A Delhi Obsession

by M G Vassanji

  “From Canada,” Munir replied.

  “You were staring outside, sir. Only foreigners find the poor of our country so interesting.”

  Munir didn’t know what to say and came out with a limp, “It’s a pity, this poverty.”

  “Nothing can be done, there are too many poor people in India.”

  They took resort in silence. Munir couldn’t quite turn away completely from this awkward scrutiny and rewarded the man with a smile. There were two other passengers in the cabin, apparently stirred from their own solitudes by the word “Foreign.” One crossed his leg under his open newspaper, and the other leaned forward, a smartphone in his hand. Munir flipped open the dog-eared book on his lap. Down the gangway came the welcome clatter of the breakfast trolley approaching.

  “Scholar, sir?” The interlocutor smiled and pointed at the book. “Are you a scholar?”

  “I’m a writer.” He had always disliked saying that, because somehow it sounded pretentious and it immediately provoked the follow-up, What have you written? and he felt like a child being asked, What grade are you in? He could have said that he was retired. He mumbled the names of two of his books, and was cajoled into admitting that yes, he had been a finalist for one prize, it was called the Governor General’s Award. Many years ago. Forgotten.

  As soon as he had spoken, the young man with the phone, who was at the other end of his bunk, jumped up, came over in a flurry, and bent down to touch his feet.

  How do you respond to that? “Please!” Munir protested, shrinking, “Not necessary…” and instinctively put his hand on the man’s head, which was a traditional response, a blessing. The man, whose hair was curled and slicked, straightened up and returned to his place. From there he posed the question:

  “Your good name, sir? I can Google.”

  “Munir Khan. Munir Aslam Khan.”

  The man with the newspaper, sitting diagonally from Munir, made a face and returned to his reading.

  Munir’s original interrogator’s name was Altaf, he was in the merchant navy, and he was visiting Mumbai to see his mother and sister; the young man who had made the exuberant gesture of respect was Rajender, from Odisha. The two plied Munir with questions about Canada, and he did his best to convince them that he was no hotshot. He gave them his phone number and unadvisedly, he would realize later, told them they could visit him when he was back in Delhi, if they wished. He was staying at the Delhi Recreational Club, near Sikandar Gardens.

  It so happened that as the train slowed down, screeching to a halt at Vadodara station, there were six people jogging alongside who had come to welcome him. This too was overdone and embarrassing, and only confirmed Altaf’s and Rajender’s estimations of Munir’s greatness. He was indeed a VVIP.

  Leading the welcoming pack was Dr. Raj Mohan, whom Munir failed to recognize at first because he looked bigger than when he’d met him the last time, in Toronto. They shook hands, and his small bag was immediately snatched from him and thrust into the eager hands of someone younger, presumably a student. Munir turned and shook hands with Rajender and Altaf, exchanging a brief look with the sneering face of the fourth passenger, who brushed past him and onto the platform, following a porter.

  At the conference that afternoon Munir—surprised at his own eloquence on the subject—spoke about how difficult it was to characterize a national literature that was diverse and constantly evolving, from themes of the wilderness and survival to those that were urban and even international in scope, from those that dealt with gender and sexuality to those concerned with memory and history. He could not say if his work was truly Canadian, that was for others to decide; he had written what he had in him. He named a few young writers with immigrant parents who had appeared on the scene recently and discussed what their work signified. He was garlanded and received a bouquet for his effort. Young people came to speak to him, some brought photocopies of his work to sign. He was wined—with whiskey and rum, even though Gujarat was a “dry” state—and dined, and he made a few new friends. He stayed the night, and having declined to speak at other venues, he headed back to Delhi the next morning at eleven.

  He had received one text from Mohini the previous night, saying, Having fun? How did it go?

  Well, he answered, but all the adulation was embarrassing.

  Indian hospitality, she replied. Going to bed now.

  He arrived in Delhi the next evening at eight and after depositing his bag and taking a shower, he went down to the dining hall. He waited five minutes while a table was arranged for him, and he ordered the item called “Home-style Food” from the menu, a simple thali with traditional pan-cooked rotis, daal, and two vegetables. He then went downstairs and sat outside on the patio. The air felt cool and bracing. A show ended in the theatre across from the library and a crowd of men and women poured out into the driveway, the latter in colourful saris. A stream of vehicles drove in to pick up their passengers and departed, each time saluted by the watchman.

  They were gone. In the stillness now would come a distant insect’s chirp, the watchman’s plosive cough. Perched on their poles, the globe lamps exuded restrained, misty glows into the thick night air. Except for these silent sentries, there was no one watching him.

  Mohini

  THEY SAT SIDE BY SIDE on his bed, he playing with her fingers, bending them gently, as he liked to do, putting his own strong fingers through hers. He felt warm to her touch. It was a moment of utmost intimacy. He ran a finger down her bare spine, until she gave a shiver and protested, “Stop, there.”

  “It doesn’t have to be this sordid,” she said.

  “It’s not sordid, it’s natural and a manifestation of love.”

  “But it’s sordid because it’s in secret and hurried…”

  She had turned to fix her eyes on him and realized he understood. She gave him much more than he could return. He squeezed her hand.

  “Do you mean it?” she asked.

  “How can you doubt it?”

  “Why can’t it remain pure love?”

  “Does it make a difference, after everything else, this final act?”

  “If it doesn’t make a difference, then why is it important?”

  “Because it’s completion. It’s oneness. It’s confirmation.”

  “Go on with your words, you sophist,” she said. “It’s easy for you to say. You’re plain bad. Badmaash.”

  That word he knew; in Nairobi his elders would use it.

  “You really think so? Badmaash?”

  She had taken a vow to be chaste and pure. Could she have forgotten so soon, once she was away from that saintly aura? But was it unchaste to desire someone you love, for a few moments to completely abandon yourself to him? He would never betray her, of that she was more than convinced. That dream had just been a dream, a wayward fear. Give up something dear to you, the old guru had said. Yes, but not this. He was a gift, her solace. She was not meant to give him up. It was with that resolve that she had come to see him.

  “We should be more restrained, that’s all,” she said, with a sigh.

  Then with a smile she told him the story of the great king Pandu, who while he was out hunting in a forest shot and killed a deer that was in the act of coitus. The deer turned out to be a great saint, a rishi, who then, before he died, in his rage cursed the king that he would die in a similar manner, his desire unsatisfied. Pandu thereupon took a vow of asceticism and celibacy and went off into the mountains, with his two beautiful wives Kunti and Madri. He ate sparingly, suffered bitter cold, wore bark round his waist. Didn’t touch his beautiful wives. His five great sons, the Pandavas, were born through the agency of the gods.

  “Really? You want me to be like Pandu—and you are what—Kunti? Did Pandu ever die, in this story?”

  “Yes, finally.”

  “How?”

  She didn’t tell him. One day while Pandu
was walking in the forest with his wives, seeing the beautiful young Madri in front of him in diaphanous clothing, he was tempted. We don’t know where Kunti was; Mohini and Aarti had had great fun debating that question as teenagers. Overcome with lust, Pandu approached Madri. Having controlled himself for so many years, now he lost all restraint. He grabbed her from behind, and at that instant he died. The five Pandavas went on to fight the great Mahabharata war, and Madri perished on her husband’s funeral pyre, which she entered of her own accord, depriving Kunti the opportunity.

  Mohini was ready to go and composed herself before the mirror, while he went to the door and opened it enough to peep out. He motioned to her and she followed him. As they came down the stairs to the reception area, in the waiting annex a few people were sitting on sofas, intently watching a cricket match. A small crowd stood at the counter awaiting attention, among whom was Jetha Lal. His red lips opened into a wide wolfish grin upon seeing them.

  “Hello hello, namaskar, Mohini-ji, what brings you here?”

  “Hello, Jetha Lal-ji…I had to pick up something from Mr. Khan here.”

  Munir earned what seemed to her a contemptuous look, and she wished she could slap the man right there. But she had to be polite. Form was everything.

  “We’ll meet at tea, then,” Jetha Lal said.

  “Let’s,” Mohini replied.

  Outside, she became panic-stricken. “See what you got me into,” she said crossly. “You didn’t have to walk down with me.”

  “I should have taken the other way. I’m sorry. I completely forgot.”

  She walked away from him, and he went and sat down by himself on a chair at his usual place on the patio. She felt sorry for him. She was at fault too, she should have reminded him to take the other exit. It was the guilt racking her, she knew, that brought out these attacks of irritation. The fact that she knew that that wolf knew. He himself would have liked nothing better than to force himself on her.

  In the bakeshop outside the lounge she ordered some pastries to take home, but told the attendant to hold the box for her to pick up later. She went inside and ordered a tea and greeted a few people. Was she imagining that she had become the object of speculation? She lost interest in the tea and left.

  Munir was still sitting on the patio, looking out, looking thoughtful. He was a lonely man. She came and sat next to him. Jetha Lal passed them just then, on his way from reception to the tea lounge, in the company of a couple of women, and a trail of three young men in white. He gave a quick bow in their direction.

  “He gives me the creeps,” Mohini said.

  “He likes to needle you. Ignore him,” Munir said and got up to go. “I think I’ll—”

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “I thought I’d go back to my room…”

  “And leave me here?”

  “Didn’t you want me to stay away? And our friend there—” He nodded towards the lounge.

  “Don’t be silly. Do you want me to sit with him? And he’s already seen us.”

  He sat down.

  “My husband will meet me for tea at five,” she told him. “You are welcome to join us.”

  “You must be kidding.”

  Moments of silence later, they heard a loud commotion behind the glass wall of the reception area behind them. There was shouting, two people ran out from the front door, and Jetha Lal came striding out from the lounge followed by his retinue, wielding his phone like a weapon. One of his boys was in tears. When he was closer, Mohini asked,

  “What’s going on, Jetha Lal-ji? Why is that boy crying?”

  The man stopped, stepped sideways towards them.

  “Terrorist bombing—” he said, in a voice hoarse with rage.

  “Bombing? Where?”

  “New Noida Mall.” He strode off, muttering angrily. “How many times we have told them…bomb them into dust…flatten that country…”

  Munir and Mohini looked at each other. “It must be on the TV inside,” Munir said, looking towards reception, where a packed crowd stood watching.

  “I wonder if he’ll come now,” Mohini said, thinking of Ravi.

  “There was supposed to be a bombing,” she whispered, involuntarily revealing more, “but in a different area…He received the wrong information, obviously.”

  They headed for the lounge and found a place to sit; soon it filled up, buzzing with the news. The bombing had been at a glitzy mall, in a new men’s clothing store on the eve of its opening. A number of people had died, it wasn’t known how many. The perpetrators were on the run, but it was clear to everybody from where the attack was instigated. Pakistan.

  “Doesn’t that just make you furious?” she said, feeling bitter.

  “It makes me sad,” he said.

  “Just sad? Not angry? These were Indian lives!” she protested.

  “Isn’t every life of value?”

  That ignited her like a match to petrol, and she responded angrily. “How can you say that? These were our people who were killed, this is our country that was bombed!” But why was she in tears? “It’s easy for you from your civilized and safe Toronto to play the high and mighty, say all deaths are the same. They are not. It’s we who are all the time attacked. Mumbai, Hyderabad, Kargil, Pathankot! Anyway, don’t say anything like that in public,” she muttered.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to come out that way.”

  Jetha Lal was sitting at his table, gesticulating meaningfully to the people around him. Some had turned their chairs towards him, others had come to stand closer and listen. He was a man of strong opinions, which were evoking shouts of agreement at this emotional moment. “Revenge! We will have revenge!” “You are right, yaar, they can’t just walk all over us.” “Start with surgical strikes.”

  She spoke to Ravi on the phone, and he told her to go home. Riots could break out anywhere and in case they did, roads would be blocked. She told Munir she was going home and instructed him not to leave the Club compound and not to express his rash opinions aloud. They got up and walked to the driveway, where he saw her into a taxi. She gave him an eyeful as she got in. He had disappointed her. He had not mustered the appropriate response, outrage, which any true Indian felt at that moment.

  Munir

  HE WANTED TO EXPLAIN to her that yes, he was from thus-far safe Toronto, up there, out there, and could afford to look with some dispassion at the bombing incident. Such occurrences were in the news every day, many of them more gruesome; hundreds were being killed randomly wherever you turned. How many shows of outrage could you honestly muster? So you lived all the time partly in a state of helplessness and suppressed anger. Still, he realized that he had been insensitive, he should have been more tactful. Should he have faked his fury?

  The next day her phone was off all day, which he found odd at first and then worrying, and finally depressing. It was off the following morning. Had he lost her? He attempted stoicism: they had been on borrowed time anyway. He called up the director of the Institute of Advanced Study in Shimla, where he had arranged to spend a few days the following week, and asked him if he could start his visit early. The director asked him when, and Munir replied, Tomorrow. The director said he was welcome, and warned him that it was wet and rainy. Munir thanked him.

  It was when he had arrived at Kalka railway station in the Himalayan foothills the following morning, and was waiting for a connecting narrow-gauge train to take him up to Shimla, that she called.

  “I rang your room at DRC, and they said you had checked out.”

  “I’m supposed to be away, not checked out.”

  “I thought you had abandoned me, having…”

  She didn’t finish; he understood. “And I thought you had abandoned me. Your phone was off all day. Maybe you needed time to yourself. To think about who I really was—and so I decided to go to Shimla sooner.” />
  “Munir!”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “It wasn’t a good time to call…Sorry.”

  “I know I disappointed you. I just couldn’t fake an outrage, come out with a stock response. I’m not made that way.”

  “I know, and I like you for that. I was wrong. I am sorry. I thought you didn’t show enough emotion, you didn’t care about a tragedy that struck our city. But it’s easy to show emotion, isn’t it. To follow the crowd…Patriotism being the last resort of the scoundrel, and so on.”

  “I thought I’d lost you.”

  He could hear the tremor in her voice as she said, without any logic, “I don’t believe you—you badmaash—or you wouldn’t have gone away without telling me. I missed you too, terribly. You will never lose me…are you listening?…even if we stop seeing each other.”

  He took a deep breath. “I’ll be back next week. You could come to Shimla…”

  “You know I can’t. But let me know when you’re coming back. Give my regards to Kamala Singh. She’s a friend of mine from university days.”

  “All right. I’ll do that.”

  They hung up after a moment of silence, articulated only by unspoken longing, a desire to quickly set things right.

  * * *

  —

  The train wound slowly through a landscape of pine-covered hills, making frequent hairpin bends (there were more than a hundred of them, he read in his guidebook), looking down all the while into steep green valleys. The white peaks of the Himalayas rose mysteriously over the horizon. Except for a couple of towns on the way, and the few kids frolicking in the containment of their cabin, he seemed to be in the midst of nature in all its abandonment. This was the route—though traversed by road—that Kipling’s hero Kim and the Afghan spy Mahbub Ali had taken. The same one, he surmised, his grandfather Yunus Khan had used when he escaped for a short while to Shimla with his new bride.