by Anita Desai
In retaliation, Maya and Pravin threw a party as soon as Pravin’s column had been written and the special issue had gone to press, and their party was in honour of the Minister of Human Resources, whose wife was such an admirer of Raja’s, had read every word he had written and wanted so much to meet him – ‘in an intimate setting’. Since she had made this special request, they had felt obliged to cut down their guest list – and were sure Sarla and Ravi would not mind since they had the pleasure of Raja’s company every day. But when Ravi stoically offered to drive Raja across to their house, he found the whole road lined with cars, many of them chauffeur-driven and with government number plates, and had the humiliation of backing out of it after dropping Raja at the gate, then returning to Sarla who had given way to a fierce migraine and was insisting that they book seats on a train to the hills as soon as possible.
‘But don’t we need to wait till Raja is gone?’
‘Raja is incapable of making decisions – we’ll have to make his for him,’ she snapped, waving at Balu who was slouching in the doorway, waiting to take away the remains of their meagre supper from the dining table.
She was still agonized enough the following morning – digging violently into half a ripe papaya in the blazing light that spilt over the veranda even at that early hour – actually to ask Raja, ‘How can you bear this heat? Do you really not mind it? I feel I’m going to collapse—’
Raja, who had a look of sleepy contentment on his face – he had already meditated for an hour in the garden, done his yoga exercises, bathed, drunk his tea and had every reason to look forward to another day – did not seem to catch her meaning at all. Reaching out to stroke her hand, he said, ‘I know what you need, my dear – a walk in the sublime Lodi Gardens when the sun is setting and Venus appears in the sky so silently—’ and went on to describe the ruins, their patina of lichen, their tiles of Persian blue, the echoes that rang beneath their domes, in such terms that Sarla sank back in her chair, sighing, agreeing.
What she did not know was that he had already arranged to walk there with Maya, Ila Dutta-Ray, and the wife of the Minister of Human Resources who, it turned out, had read that book of verses he had written when in Oxford and had published by a small press in London, long expired, so that copies were now collectors’ pieces. All three women owned such copies. And Sarla found herself trailing behind them while Raja pranced, actually pranced with delight, with enthusiasm, in their company. At their suggestion he recited those verses:
The lamp of heaven is hung upon the citrus bough,
The nightingale falls silent.
All is waiting,
For a royal visit by night’s own queen—
and then burst into mocking, self-deprecating laughter, waving away their protests to say, ‘Oh, those adolescent excesses! What was I thinking of, in Oxford, in the fog and the smog and the cold I suffered from perpetually! Well, you know, I was thinking of – this,’ and he waved at the walled rose garden and beyond it the pond and beyond that the tombs of the Lodi emperors surrounded by neem trees, and they all gazed with him. Eventually the Minister’s wife sighed, ‘You make us all see it with new eyes, as if we had never seen it before.’
Sarla, who had hung back, and was standing by a rose bush, fingering the fine petals of one flower pensively, realized that this was so exactly true: it was Raja who opened their eyes, who made them see it as they never saw it themselves, as a place of magic, enchantment, of pleasure so immense and rich that it could never be exhausted. She gazed at his back, his noble head, the silvery hair, the gracefully gesturing arm in its white muslin sleeve, there in the shade of the neem tree, totally disregarding the dust, the smouldering heat at the summer day’s end, and seeing it all as romantic, paradisaical – and she clasped her hands together, pressing a petal between them, grateful for knowing him.
That evening she tried again. ‘Raja, I know you would love Winhaven,’ she told him, interrupting the Vedic hymn he was reciting to prove to Ravi that his Sanskrit was still fluent – hadn’t he taught it to the golden youth of Berkeley, of Stanford, of the universities in Los Angeles and San Francisco, for all these years of his exile? ‘And I would love to see you in the Himalayas,’ she went on, raising her voice, ‘because they would make the most perfect setting for you. Perhaps you would begin to write again over there—’
‘But darling Sarla,’ Raja beamed at her, showing both the pleasure he took in her suggestion and his determination not to be swept away by it, ‘Maya tells me there is to be a lecture at India International Centre next week on the Himalayas as an inspiration for Indian poets through the centuries, and I would hate to miss it. It’s to be given by Professor Dandavate, that old bore – d’you remember him? What a dreary young man he was at Oxford! I can quite imagine how much drearier he is now – and I can’t resist the opportunity to pick holes in all he says, and in public too—’
‘But next week?’ Sarla enquired helplessly. ‘It’ll – it’ll be even hotter.’
‘Sarla, don’t you ever think of anything else?’ he reproved her gently, although with a little twitch of impatience about his eyes. ‘Now I don’t ever notice the heat. Drink the delicious fresh lemonades your marvellous cook makes, rest in the afternoons, and there’s no reason why you shouldn’t enjoy the summer. Oh, think of the fruit alone that summer brings us—’
But it was the marvellous cook himself who brought an end to Raja’s idyll in Sarla and Ravi’s gracious home: that very day he took off his apron, laid down his egg whisk and his market bag, declared that enough was enough, that he was needed in his village to bring in the harvest before the monsoon arrived. He was already late and had received a postcard from his son to say they could not delay it by another day. He demanded his salary and caught his train.
Sarla was sufficiently outraged by his treachery to make the afternoon tea herself, braving the inferno of the kitchen where she seldom had need to venture, and was rewarded by Raja’s happy and Ravi’s proud beam as she brought out the tea tray to the veranda. But dinner proved something else altogether. Balu showed not the slightest inclination that he meant to help: he kept to the pantry with grim determination, giving the glasses and silver another polishing rather than take a step into the kitchen. Sarla had a whispered consultation with Ravi, suggesting they take Raja out to India International Centre or the Gymkhana Club for dinner, but Ravi reminded her that the car had gone for servicing and they could go nowhere tonight. Sarla, her sari end tucked in at her waist, wiping the perspiration from her face with her elbow, went back into the kitchen and peered into its recesses to see if the cook had not repented and left some cooked food for them after all, but she found little that she could put together even if she knew how. At one point, she even telephoned Maya to see if her sister would not come to her aid – Maya was known for her superb culinary skill – but there was no answer: Maya and Pravin were out. It was to an embarrassingly inadequate repast of sliced cucumber, yoghurt and bread that the three finally sat down – Balu looking as if it were far beneath his dignity to serve such an excuse for a meal, Sarla tight-lipped with anger with herself for failing so blatantly, Ravi trying, with embarrassed sincerity, to thank her for her brave effort, and Raja saying nothing at all, but quietly crumbling the bread beside his plate till he confessed a wish to go to bed early.
But this meant that he was up earlier than ever next morning, and by the time Sarla rose and went wearily kitchenwards to make him tea, he had been awake for hours, performed his yoga and meditation, walked Simba round the garden several times, and was waiting querulously for it. Balu was nowhere to be seen. When Sarla went in search of him – surely he should have been able to make their guest a cup of tea? – she found the door to his room shut, coloured cutouts from film magazines of starlets in swimsuits stuck all over it, and when she called out his name, heard only a groan in reply. In agitation, she hurried to find Ravi and send him to find out what was wrong. Ravi went in reluctantly, his face bearing an expression of m
artyrdom, and reappeared to inform her that Balu was suffering from a stomach ache and needed to be taken to a doctor. ‘You do that,’ she snapped at him, hardly able to believe this terrible turn in their fortunes.
By lunchtime, Raja had made a series of phone calls and discovered that the Dutta-Rays were leaving for Kashmir next day and would be only too delighted to have him accompany them. Sarla stood in the doorway, watching him pack his little bag with beautifully laundered underwear, and wailed, ‘But Raja, if you had wanted to go to the hills, we could have gone to Winhaven ages ago! I asked you, you remember?’
Raja gave her a look that said, ‘Winhaven? With you? When I can be on a houseboat in Kashmir with Ila instead?’ But of course, what he really did was blow her a kiss across the room and whisper conspiratorially, ‘Darling, think of the stories I’ll come back with to entertain you,’ and snapped shut the lock on his bag with a satisfied click.
‘Simba! Simba!’ Ravi put his hands around his mouth and called after the dog who had loped away up to the top of the hill and vanished. Then he turned around to look for Sarla. He could see neither his dog nor his wife – one had gone too far ahead, the other lagged too far behind. He lowered himself onto a rock to catch his breath and picked up a pine cone to toss from hand to hand while he waited, whistling a little tune.
Evening light flooded down from the vast sky, spilling over the pine needles and stones of the hillside. Everything seemed to be bathed in its pale saffron glow. An eagle drifted through the ravine below. He could hear the wind in its feathers, a melancholy whistle.
‘Sarla?’ he called out finally, and just then saw her come into sight on a turn of the path below him, amongst a mass of blackberry bushes. She seemed to be dragging herself along, her sari trailing in the white dust, her head bowed over the walking stick she held in a slightly trembling hand.
At his voice she looked up and her face was haggard. He stared in surprise: he had not considered this such a difficult climb, or so long a walk. It was where they had always come, to watch the sunset. He himself could still spring up it with no more than a little panting. ‘Sarla?’ he asked questioningly. ‘Want some help, old girl?’
‘Coming, coming,’ she grumbled, toiling on, ‘can’t you see I’m coming?’
When she reached the rock where he was waiting, she sank down onto it and wiped her face with the corner of her sari. ‘I can’t do these climbs any more,’ she admitted, with a wince. ‘You had better do them alone.’
‘Oh, Sarla,’ he said, catching up her hand in his, ‘I would never want to come up here without you, you know.’ They sat there a while, breathing deeply. Beside them a small cricket began to chirp and chirp, and after some time it was no longer light that came spilling down the hill, but shadows.
Winterscape
She stands with the baby in her arms in front of the refrigerator, and points at the pictures she has taped on its white enamel surface, each in turn, calling out the names of the people in the photographs. It is a game they play often to pass the time, the great stretches of time they spend alone together. The baby jabs his short pink finger at a photograph, and the mother cries, ‘That’s Daddy, in his new car!’ or ‘Susan and cousin Ted, on his first birthday!’ and ‘Grandma by the Christmas tree!’ All these pictures are as bright and festive as bits of tinsel or confetti. Everyone is smiling in them, and there are birthday cakes and Christmas trees, the shining chrome of new cars, bright green lawns and white houses. ‘Da-dee!’ the baby shouts. ‘Soo-sun!’ The bright colours make the baby smile. The mother is happy to play the game, and laughs: her baby is learning the names of all the members of the family; he is becoming a part of the family.
Then the baby reaches out and waves an ineffectual hand at a photograph that is almost entirely white, only a few shades of grey to bring out the shapes and figures in it. There are two, and both are draped in snow-white clothes which cover their shoulders, exposing only the backs of their heads which are white too, and they are standing beside the very same white refrigerator in the same white-painted kitchen, in front of a white-framed window. They are looking out of it, not at the camera but at the snow that is falling past the windowpanes, covering the leafless tree and the wooden fence and the ground outside, providing them with a white snowscape into which they seem nearly to have merged. Nearly.
The baby’s pink finger jabs at the white photograph. The mother says nothing immediately: she seems silenced, as if she too has joined the two figures at the window and with them is looking out of the white kitchen into a white world. The photograph somehow calls for silence, creates silence, like snow.
The baby too drops his hand, lowers his head on his mother’s shoulder, and yawns. Snow, silence, and sleep: the white picture has filled him with sleep, he is overcome by it. His mother holds him and rocks him, swaying on her feet. She loves the feel of the baby’s head on her shoulder; she tucks it under her chin protectively. She swivels around to the window as if she sees the two white figures there now, vanishing into the green dusk of a summer evening. She sings softly into the baby’s dark hair: ‘Ma and Masi – Ma and Masi together.’
‘Two?’ Beth turned her head on the pillow and stared at him over the top of her glasses, lowering the book she was reading to the rounded dome of her belly under the blue coverlet. ‘Two tickets? For whom?’ because she knew Rakesh did not have a father, that his mother was a widow.
‘For my mother and my aunt,’ he said, in a low, almost sullen voice, sitting on the edge of the bed in his pyjamas and twisting his fingers together. His back was turned to her, his shoulders stooped. Because of the time difference, he had had to place the call to the village in India in the middle of the night.
‘Your aunt?’ Beth heard her own voice escalate. ‘Why do we have to pay for your aunt to visit us? Why does she have to visit us when the baby is born? I can’t have so many guests in the house, Rakesh!’
He turned around towards her slowly, and she saw dark circles under his eyes. Another time they might have caused her to put her finger out to touch those big, bluish pouches, like bruises, but now she felt herself tense at the thought of not just one, but two strangers, foreigners, part of Rakesh’s past, invading their house. She had already wished she had not allowed Rakesh to send for his mother to attend to the birth of their child. It had seemed an outlandish, archaic idea even when it was first suggested; now it was positively bizarre. ‘Why both of them? We only asked your mother,’ she insisted.
Rakesh was normally quick with his smile, his reassuring words, soft and comforting murmurs. He had seemed nervous ever since she became pregnant, more inclined to worry about what she took as a natural process. But she could see it was not that, it was something else that made him brood, silently, on the edge of the bed, the blue pouches hanging under his eyes, and his hands twisted.
‘What’s the matter?’ she said sharply, and took off her glasses and turned over her book. ‘What’s wrong?’
He roused himself to shake his head, attempted to smile, and failed. Then he lifted up his legs and lay down on the bed, beside her, turning to her with that same brooding expression, not really seeing her. He put out his hand and tried to stroke the hair at her temple. It annoyed her: he was so clearly about to make a request, a difficult request. She tensed, ready to refuse. He ought not to be asking anything of her in her condition. Two guests, two foreigners – at such a time. ‘Tell me,’ she demanded.
So he began to tell her. ‘They are both my mothers, Beth,’ he said. ‘I have two mothers.’
There were three years between them and those seemed to have made all the difference. Asha was the first child in the family. So delighted was her father that it never crossed his mind she should have been a son. He tossed her up and caught her in his arms and put his face into her neck to make growling sounds that sent her into squeals of laughter. That she was fair-skinned, plump and had curly hair and bright black eyes all pleased him. He liked his wife to dress the child in frilly, flounced, f
lowered dresses and put ribbons in her hair. She was glad and relieved he was so pleased with his daughter: it could have been otherwise, but he said, ‘A pretty daughter is an ornament to the home.’
So Asha grew up knowing she was an ornament, and a joy. She had no hesitation ever in asking for a toy or a sweet, in climbing onto her parents’ laps or standing in the centre of a circle to sing or skip.
When Anu was born, three years later, it was different. Although her father bent over her and fondled her head and said nothing to express disappointment, disappointment was in the air. It swaddled baby Anu (no one even remembered her full name, the more majestic Annapurna), and among the first things she heard were the mutterings of the older people in the family who had no compunction about pronouncing their disappointment. And while her mother held her close and defended her against them, baby Anu knew she was in a weak position. So one might have thought, watching her grow. Although she stayed close to her elder sister, clinging to the hem of her dress, shadowing her, and Asha was pleased to have someone so entirely under her control, there remained something hesitant, nervous and tentative about Anu’s steps, her movements and speech. Everything about her expressed diffidence.
While Asha proved a natural housekeeper and joined, with gusto, in the cooking, the washing, the sweeping, all those household tasks shared between the women, pinning her chunni back behind her ears, rolling up the sleeves of her kameez, and settling down to kneading the dough, or pounding spices, or rolling out chapatis with a fine vigour, Anu proved sadly incompetent. She managed to get her hand burnt when frying pakoras, took so long to grind chillies that her mother grew impatient and pushed her out of the way, and was too weak to haul up a full bucket of water from the well, needing to do it half a bucket at a time. When visitors filled the house and everything was in an uproar, Anu would try to slip away and make herself invisible and only return when summoned – to be scolded soundly for shirking work. ‘Look at your sister,’ she was always counselled, and she did, raising her eyes with timid admiration. Asha, used to her sister’s ways, gave her a wink and slipped her one of the snacks or sweets she had missed. An understanding grew between them, strengthened by strand upon strand upon strand of complicity.
