by M G Vassanji
“We, sir,” Jetha Lal growled, shaking his head side to side, large teeth visible, “are protectors of our sisters and daughters. Hindu. And mother cow.”
He stood up, and Munir saw a steely glint in his walking stick, near the top, which then disappeared with a small click.
“You’re not scaring me, you know!”
Empty words.
He watched them disappear, then stood up, in a sweat. He went up to his room, had a shower, and ordered coffee. Should he tell her? He couldn’t. Surely it was these people who had made that anonymous abusive phone call when he arrived, who sent him that selfie. How did they get hold of it, though? No, he would not frighten her.
Mohini
AARTI FLEW IN WITH Kishore and Swapna on a Friday for three days of a jubilant, noisy family reunion in the house. It seemed like old times for Mohini and Aarti, when they were two sisters under the same roof sharing secrets, sharing everything. Kishore and Aarti took Asha’s room, and Asha and Swapna slept on sleeping bags in the living room. They stayed up late into the nights, even Ma, as much as she could, chatting, telling stories, essentially catching up and reaffirming their closeness. The two husbands, starting noon nicely inebriated, were here to indulge their Khanna women. To Ravi’s delight, Kishore had brought a bottle of imported single malt and a supply of Sicilian white from his wine club for the two of them to try.
Ma began the first night with the ritual telling of one of her oft-repeated tales from the past, this time about the day the family arrived in Delhi from now-Pakistan. They had been allocated a one-room outdoor shack at the refugee camp, which was outside Ajmeri Gate. They arrived there with their bundles and bags, but before they could go inside, the room had to be swept and cleared of all kinds of rubbish. All around them the bustle of people arriving, people grieving or fighting, exchanging stories of loss. The Khannas had with them Bau-ji’s parents and two unmarried sisters. Now, before anything else, Dadi had wanted to go to the toilet, so did Ma, and so did the girls, and off they hustled towards the long queues. Nathu Lal followed them shortly to go to the men’s toilets, and Bau-ji was left alone in the midst of the family’s possessions. As the ladies departed, a man came up to Bau-ji and said, “There’s a sick man lying over there looking for his family. You are from Sargodha itself?” He had cleverly asked the women where they were from. Bau-ji, simple college master, said, “Yes, where is he?” He hoped desperately that Mohan had at last been found. “Follow me,” said the man. Bau-ji thoughtlessly hurried behind in great excitement and reached the spot where, apparently, the sick man had been recognized by somebody else and taken away, and Bau-ji returned disappointed, only to find that all their boriya-bistar—the luggage—was gone. Poor Bau-ji was distraught and had to bear all the yelling from his wife and mother.
“I remember Dadi’s hoarse voice…” Mohini said.
“Yes, she could out-shout a man. But you were not there yet then.”
Ma continued her story. A man selling ice cream nearby, who had been watching the scene, told Bau-ji, “Come, I’ll take you to your luggage.”
“You good for nothing!” Bau-ji shouted at him. “You such-and-such!…” Ma hadn’t known her husband could speak such language. She tittered.
“Come,” said the man, “trust me. I will leave my cold machine here.”
Bau-ji followed reluctantly; Ma took command of the ice cream machine and even managed to sell some cones. Bau-ji returned with the samaan, assisted by a nice young man. He said the ice cream vendor had stopped outside a shack and shouted, “Eh, Lalu, bring the man’s stuff that you have stolen.” The crook emerged, there was a scuffle, and some fellows entered the shack and brought out a lot of bags and bundles. The crook was beaten, he was beaten and beaten until Bau-ji feared he was dead.
That nice young man who helped him carry the luggage back married one of the girls, Suman. They moved to Jaipur, where they had a leather store.
In the camp there were girls who had been raped, she said. Old women. Fit women like her joined the volunteers. They nursed the sick, arranged marriages, looked for lost family members.
“Talk of pleasant things, Ma. We’ve come a long way from there, thanks to the hard work and resolve of people like you. But it’s done.”
“What do you know?” Ma said grimly.
Bau-ji would go out to sell ice cream every day, thanks to that good-Samaritan ice cream man. Every time a train came, Bau-ji would be racing towards the coaches. Brought back a few paisa. But then, karma always has a role to play. A man from Sargodha recognized Bau-ji as the teacher, and through some influence got him a flat that a Muslim family had vacated. And a position at a college.
Mohan was always the mischievous one. That time he took the doctor’s bike for a joyride…
“Mohan again,” said Aarti to Mohini as they went to the kitchen to get some snacks. Munchies for their drinks.
“Yes,” Mohini sighed. “Mohan again.”
“What happened about that doctor’s bike, do you remember?” Aarti asked.
“A police-wallah recognized both Mohan Chachu and the bike,” Mohini said. “And Mohan got a sound thrashing at home.”
They laughed.
“Do you think Ma and Mohan Chachu…”
“So you’ve noticed. Nothing serious, but I think yes. Ma has admitted as such; apparently between younger brother-in-law and bhabhi there’s a special bond.”
“Convenient.”
“Listen—men can have affairs and it’s nothing—”
“It’s not nothing. It’s just accepted and forgotten.”
“Why?”
“It’s still a man’s world, that’s why.”
“Has Kishore…?”
Aarti turned away.
“Have you…?”
“Don’t ask me such questions. We are a happy family. Now you tell me—is that…fellow…still around?”
“He’s not a fellow. His name is Munir Khan.”
“You have guts, Didi. And? Where is he?”
“At DRC, though he’ll be leaving in a few days.”
“And then? Don’t think I didn’t notice the two text messages you didn’t pick up there.”
“Don’t ask, as you so aptly put it.”
Aarti took her sister’s chin and turned it towards her and stared into her face. She was about to say something, then changed her mind. Instead she said, “Look, why don’t we go for tea at DRC tomorrow?”
A mischievous smile. Mohini returned it. “Let’s. Just the two of us.”
* * *
—
The four of them, the two couples, ended up going to DRC. Mohini and Aarti went ahead to the tea lounge; the men would follow and meet them in the bar. Later they would all go for dinner together, at the Chinese in the Habitat Centre.
Jetha Lal was present in the lounge, as always, and as soon as they sat down, he came to greet them as though the previous altercation with Mohini had never happened.
“Namaste, Mohini-ji. You brought your sister. How nice to see.”
“Yes, this is Aarti,” and just to discourage him from sitting down, added, “Our husbands are to meet us here.”
“Ah. The wife is the jewel in the husband’s crown!”
The two of them giggled as the man left.
Aarti whispered, “Is he here?”
“Yes, outside on the veranda. He likes to stare at the pink lotuses.”
Again they laughed.
One of the texts last night had been his: How are you doing today? And she’d answered, saying she would be coming with her sister and their husbands that afternoon. As she glanced at him he looked up from his reading and their eyes briefly met.
“Not bad-looking, Sis,” Aarti said. “That receding hairline could recede further, though.”
“It’s not the looks, Aarti.”
Aa
rti leaned forward and said urgently, “It’s too late, Mohini. Just let it pass.”
“Just like that?”
“Yes. Like in the old film songs, drink your gham, gulp your sorrow.”
A text came to Aarti from Kishore; the two guys were already in the bar. As the two women came out, Aarti went to the ladies’ room and Mohini quickly took the opportunity to go and say hello to Munir.
“Hi, I’m with my family, as you see.”
“Have fun,” he said. “Thanks for coming by.”
“I escaped.”
How lonely he looked.
Munir
HE HAD BEEN WAITING for someone.
The confrontation with the men in white, the Purifiers, as Mohini called them, the protectors of Hindu women and cows as they styled themselves, had shaken him. He had now faced the uglier side of India. Bigoted opinions were one thing; but violence, even threats of violence, were another. They revealed the reality of the menace that lurked, shark-like, beneath the surface of ordinary life in India. When his eyes met Mohini’s through the glass wall of the lounge, he had felt gladdened. More so when she came over to greet him. He’d been debating if she would. She did. She was Mohini. What India had come to mean for him.
The previous evening he’d received another unexpected phone call. It was Altaf, the man from the merchant navy, whose interrogation of him during that train journey—“You must be from Foreign”—had been the primary cause of his recent Odisha adventure.
“You asked me to call you in Delhi, sir.”
“Yes, yes. How are you?”
Munir had no choice but to invite him to come and see him.
Altaf arrived soon after Mohini left. It being Saturday, the lounge was still fairly full even at this hour. The flies were bothersome in the veranda so they went inside and found a table occupied by a single person. Considerately he soon called for his bill and left. Munir observed that his guest felt uneasy in this environment, shifting around in his chair like a schoolboy, flitting his eyes here and there, and finally saying why didn’t they go sit outside on the lawn. Munir declined firmly and told him to place his order, and seeing him confused by the menu, had to do it for him. The man was clearly not used to such a smart place, and the loud talk of Pakistan and terrorism in one corner, and the affected ease and sophistication of America-returnees at the next table, added to his discomfort.
Munir had wondered why Altaf decided to contact him so soon after Rajender had. The answer was simple: the two had exchanged email addresses on the train, and Altaf now received communications from the Ashoka School.
Altaf had come with a request. He wanted Munir to speak to a gathering of Muslim boys and girls in his area. He spoke the word Muslim softly.
Munir told him firmly, perhaps sounding pompous because such was the relationship established between them, that he did not subscribe to a religious identity; his wife, who was now dead, had been of Scottish Presbyterian descent, and his only child, a daughter, was married to an American Jew in New York. He would not know what to say to a gathering of Muslim children. Moreover he was a foreigner; how would the kids relate to him? Did Altaf realize that his request was impossible?
He felt irritated at having to explain himself. Why, in this country, did you have to be one thing or the other? Why couldn’t the request be for him to speak to children?
But Altaf’s reply was simple and flat: “Anything you say, sir—it will be valuable.”
There was something in the man’s dry, unmodulated voice and the blank look in his eyes that took it for granted that Munir had little choice. And indeed, the thought was already nagging: If he could speak to the young aboriginal kids of Odisha, who understood hardly one word he had said, why not here, to some Muslim boys and girls who needed inspiration? Who had to face the likes of Jetha Lal?
They had ended up having dinner in the dining hall. Munir ordered wine with vegetarian, making a point. Altaf ordered lamb, making his point.
* * *
—
The next day Altaf arrived in an auto rickshaw, meeting him at the driveway. He wore a bright white bush shirt over pressed blue denims; his brown shoes had a shine. He paid off his auto and told Munir they would take a taxi, he would pay for it. Nothing doing, Munir said, and asked the uniformed guard to call one.
They rode to Old Delhi, where Altaf asked the driver to drop them off on Chandni Chowk. As they stood on the hectic thoroughfare, a bicycle rickshaw wobbled to a stop near them; they clambered into it and were taken into a narrow and quieter street and dropped off at a broad, somewhat shabby-looking red-brick building. A dissonant clamour of children’s voices met their ears. They were outside a primary school, and it was named after Maulana Azad, as the board over the entrance proclaimed in faded letters.
They stepped over a raised threshold into a paved, sunlit courtyard surrounded by some half a dozen clamorous classrooms. The principal, a man with a rich black-and-gold beard, wearing a cap and a long shirt over his fair-sized belly, greeted them effusively with both hands and thanked Munir for honouring his school with his visit. He was called Hamid Sahab. It occurred to Munir that he could have no idea who or what exactly Munir was, but any visitor from the West with a presumed reputation was a great enough honour. Munir had brought one of the few copies of his short story collection that he still possessed and he handed it to him.
The entire place had suddenly become still. And then, in a great flurry, tens of boys and girls of ages between six and twelve emerged, running, girls from one side and boys from the opposite, and in moments had surrounded him. The girls mostly wore hijab over long dresses, a few were in full niqab, and the boys wore white skullcaps and kurtas over long pants. Once more Munir felt utterly like an alien intruder, and he threw an accusing glance at Altaf. What have you done to me? Altaf returned a reassuring nod. The principal instructed the teachers, who had followed the kids out of the classrooms, to bring order to the assembly and sit their charges quietly on the ground. Girls on one side, boys on the other. Lots of nudging and tittering. Meanwhile Munir was given a fragrant chai. His book was passed around to the teachers and admired. Chairs were brought and placed facing the rows of eager boys and girls. Munir sat down with the teachers.
Hamid Sahab stood up and, speaking in Urdu, which Munir only barely understood, greeted and introduced Munir. There was enthusiastic clapping, and the children’s smiling faces beamed at him. Hamid Sahab waved his book in the air. More applause. He then gestured to Munir and asked him to speak.
Munir stood up, and having greeted the boys and girls with “Good morning, adab,” he began by telling them about his life. He was born in Africa, in a country called Kenya; however, his grandfather had come from Delhi, in fact not far from where they now were. He proceeded to tell them about his departure first to England, then to Canada for his education. He exhorted upon them the value of secular education. There was a world out there they must reach out and grab, and become part of.
When he finished, upon prompting by the principal, a forest of hands shot up with questions. They inquired about his family and about Africa, but they were curious mostly about Canada. Munir guessed that they had been coached a little about the country, perhaps had seen a few pictures, and a few even asked him how they could go and live there. At length, Hamid Sahab put an end to the questions, and then the guest had to be garlanded. Pictures were taken. One girl, covered in black niqab, came and stood beside him; her name was Hasina, and after taking a selfie with him, she told him how sorry she was that he had lost his wife. Munir told her hypocritically that it was Allah’s will. His wife, Aileen, was now in Allah’s presence. She nodded. Through the slit in her veil he thought he detected sympathy in her eyes. He noticed that her dainty feet were just visible under her long dress, inside pink slippers, and she had pink-polished toenails.
“I am willing to marry you,” she said.
Muni
r laughed. It was only later that he realized that she might have been serious.
A long table was brought, around which the chairs were arranged, and he was asked to sit down to eat with Hamid Sahab and the teachers. He removed his garland and put it around the girl who had proposed to him. Sweets and biryani were on offer, and they were delicious.
He was given a plate of the biryani to take with him.
Mohini
MA WAS READY TO MOVE back to her own home; Mohini would have wished her to stay, for Asha’s sake and so that she would not be lonely, but Ma insisted and Ravi encouraged her. He valued his privacy; these were no longer the days when three or even four generations of a family tripped over each other under one roof. And so Mohini and Asha took Ma home. Mohini had already had the rooms swept and the furniture dusted the previous day. As soon as they arrived, they hung up a large photo of Bau-ji, garlanded with fresh flowers, on the wall facing the television. It had been taken in Shimla after his retirement party at the university. Mohini put on some tea and sent Ma’s daily help, who was back and had wept her tears of condolence, to shop for fresh vegetables. As if on cue, neighbours came to welcome Ma back, reassuring Mohini that they would take care of her mother—wasn’t she like their own mother and sister? There were the sympathy tears for her loss but, The end’s written for all of us, all agreed. He was a good man and had lived a good, long life.
Bau-ji’s clothes were taken away by a neighbour to distribute. Asha kept for herself a pair of his gold cufflinks, and Mohini saved a gold pen, his retirement gift, for Aarti. She discovered in his drawer four diaries from his younger days and, with a look at Ma, said she would keep them. She also kept Bau-ji’s comb, still with a faint smell of his hair cream on it.
Later the three of them walked over to the Hanuman temple, and on the way back stopped at the food shack and sat down for water. It was a hot day, a tense moment, Mohini with more instructions for Ma, and Ma with that admonishing look for her. Back home, the two cooked dinner while Asha did her homework, and when Ravi arrived they all ate together. Bau-ji’s absence was palpable, and Mohini worried about Ma as they left her. But her mother had seen much in her life and was perhaps stronger than any of them. Ravi carried a box of Bau-ji’s documents and certificates to the car. Mohini followed him, hugging to herself Bau-ji’s four hard-backed diaries as though carrying away the last of his bones.
