by Manil Suri
The period of probation lasted for a month. One day, soon after that, she came into his arms. “Let’s look for a place of our own,” she said.
ONCE THEY MOVED into the flat above the Jalals, Vinod noticed a new softness begin to flower in Sheetal’s personality. Day after day, night after night, she became more relaxed, even more receptive in bed. Some evenings she even allowed herself to be led into the bedroom before they had eaten dinner. A trace of color began to show in her cheeks, and she put on some weight, though Vinod still worried that she looked too thin. Her relationship with his mother became cordial, almost loving, except when his mother raised pointed questions about why it was taking so long for them to produce a grandson.
Sheetal adored the flat, despite the three flights of stairs that had to be walked up to get there, and despite the church in front of their building that cut off the view of the sea that could have otherwise been theirs. It was close enough to Vinod’s bank that he could come home for lunch every day. On some afternoons Sheetal would pack the food in his tiffin box and they would carry it downstairs to eat in the shadow of the pipal tree spreading over the church courtyard. They both looked forward to Wednesdays, when Tall Ganga arrived earlier than usual, bringing along a freshly killed chicken, which she cooked into a curry under Sheetal’s supervision.
Sometimes Vinod wondered about Sheetal’s days. She shopped and cooked, he knew; she talked to Mrs. Jalal from downstairs and listened to Vividh Bharati in the afternoon; she hung up curtains and changed the sheets and watered the flowerpots on the balcony. But was that enough? Was that enough to occupy her, to make her happy, even, dared he ask, to fulfill her?
“It’s not so trivial,” Sheetal said, when he brought the question up one evening. “I’m a woman with a flat to run, not some girl playing house.”
They had seven happy years there. Then, at the insistence of his mother, they went to the hospital near the income-tax building to find out why Sheetal had not become pregnant yet. By then, as the specialist from Bangalore explained to them, the cancer had already spread beyond the uterus. A hysterectomy was performed, and Sheetal underwent various other treatments and therapies. When the doctors were finished with her, she was allowed to come back to spend her last six months at home.
Sheetal’s illness was so unexpected that for a while Vinod felt as if he were in one of those melodramatic tearjerkers, the ones that always completed silver jubilees at theaters like Roxy or Opera House. Suddenly his life became one long undulation of visits to the chemist and the temple, of hours spent blankly at work, of nights passed watching his wife’s face as she rested. Then, before he could prepare himself, the routine ended—the dressing table was cleared of prescriptions, the extra blankets were packed away, and all that was left of Sheetal was a photograph on the wall, its frame adorned with a single strand of marigolds.
For a long time after she died, it seemed as if she was still around. As if she had been in the room with him a minute ago, and just gone downstairs to the store. She hated doing that, and would often wait until he came home from work rather than shop herself, even if all she needed was some coriander to complete the night’s dinner. “And get me a paan, too,” she would say, “if you’re going down anyway.”
Sheetal loved paan. Not the plain kind, but the sweet ones, with lots of coconut and candied betel nut and all the minty pastes and mixtures that the paanwalla kept in silver boxes around the circumference of his tray. “You missed that one,” she would say sternly, when she went down to get the paan herself. “At least don’t cheat your most regular customer.” And she would watch to make sure he did not shortchange her on the tiny silver candy pills which were her favorite ingredient. The paanwalla adored her, and asked after her every day when she fell ill. Even in the last few days, when she could barely chew or swallow, she insisted on having her paan. “It helps me relax,” she would say, as Vinod put the paan gently between her teeth, and for a moment, the familiar orange paan stain on her lips would be a blossom that brightened her face.
“Remember what you need to do after I’m gone, Vinod. Remember your promise to me, whatever you do, don’t forget,” Sheetal would gasp, as she tried to chew her paan, and Vinod would be by her side, kissing her hand, assuring her he would keep his promise, and wondering how he would.
For what Sheetal wanted, what she had become obsessed with in the last half year of her life, was to get into The Guinness Book of World Records.
It was Vinod who had bought the book, as a present to celebrate her return from the hospital. Sheetal read it immediately and by that evening she had made up her mind—her name was going to be listed. She had never been truly exceptional at any activity. Now she would prove to the world that she, Sheetal Taneja, was in fact the best at something. The question was, what?
She read and reread the categories in the book, but there was nothing in which she could remotely hope to win. Her only chance would be to create a new category. One morning, she announced that she had decided on it: dialogue. She had always had a knack for memorizing it. “What if I memorize the dialogue of an entire movie? Surely they will have to put me in the book for that.”
She asked Vinod to fetch her the newspaper to see what was playing. There was so little time to lose. They would go the very next day.
She chose Jeevan. Life. There was irony in the title, since it starred Meena Kumari, who, as in many of her best movies, died in the end. What could be a better selection? Sheetal asked Vinod to borrow the new cassette recorder his brother had bought, the kind that could run on batteries. Vinod could record the whole soundtrack while he sat next to her.
It took her a full hour to dress. She wrapped her thin frame in the most cheerful sari she owned, and tried to cover the hollows in her face with makeup. Somehow, she steadied her hand enough to put on the lipstick, both on her lips and for the dot on her forehead. She asked Vinod to thread the earrings through her ears, and wore a necklace and gold bangles, even though they were only going to a matinee.
When the time came to go downstairs, she was unable to negotiate the steps. Eventually, she sat on one of the dining-room chairs, and Vishnu and the paanwalla carried her down, like a queen on a palanquin. Vinod took the two of them along to see the movie as well, so they could carry Sheetal upstairs to the balcony of the theater, where she had insisted on sitting.
They sat in the first row, right behind the railing. Sheetal watched most of the movie, though a few times when Vinod glanced over, her eyes were closed, as if she had lapsed into deep thought. Neither Vishnu nor the paanwalla had ever seen a movie from the balcony, and the paanwalla claimed several times that not only was the sound better up there but also the picture, because the screen was designed to send more light up to the expensive seats. It took three of the cassettes to record the two-and-a-half-hour soundtrack—Vinod was careful to reload the recorder during the songs, so that none of the dialogue would be lost.
The next day, Sheetal dictated a petition for Guinness, telling them what she proposed to do. Vinod took it to be typed by one of the professional typists in Tardeo, then mailed the letter himself at the post office, making sure the clerk canceled the stamps in front of him, as per Sheetal’s instructions, so nobody would take them off for reuse.
For the next two months, Sheetal lay next to the cassette recorder and memorized. Sometimes when the different roles on the soundtrack became too confusing, she recruited Tall Ganga to help her. “Don’t you have any shame, teasing girls like that,” she would berate Tall Ganga, who would slowly, awkwardly, mouth the hero’s response. Vinod would come home from work and hear Sheetal repeating “When I’m with you, my heart starts going dhuk dhuk—why do you think that is?” He would kiss her good night, and she would say, “Even if God forgives me, I won’t be able to forgive myself for what I have done.” Sometimes she would have a fever but still she would persevere, even if it meant memorizing only a few words that day.
Two months after seeing the movie, Sheetal made
her first attempt. Vinod’s brother and sister-in-law were called in to act as witnesses, and everyone gathered around Sheetal’s bed to hear the recitation.
It was a disaster. Sheetal confused lines, forgot entire scenes, and became too emotional to continue when Dilip Kumar consigned his beloved’s ashes to the Ganges and watched them float away in the water. “This, the first night of our union,” Mohammed Rafi sang sadly on the tape as Vinod ushered everyone out of the room.
Sheetal grieved for days over her failure. She did not try again for almost three months. By then, she had deteriorated to a point where it was easy to convince her that she had done it, that she had managed to go through the entire movie. She went to sleep that afternoon already able to imagine her name in the book.
Three weeks before Sheetal died, the postman delivered a letter with a big blue-and-orange stamp from the United Kingdom. Sheetal got so excited that she forced herself to sit up in bed as Vinod opened the letter.
“Dear Mrs. Taneja,” Vinod read aloud, “Thank you for your recent petition regarding the creation of a new category for memorization of the dialogue of a movie. We regret to inform you that we do not anticipate adding this category at this time. We would, however, like to congratulate you on your most interesting achievement in this regard.”
It was signed “William Warby, Associate Editor, Guinness Book of World Records.” Accompanying it was a flyer for the new edition of the book.
Sheetal was devastated for the rest of the day. But the next morning, she had Vinod reread the letter, making him go over the actual wording of the rejection several times.
“Aha,” she said, interrupting him. “They’ve written that they can’t do it at this time. Which means they are planning to keep it in mind for the future. Plus, who knows how long this Warby character will last, especially if he is turning down such good proposals? Once he goes, the new person will have a fresh chance to look at this.”
That’s when she extracted the promise from Vinod. “Keep trying until they put me in. Tell them that I died of cancer even, then they’ll have to relent. Especially once the new person comes in.” Meanwhile, the letter she had received was matted and framed, and hung over her bed. Every day, she reached out to touch the part which complimented her on her “most interesting achievement.”
The year after Sheetal died, Vinod re-sent the petition to Guinness. A few months later, he got an almost identical reply, complimenting him on his wife’s interesting achievement, and signed once more by William Warby.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE JAMADARNI IS squatting on the landing, eating the mango. His mango. Her mouth is smeared with yellow, visceral pleasure gleams in her eyes. She scrapes the pit clean, then runs her teeth over the peel for bits of pulp she may have missed.
Is this what it means to be a god? The first offering made to him, and he isn’t even the one to enjoy it? Vishnu looks at the jamadarni—she is working on the pit one more time, trying to suck out some more flavor.
What else will he have to forsake? All the tastes and smells of his life? He has already lost his ability of touch—will he lose all power to experience as well? Could he choose not to be a god?
The jamadarni gives a contented sigh, then throws the pit and the peel into her rubbish basket.
He thinks of his final time with Padmini. “What if one day you came, and I was no longer here?” she says, sitting up in bed. “Would you try to find me?”
“Of course I would. Why do you say that?” he says.
“No reason. But you know, you’d never be able find me if I decided to leave.”
Then, seeing his expression, she laughs. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.” She looks through the window. “No, Padmini will always be here.”
He follows her gaze past the veil of red silk over the window. There are women standing on the balcony of the facing building, laughing and calling to the people down below. He wants to press his face into Padmini’s neck, he wants to squeeze her body against his chest, he wants to hear her promise again and again that she will never abandon him, she will never go. How little of her he has learnt to live with—the minutes he steals from her are so precious, she will never know. The sound of a hawker selling bhajia rises from the street—onion and pepper and brinjal and potato.
But leave she does. The brothel owner does not know where she has gone, but offers him Lajjo instead, or Gulabi, or even Reena, who normally commands a higher price. Vishnu is distraught. Padmini, he cries, he wants Padmini. He roams for days looking for her but her prediction is true, he does not find her.
But he is a god now. He can bring her back. He need only gaze across the lay of the city, and pinch her out of the cranny in which she hides. Kiss her, hug her, love her, splay her on the floor if he pleases. Never let her out of his sight again.
Why does the thought no longer compel? Why have the pleasures of Padmini’s body faded to such a subdued fragrance in his memory? A fragrance incorporating the perfume of mangoes, the wetness of water, the flavorings in tea. Has he lost his desire, has he been rinsed of his experience, has all the physical cognition acquired through his existence been suddenly rendered irrelevant, obsolete?
A warm indifference spreads through him to the cravings of his body. He is not sated, no, yet he can partake no more.
The jamadarni picks up her basket and starts up the steps. Vishnu is glad she has eaten the mango, he does not begrudge it to her.
THE NEWS TRAVELED fast down the core of the building, raging through the ground floor like an out-of-control conflagration. Short Ganga told the cigarettewalla, who told the paanwalla, who told the electrician. Mr. Jalal had been found sleeping on the steps, and when he awoke, had tried to molest Mrs. Pathak in front of her husband. Man Who Slept on the Lowest Step heard about it from the cigarettewalla, who added his own fictitious update about how Mr. Jalal’s eyes had been rolling uncoordinated in his head when he came down just now to buy cigarettes. In turn, Lowest Step told the jamadarni that a mental asylum ambulance had taken Mr. Jalal away. This was refuted later by the jamadarni, who heard from Mrs. Pathak about Kavita’s elopement with Salim, and Mr. Jalal’s mysterious part in it. The elopement quickly turned into an involuntary one, because of the illegitimate child Kavita was expecting, and then into a full-fledged abduction perpetrated by the Jalals. Mr. Jalal was said to have had a fight with Vishnu, who had recovered miraculously to try and save Kavita, but was then mercilessly beaten by father and son. A supporting version claimed Vishnu managed to knock Mr. Jalal unconscious before he was overpowered himself, and Kavita left behind her dupatta to implicate the true wrongdoers. Another theory had it that the dupatta was ripped off in an attempted rape, and that Kavita had been kidnapped to be part of a famous Muslim smuggler’s private harem. Nobody seemed clear about exactly what Mr. Jalal had said about Vishnu himself, though the jamadarni alleged he had called him a Hindu devil who deserved to die.
MRS. JALAL LOOKED at her husband, asleep on their bed. At the angle at which he was lying, the light from the window reflected off his cheeks, obscuring all the pockmarks, so his face shone unblemished as a child’s. She lay down next to him and cradled his head in the crook of her elbow. Her poor Ahmed, how hard he had tried, how hard he still tried, to transcend himself. She had never seen a person with such aspirations, such ideals. She reached out to brush the hair off his forehead. Was there anything she could say, anything she could do, that would stop him in his bizarre pursuit?
Ahmed snuggled closer to her. “Arifa,” he murmured, his eyes still closed. He wrapped an arm around her and stroked her neck with the back of his fingers. “I feel so sleepy. But so much work to do.”
“Shhhh,” Mrs. Jalal said. “Later.” She raised a hand around his face to block the sunlight that was dappling his eyelids. Instantly, the marks rose back to view on the surface of his skin. She looked at them and traced their unevenness with the tips of her fingers. She wondered what he thought about them, what he had felt growing up w
ith his face all cratered like that. She had asked him once long ago, but he had not answered. Had people called him names in school? Had he been shunned by classmates who might have otherwise been his friends? Had he gone through life always conscious of this handicap, which captured attention with such cruel clarity at first meeting?
She herself had never minded the marks. If anything, she was glad for them in her selfish way, because they balanced her own feelings of inadequacy. Ahmed’s skin was Ahmed’s skin, and these were just variations—variations in texture and color, that she was sure could be explained in terms of biological factors like nerves and blood vessels and pigment cells.
It was what lay beneath the skin, inside his head, that she had difficulty with. Why couldn’t she learn to think of those differences too as biological variations? She had heard somewhere that all thought, and with it, feeling and belief, arose from a series of chemical and electrical impulses. How could something so unemotional, so scientific, be responsible for causing so much turmoil? Why had the paths in Ahmed’s brain arranged themselves in such perverse ways, so diametrically opposite to what she had been taught?
Lying there now on the bed with him made these things seem less important. She drew her head next to his, and brushed his cheek with her lips. He kept his eyes closed, and continued rubbing his fingers against the nape of her neck. Nuzzling with him like this reminded her of the times she would lie next to the goat her father brought home every Bakr-Eid. She would wrap her arms around its body and pet its head, and bury her face in its fur. Sometimes she would lay her head against its chest and listen to its beating heart.
The goat would be housed right outside the kitchen, where it could be fattened a little more with a steady stream of vegetable scraps. She loved feeding it herself, watching it nibble delicately at carrot tops and cauliflower leaves. Always, though, would be the thought in her mind that the day of Bakr-Eid was arriving. The night before Eid, she would lie in bed, knowing it was the last time she would fall asleep to the sound of the goat bleating on the verandah. She would fantasize about setting it free to sprint down the wide stone steps. It would race down Jail Road, loping past milkwallas on their bicycles, dodging taxis and BEST buses, to freedom.
