by M G Vassanji
“I have a daughter,” he murmured. “And I love her.”
The auto driver chuckled.
“You are a good man, sahab,” he said.
* * *
—
He called Mohini later that day.
“You said you would call,” he chided gently.
“You could have called.”
Again the sparring. He was patient.
“You promised, so I waited. I didn’t want to embarrass you by calling at an awkward moment. Is this a good time?”
“Yes, it’s a good time. I’m sorry…I do tend to scold you, don’t I? You take it so well. I’m still at the college. What have you been doing these past few days?”
“This morning I visited Nizamuddin Dargah. It was a moving experience. I can’t get over the fact that it’s been there almost seven hundred years.”
“I could have come with you…It’s been a long time since I visited the Dargah.”
He had been better off going alone; some things should be experienced in solitude. He didn’t tell her that, but reminded her that he was scheduled to fly back to Toronto in a couple of days. She said she would come to meet him next morning, there was a place she wanted to show him.
“What is it?”
“Wait and see.”
The next morning she called and told him to wait for her outside the front gate at ten, and he duly obeyed. To his surprise, an auto stopped beside him on the road and she peeped out and told him to hop in.
“What, no car and driver today?”
“No. The car was needed today.” She paused, then murmured, “And these drivers talk sometimes.”
“What is there to talk about?”
“You don’t understand. You are from there.”
He thought he understood; he was not totally alien to the culture. She saw this on his face and smiled. “I wanted to spend some time with you alone…do you…remember how disappointed you were the other day to see my driver?”
“I didn’t think you’d noticed.”
They were visiting Safdarjung Tomb, she said, leaning forward to instruct the auto driver, straining her green bodice, revealing her pale skin. He looked away. They turned right at the first crossroad, zoomed along the wide Lodi Road and very shortly stopped behind the busy bus-stand at its end. They stepped off onto a clear, unpaved stretch of ground where a few vendors had spread out mangoes. Before them stretched an ancient wall, having reposed there for how many centuries, Munir wondered, staring up at it. He was aware that he was half holding his breath, waiting for the surprise she had promised; his eyes were wide open. They bought their tickets and entered through the gate. In Delhi you could walk through gates and doors into entire worlds and histories. This one was a large and lush garden, at the centre of which rose a discoloured mausoleum. Two young couples—on an escapade, Munir guessed—strolling on the grass; a young man stretched out, a book in his hand. No one else. The mausoleum was large but plain; the dome was weathered, with no ornamentation left. A Mughal official named Safdarjung was buried here. The grave was a raised platform under the dome. They approached and went up the wide steps at the sides. Looking out from the high veranda that went around the structure, Munir was struck by the proportion and harmony of the entire site, its awed silence, when just beyond the walls lay all the tumult of the modern city. What kind of mind would contemplate, create this sense of beauty and grace? It seemed as if an alien race had descended here a long time ago and built this memorial to its presence.
They strolled in the park and came to rest under a small tree. They had not said much during their inspection, now she said, “You don’t get much privacy in India, but this is one of those places where you can find it. I guess that’s because it’s not as popular as other sites.”
“You’ve come here often?”
“No, and not in a long time. Soon after my marriage I would come here with a friend, when we wanted to get away.”
He watched her. The sun fell warm and slanting upon them and caught part of her shape in its light. I should have been a painter, he thought inanely. The worry lines on her face took away from it, but he had observed the effect of its magnetism on others, especially the man she contemptuously called the Purifier, Jetha Lal. Those deep eyes. Her braid came down almost to the waist. The bodice was tight and exposed a band of midriff.
“What?” she said, meeting his eyes.
“I’ve grown very fond of you. It’s silly, isn’t it. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not silly. Please don’t say you’re sorry. I’ve grown fond of you too—even though you are something of a mystery. Maybe that’s good…”
“Then you think it’s okay for us to be fond of each other?”
“Yes,” in a lower voice this time. Again those haunting eyes.
They talked long and with intensity, drawing closer indelibly, desperately clinging to each other through the words they exchanged. It was as though, if the moment were not grasped and held, it would slip away forever; this magic and its forbidden possibilities would vanish into mundane, guilt-free reality. That must not happen. Whatever the consequences. Whatever? He was going away. She was married. Time heals. It must not.
He took hold of her braid, tenderly, safely, and she caught hold of his hand, to push it away, but then held on to it. He squeezed it hard.
“You are going away,” she said.
“Yes.”
“But you’ll come back soon. Will you?”
He took a deep breath, then said, “Yes. Of course I will. And then?”
“And then.”
He took her hand and placed it into his and played with her slim, tender fingers for a moment. They got up, dusted themselves, and came out of the park together.
Mohini Singh
“THERE WAS THIS interesting writer at the DRC bar—where were you, anyway? Did you get my texts? I had to sit at this man’s table—complete stranger—for a full half hour! But he turned out to be very nice.”
Ravi looked up from his paper and smiled. He put it down on his lap. The television was on but neither of them paid attention. Another overheated panel discussion, an incoherent shouting match. Ravi said, “I was at the door, about to enter, when I saw that group—Venkat and the others—sitting on the patio outside. I joined them for a bit. That Gujarati fellow Jetha Lal was there.”
“Those fellows practically live at DRC. It’s a progressive establishment, what business do they have there?”
“Well, we had an interesting discussion. You would have enjoyed it. They were saying that with our new prime minister, India has finally found itself. Gone back to its ancient roots.”
“Poppycock. India has always been tied to its roots. That’s been the problem all along. I tell you, the crazies have crept out of the woodwork.”
“Well.”
“Jetha Lal said this thing about ancient roots?”
“Ram-rajya has arrived.”
“More like Gau-rajya, the Kingdom of the Cow, the way they are going on.”
“It’s only a metaphor.”
“It’s not a metaphor!”
“Well, I’ve not been trained like you in English. They mean a nation with Hindu values. Restoration of Hindu pride.”
He threw a glance at her, but she didn’t respond and he picked up his paper; he hesitated before going back to it and asked, “What about this man—you were saying?”
“He turned out to be an author from Canada.”
“Canada.” He went back to his paper. “A good country. Quiet.”
She had done her duty. Should she tell him she had promised to show Munir around Delhi? Why, if he wasn’t interested?
She watched him as he read, exclaiming softly when something caught his interest. Politics or cricket. What else was there in this country. Bollywood, but that interested neither of them
, though she kept her eye on it for her columns. His hair had a buzz cut, dyed brown to hide the years, but the emaciated face had lost its Kashmiri glow, giving the game away, partly. He had been handsome once, was still good-looking. Slim and still fairly tall, straight-backed. How would she herself fare, putting on weight when she was not careful, already puffing when she climbed up two flights? And that tumour. Benign, but it had given her a scare. She didn’t tell him about it. Hide the chinks in your armour.
“This Canadian at the DRC…”
She looked towards him, surprised at the sudden interest.
“…French? They want an independent country, I understand. We keep an eye on them. In case our own people get ideas.”
“No, he’s Indian.”
“Indian?”
“From Kenya—he’s at the DRC for two weeks. We can see him when we go there.”
He sat back and they watched the news. Politics drew them together, and he always had his dry comments to add to the day’s headlines from his own inside knowledge of government. He could not tell her everything, obviously, but often she was privy to stuff that was not widely known or became public only later. The prime minister’s projected visit somewhere, for example, or an upcoming statement—or lack of it—on something of concern such as another incidence of lynching. And then there was the gossip about the political bigwigs.
Asha lumbered in in her pyjamas, sat down partially on her father’s lap, watched the television with disinterest.
“Finished homework, beti?” he asked.
“Mum…I need help. Come.”
“At this time you tell me?”
Mohini got up and followed Asha to the dining room table. When will this end, the constant oversight? she wondered. She stood over the girl, ruffling her curls, and bent to look more closely at the homework.
“Asha, you know I can’t do this differential stuff. It was a nightmare for me, and now it’s even more advanced. Couldn’t you have called your tutor? What are we paying this Bhagat chap for?”
“I was doing English. Mamma, what will I do?…”
The girl’s despair was greater than Mohini’s. The final exams were twelve months away, and she was not going to be ready.
“Do the best you can for now, Asha,” Mohini said. She should have been on the girl’s case earlier. Only she was to blame, like all mothers. But how much can you give of yourself?
“What will become of her?” she asked Ravi, returning to the living room. “She’s behind in her maths and just can’t cope. I thought the tutor would help.”
He looked up, unconcerned. He was an optimist, and he could pull strings to get his daughter admitted to some college. Influence was a blessing. Power was.
“We can send her away—to Canada,” he said with a smile. “Why not? A foot outside the country, not a bad idea.”
“I hope you are not serious. My daughter is not a foot. I don’t want to send her somewhere far away.”
He smiled. She stared at him in his equanimity. Nothing seemed to bother him, at home at least. Politics and their daughters, that’s what they could talk about, nothing else. When was the last tender word from him? Yes, during the holiday on the Andaman Islands, when he was quite rampant. Did he have other women? Likely, she believed, with all the travelling he did. That sweater. She had not confronted him about it. Blue with thin red stripes, she had definitely not bought it. The label was not Indian. He could always say he had bought it in Chennai, or somewhere. But he did not go around buying sweaters for himself.
He turned the TV off.
“That Waqar,” he told her in his peculiarly dry voice, always inflected high. “He’s talking, finally. They were planning to suicide-bomb during the PM’s visit to Ahmedabad last June. You’ll read about it in tomorrow’s paper.” He gave a smile.
“He admitted that?”
He stared at her.
“Oh, they can be convinced it’s in their best interest to talk…there are ways. These people, when will they learn? They should all have left in ’forty-seven…”
“Then we would have had more problems in the south,” she said, staring after him as he walked off to the bedroom at his even pace. He still marched, she thought with amusement. Did he too yearn for that Celestial Kingdom? He was too sophisticated for that.
* * *
—
Should she have told him about her plan to show the visitor around Delhi? What did it matter, he hardly took interest in her activities. And what if she asked him, and he said no? Someone with the surname Khan? Definitely a no-no. She had not committed to Munir Khan; she should probably not go. Forget about it. He was a stranger, an alien, and of the wrong kind…Mamma, you are a bigot. That’s what Priya, the older one, had said to her, using a new word. “If I’m a bigot, it’s what the world has made me,” Mohini had replied, very much irritated. “My parents come from Pakistan; they were refugees escaping murderous Muslim hordes during the Partition.” For a few weeks Priya had been speaking about a special friend, and they had all teased her about him. All innocent, but also not quite so. She was sixteen then. And nowadays girls had boyfriends. This friend was a scientist’s son, well travelled. He was brilliant in school. He played cricket. So what doesn’t he do, this friend of yours, they asked. Bring him home, one day. And he came home. His name was Aarif Sheikh. They had to do their all to persuade the girl to cool the friendship. “This kind of thing is not done.” “It’s the times we live in, it’s our culture, which is ancient and different.” Out came the angry retort, “Isn’t Shah Rukh Khan married to Gauri, isn’t Aamir Khan married to Kiran?” “They are Bollywood people, they live differently from us,” Mohini had replied, with a glance at her husband. “Didn’t Indira Gandhi marry a Parsi?” To which Ravi contributed, “Muslims are more different than Parsis.”
The next morning Mohini finally told Ravi about her plans, but only when he prompted her.
“No teaching today—so what do you plan to do?”
“I’ll work on my column. Then I thought I would show that author around—you know, the one I met at the Club…”
“The Canadian. Good.”
He didn’t ask for the name, she didn’t elaborate.
* * *
—
After her sojourn in Old Delhi with Munir Khan, summarily dismissing him afterwards, she had gone and sat down in the Club’s crowded tea lounge to wait for Ravi. She had enjoyed herself; it had been years since she’d been to Old Delhi. She’d felt a sense of freedom in the midst of the crowds, away from the prying eyes of her society. At the same time she couldn’t help that nagging twinge of doubt, a little guilt. She was a married woman, there were proprieties. Sitting close-packed with a man in a bumpy cycle rickshaw…Was she blushing now? People saw, and they talked. Her driver could talk. Which was why she had called Ravi from the car on the way back and arranged to have dinner with him. She would be seen with her husband.
Munir Khan was a puzzle. How could a person not believe? Certainly he believed in a philosophy of living, in right and wrong. But that was all too abstract. She believed in God; and the gods. It was the same thing, logic didn’t come into it. You just believed, you did puja to the idols, you asked them for favours and guidance. Occasionally you visited a temple or got hold of a Brahmin to perform certain rituals. You went to a guru and sat at his feet. All that embedded you in a way of being called Hinduism. You were like any other Indian. Any other Hindu, at least. Was that quite accurate?…
She felt a little sorry for him. Such a floater. Without an anchor. But likeable…perhaps because of that? There were no hard edges to him. He had not tried to take advantage of her, as other men would have, he had treated her with respect. What else was there to him? she wondered; he positively intrigued her. The absolute delight on his face in the jewellery market. Guilelessly he had stood beside her and joined his hands in the temple. And he had
positively flirted with her that night at the DRC bar, giving her that line about an Indian film star! A former film star—which one? Madhubala? Nutan? She had feigned annoyance but was actually flattered. She smiled.
She glanced around the lounge from her vantage point at the back. The clientele here, members all, looked older by the day. They dragged themselves in; some had to be assisted. Soon they’d come on stretchers. But you couldn’t begrudge them their afternoon outing—where else could they go? We look after our old people here, unlike the West. We respect the elderly. So far. An idea for a column? And then there were the politicos and the fawning journalists. The occasional visitor from abroad, looking lost, or surrounded by local admirers.
Her eye fell on Jetha Lal, sitting midway in the room at his usual table against the misted glass wall. He joined his hands briefly to her, and she returned a smile but inwardly shuddered. She had first met him in Ahmedabad when she accompanied Ravi on an official trip. Jetha Lal had volunteered his group of acolytes as a second line of defence for the PM’s security. He’s a bit fanatical, Ravi told her, but sometimes you need them, they are the only ones who are consistent. They cannot be bribed.
Munir was standing at the door, casting his eyes about for a place to sit. Without thinking, she waved him over. When he thanked her once more for taking him to the old city, she offered to show him some more of Delhi. Perhaps one or two of her favourite spots. What got into her? That was brash. Irresponsible. He was delighted. While they were chatting, a waiter came over with the tea which he had ordered and a summons to her from her husband, and she left to join Ravi at his table. No, she wouldn’t introduce the two men. But she saw them exchange a glance. She didn’t see Jetha Lal’s curious eyes following her from one table to the other.
