. The smoky scent of the fire and burning flesh filled her nostrils. Her legs throbbed; her skin stretc
hed and itched with every waking moment. The sensation had become as familiar to her as breathing. She had forbidden herself to think of Akash, but even when her conscious mind succeeded in blocking him, he crept into her subconscious. She took a deep breath and blew out the air in a deliberate whoosh, seeking calm. Once, twice, a third time. The blissful release of sleep would not come.
Ruhi lay oblivious to the world.
Jaya envied her sister’s peace. A tear traced a path from the corner of her eye, dampening her pillow. Nearly four months had passed since the fire. Jaya had returned home with the sense she should be grateful for a roof over her head, that she should earn her keep and shield her parents from the gossip of prying neighbours. She ventured out only at night, when the streets of Bandra were deserted and the market traders had gone home. The smell of fried wares and too ripe vegetables lingered in the air, and she took pleasure in these walks under the cover of night, when she did not have to be concerned about the curious glances of strangers when they saw a young, head-scarfed woman limping. The scarf she now wore provided an extra layer of armour against those judging her, and gave her a tunnel vision of her own, so she did not witness how she measured up in the eyes of the world. Without it, she felt naked.
Each day, she tended to the household chores, relieving her mother of the responsibilities that had kept her tied to the home. A silent pact formed between the two women as duties seesawed from mother to daughter. The washing, cleaning, and even the cooking gradually fell to Jaya. If she was not caring for her husband, she would care instead for her parents.
Flashbacks to the fire overwhelmed Jaya when she worked at the stove. She sweated as they claimed her, and the flames engulfed her again, her beauty peeled back in layers, until all that was left was a rotting corpse and a grinning husband. Still, she would not let him win, nor let her parents witness her weakness, so she continued, stubborn and anguished, cooking their food, standing on the rug which now covered the blackened floor. Her mother bought the groceries, returning laden with okra, green beans and blood-red tomatoes. Both women were relieved that Jaya remained hidden from the world in the small kitchen. Afterwards, Jaya worked slowly, hindered by her unsteady gait and pained limbs, to wipe away all trace of her labours, save for the steaming plates of food she produced.
