by Marisha Pink
TWENTY-TWO
THE days hurtled towards Rath Yatra and Arun felt himself becoming increasingly absorbed in village life, and less enthused by his impending departure. Though living was basic compared to the standards back home, working in the shop each day and being in the presence of Lucky and Hanara gave him the sense of belonging and purpose that he had craved for most of his life. They were creatures of habit and though the repetitive nature of their daily schedule could easily have led to monotony and boredom, Arun relished the predictable simplicity of their routine. Each morning he would rise with his siblings to sit in on their morning prayers; an activity that for him was less about religious beliefs and more about aligning himself with his family’s customs. Together they would enjoy a light breakfast, and after Lucky departed for work, Arun walked the few paces to the shop to open up for the day, leaving Hanara to tend to the housework and fields.
Managing the shop was becoming an easier task as Arun began to experience mutual recognition from his customers, engaging them in light-hearted conversation whilst he pulled the items that he knew they had come for from the depths of the shack. On the rare occasions that the shop was quiet, he would close up early and surprise Hanara by trekking out into the fields to assist her with carrying the day’s harvest back to the house. When Lucky returned at the end of each day, Arun helped him to unload the goods that he had bought in the city to replenish the shop’s stock, and when the sun set on rural India, he joined his family once more to enjoy another of Hanara’s tasty home-cooked meals. Once dinner was over, Arun changed into one of the old tunic ensembles that Lucky had gifted him, and the three of them would pile into the rickshaw to travel to the mandir.
The nightly visits to the mandir came to be the best part of Arun’s day, for they epitomised all that he had come to love about India. From Rajubhai Joshi’s melodic chanting and the smell of burning incense, to bowing his head to the Elephant God and accepting prasad for his devotions, a deep sense of spirituality prevailed within Arun whenever he set foot inside the temple. Sharing in a ritual that held such great importance for both his siblings and the wider community made him feel like a part of something much greater than he had ever experienced before. The villagers greeted him like an old friend, recognising him from both his visits to the mandir and from his work in the shop, and collectively they seemed to appreciate his efforts to ingratiate himself. He still didn’t understand the words of the prayers, but he looked forward to the enforced silence that they brought, using the time for a deep introspective to process the new events, thoughts and feelings that he was experiencing. And still there was another unexpected perk to his daily visits; a perk that was rapidly evolving into the driving force behind his dedication to attendance.
Seeing Chandni was Arun’s reward at the end of each day; a pint-sized figure, whose shining green eyes and sweet smile had captivated him so much that he found himself offering up a daily prayer for more time in India to feast on her beauty. He had been unable to shake the imprint of her smile from his mind since their first meeting, and attending the mandir each evening was the only way to guarantee a glimpse of her. Their exchanges were few and far between, and brief when they did occur, because Chandni always seemed to behave in a very restrained manner within the confines of the mandir. Her reserved demeanour should have caused her to be overshadowed by the self-aggrandising ramblings of Hanara’s other friends, but the quiet mystery surrounding Chandni was the voice that called out to Arun most clearly.
Frequently tired of waiting for her father to finish each night, it was only on the occasions when they dropped Chandni home that Arun was able to enjoy any time alone with her. Hanara and Lucky engaged in their own conversation, finding it too difficult to be inclusive over the sound of the rickshaw’s engine, and once they had started to get to know each other, Chandni had relaxed in Arun’s company, just as Hanara had reassured him that she would. She was an intelligent young woman, though sometimes fearful of sharing her views and ideas about the world lest they should offend anyone, and Arun found himself hanging on her every word. The days were long, but they were deeply satisfying to Arun’s soul and when he collapsed into bed each night beside Lucky, he was silently grateful for having found so much more than what he had come looking for.
The ritualistic pleasures upon which he had come to depend were rudely disrupted one evening, when Chandni was not present at the mandir. No-one else seemed to notice or even be concerned by her absence, but Arun felt an unexpectedly huge pang of disappointment when he scanned the crowds for her face to no avail. That night he was unable to sleep, wondering what might have kept her away, and the next day in the shop passed impossibly slowly while he waited, anxiously, to see whether she would return that evening. When Chandni had been absent for three consecutive days, Arun began to worry. From everything he knew, it was not like her, and though she wasn’t a frequent customer, the fact that she had not visited the shop at all in the preceding week greatly unsettled him. Irrationally, he feared that something untoward might have happened to her, but he was mostly troubled by the prospect that he might not see her again before he had to return home.
Rath Yatra was approaching fast and although he had already decided to return to Puri at the next available opportunity, he didn’t know when that might be. Not knowing for certain when he would next see Chandni’s smiling face caused him physical pain in his chest: a dull, aching pain that only intensified each time he queued to accept prasad and was forced to look into Rajubhai Joshi’s eyes that were so like his daughter’s. Not wanting to arouse suspicion about his feelings, initially Arun resisted the temptation to ask his siblings about Chandni’s whereabouts but, when he could stand the uncertainty no longer, he finally broached the subject while they were on their way home one evening.
‘I haven’t seen Chandni in a few days,’ he remarked, in the most nonchalant voice that he could muster.
‘Hmm?’
‘I haven’t seen Chandni in a few days,’ he shouted again, over the noise of the rickshaw’s engine.
‘Oh, no, me neither,’ Hanara replied, nonplussed.
‘I hope that she’s okay?’ he tried again, tentatively.
‘I think I heard someone saying that she is not feeling well. She’s probably just staying at home so that she doesn’t give the whole village whatever it is that she has. I’m sure she’s fine,’ Hanara concluded.
It was a relief to hear that Chandni was likely resting at home, but without any additional information about the extent of her illness, Arun was still no closer to knowing when she might resume her visits to the mandir. He lay awake in bed that night with Lucky fast asleep beside him, oblivious to his woes, and tried to figure out how he could get to see Chandni in the event that she didn’t come back to the mandir before he left India.
It wasn’t until the following day, whilst he served Mrs Satpathy in the shop, that the solution came to him. He resolved to pay Chandni a visit at home under the guise of checking that she was okay, though it was largely to fulfill his selfish desire to see her. It seemed the most logical course of action and he was sure that after several days alone in the house, whilst Rajubhai Joshi had continued with his daily duties at the mandir, she would be glad of the company and, perhaps, even pleased to see him. The only question that remained was when to visit? He could suggest it to Lucky and Hanara, but he was desperate for an opportunity to be alone with Chandni, and if he expressed too great an interest in her wellbeing, they might begin to suspect the feelings that he wasn’t yet ready to share with them.
Arun struggled with the execution of his grand plan all day and it was only at the conclusion of dinner that evening that the right opportunity unexpectedly presented itself.
‘Hey Arun, which suit do you want to borrow from the shop of Lucky today?’
‘Actually, Lucky, I don’t know if I should come to the mandir tonight. I’m not really feeling all that well,’ he lied.
‘Oh no, what is the matter?’ cried Lucky, at once seri
ous and concerned.
‘Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing major, don’t worry. My stomach has just been hurting a lot today. I think it might have been something that I ate.’
‘Hey! It’s nothing that you ate! We have all eaten the same things and Lucky and I are fine, isn’t it?’ shrieked Hanara, mortally offended.
‘I didn’t mean it like that. You know that I love your food, it’s just that my stomach’s not used to all that spice.’
Hanara grumbled loudly, but seemed to accept his reasoning without further complaint.
‘Are you sure you won’t come? Everybody will be so very disappointed not to see you,’ Lucky pleaded.
‘I don't think that I can sit through the prayers, Lucky. I’ve been in and out of the bathroom all day and – ’
‘Okay, okay,’ conceded Lucky, holding his hands up defensively to signal that he understood what Arun was hinting at, ‘you just stay here and rest.’
Hanara and Lucky washed and changed their clothes as usual, and only once Hanara was satisfied that there was nothing more that she could do to make Arun comfortable did the pair set off for the mandir. When the chugging of the rickshaw became a faint and distant sound, Arun eased himself from the nook that he had created amongst the cushions and set about freshening himself up for his visit. He combed his hair and washed his face, but opted to remain in the same clothes, not wanting to appear to have tried too hard. Satisfied that he looked the part, he stepped out into the yard and closed the door to the house softly behind him.
The air was still and the streets were dusty and quiet, save for the nightly chorus of crickets emanating from the surrounding fields. Arun knew vaguely how to reach the street that Chandni lived on and he was certain that he would recognise her house when he saw it, but he struggled to retrace the journey in the darkness, with even less light than usual. He walked slowly, but with purpose, tiny beads of perspiration gathering around his temples, on account of both the humidity and his growing nerves. His stomach began to tie itself in knots and when he finally turned the corner onto Chandni’s street, a flood of doubts filled his mind, causing him to question what he was about to do. He wrestled silently with his conscience, worried that Chandni might find it odd that he cared so much, but by the time her house came into view, he reasoned that it was too late to turn back.
He walked across the small yard and approached the house, where a soft halo of light surrounded the front door in the places that it didn’t quite fit its frame. He knocked twice and stood back to wait, the butterflies in the pit of his stomach now forcefully beating their wings. After a few minutes, when there was no answer, he stepped forward and knocked again a little louder, hoping that Chandni hadn’t gone to the mandir that evening after all. Again there was no response, but just when Arun was about to knock a third time, he heard the sound of footsteps approaching and the door was suddenly thrown open to reveal Chandni’s surprised face peering up at him. Arun’s heart stopped instantly; she was just as beautiful as he remembered.
