Anand did not know whether to feel relieved or awkward.
The garden doors opened; his wife had returned home. She said: “What on earth are you guys doing?”
And behind her, another voice, amused: “Ah. Déjeuner sur l’herbe. What fun!”
“Appa gave me permission, Mama. Hi, Kavika-aunty,” said Valmika. “That’s French, isn’t it?”
“It is,” said Kavika. “The name of a painting, actually. Hi, Anand.” He looked up from where he had been staring blindly—at his wife hugging Pingu; he smiled; he tried to think of something to say.
“Hi,” he managed. If he could remember the French phrase she’d used, he would look up the painting on the Internet; impossible; he would not be able to identify it. What else did he know about paintings? Or indeed of any art? Babble-onion art-wuk. That’s what.
Vidya said: “Oh, Kavika, can you drop something off at my mother’s? It’s just a shawl; she left it in my car when we went for her medical checkup yesterday. Yeah, she’s fine, blood pressure’s a little high, that’s it. No, don’t get up, I’ll bring it.”
Kavika sat down on the mat, the sun catching the speckled gray in her hair and turning it silver. He wondered how to inaugurate any of the topics of conversation he had with her when she was not around. He need not have worried; it happened most naturally.
She said, just as he had imagined she would: “Amrita tells me that they’ve roped you in as well …”
“For next Tuesday?” He grinned. “Yeah. I don’t think I was given a choice of refusing.”
Unhappy with the rampant corruption of the major political parties, Amir and Amrita and some like-minded people were organizing an event to raise awareness on the issue.
“It’s a great idea,” said Kavika. “I just hope it’s effective. Amir feels that we are capable of reform, but I have my doubts. What do you think?”
“I don’t know,” said Anand. “The fact is, even if individual politicians are clean, elections cost money…. A lot of money …”
“So, that’s why there’s no chance of someone outside of the major parties ever winning an election?”
Anand shrugged. “Not impossible—but tough. They’d be competing against huge party machinery. It’s a simple question of economics, no? It costs a lot of money to win a state election, and multiples of that to win a parliamentary seat. Which regular, middle-class professional can fight that? Even with all the goodwill and qualifications in the world?”
His son’s head was resting on his lap; Vyasa had dozed off, lulled by the sun, the cricket, and the food. Valmika, he noticed, was listening intently to their conversation.
Kavika rested her head on her folded knees. “Amrita was telling me that they’re trying to see if they can get Vijayan to be the chief guest…. I have mixed feelings about that …” she said.
“It will certainly raise the profile of the event,” said Anand. “Lots of publicity.”
If Vijayan had initials or a last name, it was proof of his already iconic status that people simply referred to him by his first name alone, like the emperor Akbar-the-great or the singer Madonna. In newspaper photographs and television interviews and on posters, he appeared completely unlike the standard-issue politician: a clean-looking, pleasant-faced young man; someone one might actually be glad to invite home without first locking up the young girls and the silver. He did not wear rings or oversize, sinister dark glasses; he did not sport a neta cap to show his cultural loyalties to Mahatma Gandhi. People vied to get close to him; his wife was pleasant; they were incorruptible; he was inviolate.
Vijayan was foreign-educated and private-sector-trained but despite these attributes of elitism had nevertheless proved himself to be a genial man of the people. This was one of his better abilities: to relate just as easily to the highest and lowest of the land. Mahatma Gandhi, they said, had this quality. He was a gifted orator, they said, his mellifluous speeches invariably striking the right chord, whether he was addressing an illiterate gathering of farmers or the modern maharajas of international finance. He never spoke about the wonders of his own party or even about himself. He claimed no credit—that was the astonishing thing about him: in a democracy, where even the shiest public servant was forced to advertise his achievements to a careless voting public, Vijayan never spoke of himself. Instead, he had the knack of speaking of the problems facing them, as a people, as a country, as a village, a family, a community, a company. And he spoke of these matters with such thought and concern, with such an air of balance and morality, that one felt compelled to agree with him, and then, by degrees, that this young man was the very one to solve these problems. That was his political genius. He made even the most qualified and experienced of politicians look like greedy, self-serving grabbers. Best of all, for all his foreign-training and high education, he was born of a previously untouchable caste, a dalit family. The media framed excited headlines around him in ever-inventive and foolish ways: DALIT DAYLIGHT was one. DALIT DELIGHT, said another in thrilled one-upmanship. VIJAYAN BY NAME AND VICTORY BY NATURE, said a third.
Once before, Anand had seen him in the flesh, at a function at a five-star hotel. Vijayan had been one of the speakers and afterward, under the gleaming lights, had casually stood in the center of a shy, adoring crowd. This was not the street; the audience’s extreme interest in Vijayan was tempered by their upbringing: they did not know how to mob him. Harry Chinappa had suffered no such shyness. He managed to get himself introduced to Vijayan and made Ruby take a picture of them together, asking the other people standing around to move out of the way. He then sent the photo to the newspaper offices, so that they might publish it on their party pages, and the next day, he wrote a follow-up letter to Vijayan himself, enclosing with it a copy of the photograph. So nice to meet you, he wrote. So rare to have politicians of such caliber in this great nation of ours. He sent it off, forwarding a copy to his son-in-law for his edification.
Anand asked Kavika: “Why do you have mixed feelings about Vijayan?”
She plucked restlessly at the tufts of grass next to the coir mat. “I don’t know,” she said. “He seems like a good guy. Clean. Qualified. But, on the other hand, he represents a traditional, established party—with all its corruption and fierce internal politics—so how clean can he truly be …?” Was that sudden mischief in her glance? “Your father-in-law,” she said, “certainly thinks he is a wonderful candidate …” He could not help himself; his eyes revealed his opinion of his father-in-law, gratifyingly reflected in the merry comprehension of hers. He glanced at his daughter and forced himself to compose his face.
He could hear Vidya bustling up. “Here it is! Thanks so much!”
Kavika got up to leave; she said, smiling directly at him: “So I will see—both of you?—next Tuesday evening.”
“How come?” asked Vidya.
“I told you,” said Anand. “Amir’s event.”
“Oh,” said Vidya. “Right. Amrita asked me too. So interesting, no? It really is about time that we make some effort to change the system.” Later she looked at him in some surprise. “I wonder why Amir called you? You don’t do anything that is not work-related. He really must have twisted your arm.”
THAT NIGHT, ANAND ENSCONCED himself in his study. His wife was out, the children were spending the night at their maternal grandparents’, for all practical purposes he was alone. He plugged his phone into the iPod dock, flipping through until he found the album he wanted. Pink Floyd, The Dark Side of the Moon. He adjusted the volume and reached into the steel Godrej bureau, his fingers searching past the files for the bag of hash he kept hidden in the back.
He locked the study door and drew the curtains before rolling his joint, emptying a cigarette tube of its contents, crumbling the black hash into the tobacco leaves, quickly hoovering it all back into the cigarette tube placed between his lips with an old expertise that, like so many things, was gained in college. He opened the curtains and the window screen as well. He switched off the
lights and smoked the joint slowly, standing by the window and carefully blowing the smoke out into the night air. His son would not notice, he was too young, but Anand did not want either his wife or his daughter walking into the room hours later and asking awkward questions.
In the darkened room behind him, the music sang of money, time, and lunatics upon the grass.
Over the years, this Pink Floyd album had receded to the back of his mental musical shelf, but he had heard a couple of songs from it the previous weekend and now it leapt back quickly, engrossing him, the cadences so familiar, his body poised in ancient recognition, anticipating the next musical phrase in perfect, unfaltering sequence. It brought back memories: of the previous weekend, of college, and of the more recent, few-years-ago excitement of attending a Roger Waters concert in Bangalore.
He had bought his tickets as one might for a long-awaited pilgrimage. He arrived at the grounds an hour early, accompanied by Vidya. She was excited too, but for different reasons. She had never really listened to Pink Floyd, beyond dancing to the song “Another Brick in the Wall (Part 2)” at the discotheques of her youth, where it was packaged among the sugar-pop, soda-pop songs of that era. She seemed oblivious to the sacredness of the moment, her head whirling, dervish-like, as she registered who else was present, which friends she could wave to and what their plans were post-concert; friends, like her, who were there not for the music but simply because it was a concert, that hitherto rare thing, a place therefore to see and be seen. But the powerful magic charms of the evening soon overcame Anand’s momentary irritations: the contained energies of the crowd, the air of suppressed reverence, the pulsating excitement that swung sharply up to a boil when the first musicians walked onto the stage, the heat from the lights and the audience tussling with the cool winds of the night, and the dust that rose from the large concert grounds, so improbably situated in the Bangalore Palace compound.
“Oh, look,” said his wife, “there’s so-and-so and such-and-such….”
The music exploded from the speakers; Anand felt a surge of something that could only be happiness; on the face of the man standing next to him, shoulder to shoulder, there was an echo of that same demented smile he wore, and moisture on his cheeks, either sweat or tears, an old aching sweetness in him, an homage to the musical passions of a much younger, collegiate self, who had listened to this music all night long, stoned and sober, and had wondered what it would be like to listen to it live, to breathe the same air as these gods, knowing also that, for the likes of him and the world he lived in, these were not choices they would ever have. But a miracle of time and they were here: a gift from a city that had changed beneath him. Deities of music, singing just for him, taking the money and the adulation the worshipful city placed at their feet. Roger Waters, long-faced, long-nosed, long-toothed, small-eyed; a thoroughly alien physiognomy that was never quite how Anand had imagined the face of god to be.
“Standing for so long was so tiring,” Vidya later said, “they should have provided some seats. But the concert was quite nice,” she said, glancing at his face. “It was so fantastic! What music! I loved it!” she said to Amir, Amrita, and the other friends they met later for dinner.
The previous weekend, a new band had been playing a mixture of electronica and funk at his favorite music club. They were very good, but Anand wondered if he was on the edge of being too old to enjoy it, whether his classic-rock-trained ears could ever truly adapt. Luckily, and he had checked with the bar manager, the follow-up band would be playing some old rock covers.
He liked this place; it was not glossy but dedicated to good music and to the small indie bands that toured the country searching for listeners. Vidya occasionally agreed to come with him; she was not musically inclined, but several of her friends were; that night she was circulating about the room. He finished his beer and looked around for the waiter—and then saw Kavika at the far end of the bar, deep in conversation. Anand squinted his eyes; he knew who her companion was. Kabir, Amir’s younger brother.
Kabir worked as a videogame designer, seemingly dividing his time between long days working and nights of partying, forever knee-deep in the most glamorous girls in the shortest skirts. There were, as usual, three of them clustered around him; Anand contemplated him with some awe. When he had mentioned Kabir’s girlfriends to Vidya, she had looked at him scornfully and said: Don’t be absurd. He’s gay.
And: Of course, she said, his parents don’t know.
It did not seem logical. Right now, Kabir was ignoring the girls and had his arm around Kavika, whispering in her ear, tugging at the scarf around her neck. She was laughing back.
The second band took to the stage and launched into a cover of Pink Floyd.
When Vidya wandered back to sip at the glass of vodka-tonic at their table, Anand could not help saying to her: I thought you said he was gay.
She glanced at Kabir and grinned. “All Kavika’s closest male friends are gay. She’s a total fag hag. You can’t be so critical of people,” she said. “Nothing wrong if he’s gay.”
“I didn’t say there was,” said Anand. “If he is gay.”
He tried to concentrate on the music. If the woman laughing at the distant bar saw him, she gave no indication of it. She seemed entirely absorbed with that idiot Kabir.
Now, in the safe embrace of his study, the music lifted his mind from that bar to the sunlight of his garden and to the entirely different creature who had discussed politics with him on the lawn; that arching connection between them, one that surely didn’t exist in his imagination alone?
His mind moved fleetingly to Amir’s political meeting. He entered a note on his iPhone calendar, making sure nothing else conflicted with that time.
twelve
A LETTER WAS SUCH AN INFREQUENT occurrence in her life that Kamala did not at first recognize that the pale blue inland cover was meant for her. She squinted at it, until her neighbor’s voice demanded: “Well, are you going to take it or not?” Kamala received it gingerly from the young bride. “The old lady got it with the other mail and asked me to give it to you.”
“Thank you,” said Kamala, but she found the bride squatting down and, for a moment, leaving off her usual insolent manner. “Akka,” she whispered, “she is raising our rent again. So quickly! Is she asking more from you as well?”
Kamala was startled but did not show it. “Not yet,” she said.
“If she does, will you pay?” asked the bride.
Kamala was troubled by the young bride’s words but had no desire to discuss the matter with her, so she took refuge in rudeness. “What business is it of yours?” she said and was gratified to see the girl sniff and bang her way into her own room.
The thin, pale blue-green paper, written upon and folded possessively three times over its mysterious contents, was decorated on top with what Kamala knew to be her name and address and the sender’s identity. She studied the fat, curved squiggles marching across the paper like looped jelebis and tried to decipher their meaning like an astrologer attempting to predict the future course of life from the stars. From her sister-in-law perhaps? Possibly. But her sister-in-law was as illiterate as she was and usually preferred to communicate her news over the telephone.
She could, if she wished, knock on the young bride’s door or cross the courtyard to where the landlord’s mother lived and ask either of them to decipher the squiggles; both of them had that literary capability, but that would make them instantly privy to the contents of the letter. Instead, after studying it for a few minutes more, Kamala placed it away on a shelf and started her cooking preparations, fretting at the slow passage of time.
“There you are,” she said impatiently when she heard his footsteps. “I have been waiting.”
“Why?” Narayan asked and then, as she thrust the blue cover at him, “For us? Who is it from?”
“We will know all these things,” said his mother severely, “if you would but hurry.”
He slit the edge of th
e folded letter and spread it open. Its contents covered only two of the three sides; the sender did not seem compelled to get their money’s worth from the two-rupee cost of the inland letter.
“It is from Maama,” he said. “He is coming for a visit.”
“What?” she said. “My brother? Here? You lie! Now, Narayan, don’t play the fool or I will beat you. I really will. With that broom, I will beat you.”
“I’m not playing the fool,” he said. “Mother. What a thing to say. He is coming here…. For somebody’s wedding … Listen! I will read it to you…. ‘Dear little sister,’ ” he read, “ ‘My prayers that this letter finds you in good health. You will be pleased to hear that …’ ”
Kamala made him read it through twice. The formal written tone could not disguise the reality: for the first time in all these years, her brother would be visiting her in Bangalore. She sat still, processing this unprecedented event, until she heard Narayan ask her: “Amma? Are you not happy? This bothers you?”
“I am happy,” she said. “It is a good thing he is coming. Does he say when?”
“Next week. I told you. For one night.”
She nodded and, with effort, turned the conversation to other channels, distracting Narayan with some gossip about Shanta’s latest crosspatchery.
Later, when he had abandoned his evening studies to play cricket in the gully, she looked around her house with something akin to panic. In an instant, that letter had snatched away her sense of peace, her casual pride, her deep comfort in her home.
When Kamala had first started work as a domestic servant, she had lived with her baby son in the homes she worked in as a full-time, stay-in maid. If she was lucky, she was given a separate, tiny room (usually off the kitchen and just large enough to sleep herself and her son). If she was not so lucky, then under the stairs, or on the kitchen floor, her belongings stored in some unused cupboard.
The Hope Factory Page 13
