It was almost midnight. We were back at the RAK, in the new Intensive Care Unit. Amma's Duck Saab was here, airlifted from Delhi by Tawny uncle. He had just been telling me and Tawny uncle things that were making us feel like the victims of a particularly savage hit-and-run accident.
Amma was dying.
She'd known for a month.
Suddenly, the whole fried-paranthas-and-mixed-fruit-jam diet made total sense.
Life is sort, Sarojini.
She'd had a series of tests done because she hadn't been feeling too well and she had got the results just one day before Dwivedi's Pottygate photos popped up in the papers. But as soon as that happened, and she knew there was a chance of her getting the ticket, she decided to get me nominated instead. Duck Saab had told her clearly that she didn't have too much time, so she didn't want to risk being the candidate - if she died before the polling, the election would have to be cancelled. So she'd bullied Duck Saab into keeping his lip buttoned - he'd been sucking up to her to get his niece admission into the All India Institute of Medical Sciences and she said she'd do it only if he kept mum - so he hadn't said a word to anybody.
Thinking over it as I sipped my coffee, I realized she must have had to move fast to secure the 'succession.' She'd suggested my name to the AIPC, and the very next day, she'd come running to Mumbai to talk me into standing. She hadn't dared to break it to me too suddenly, worried I would start acting like Ma, harping on her corrupt ways and her morphed photo scandal and the filth and mess of politics, so she merely told me she wanted me to help with her campaigning. She must have been sure that once she got me to Delhi and presented me with a fait accompli, telling me that the TB had asked for me specially, I would capitulate. She must have put my name on the electoral rolls too, somehow. And when the IJP announced Zain's name and the TB decided he wanted a young candidate too, it was as though god himself was on her side. As though he was rooting for the Pandes.
'You should have informed me that she was sick,' Tawny uncle said as he rested one hand heavily on the shoulder of the hapless Duck Saab. 'You should have informed somebody. It was too bad of you!'
Duck Saab, a thin, hunted-looking man with an indecisive mouth, murmured that it hadn't been his place to say anything.
Tawny uncle glowered at him. 'You are responsible for her being in this situation.'
The man looked miserable. 'Yes, sir,' he said faintly.
I sighed.
'It's okay,' I told him. 'I'm sure you did your best. My grandmother can be a complete bully, I know.'
Tawny uncle didn't look too thrilled about my absolution of Duck Saab.
'It's all my fault,' he declared next, clearly in the mood to blame somebody. 'If my rally hadn't ended so late, TB could have driven to jiji's rally! Now, if she dies of disappointment, her blood will be on my hands.'
'Oh, for heaven's sake, Tawny uncle,' I snapped. 'Stop being so bloody melodramatic!'
His eyes blazed out under moustaches No. 2 and 3, and for a moment I thought he was going to yell right back at me. But then he just shook his head, patted my back gently, and walked away.
Gudia aunty looked even more devastated than Tawny uncle. I'd expected her to beat her chest and make a big show of grief, or to rail dramatically at Amma for keeping this big secret from her, but she just sat there, silent and still, tears flowing down her cheeks in a constant stream, only her fingers moving as she dialled Ma's number in Canada again and again.
'If only I had known,' she kept murmuring manically. 'If only I had known!'
There was no response, though. Ma's phone was switched off.
I sipped my coffee and looked through the glass walls, at the scene outside. The crack team plus over three hundred Pragati Party workers were milling around inside the gates, like a subdued, murmuring hurricane. They looked stricken, in shock, a lot of them were praying - counting beads, kneeling on prayer mats, standing with folded hands. A long line of TV channel vans were parked in the driveway, and their anchors were standing near the hospital entrance, gesticulating dramatically into their cameras.
I frowned.
'Munni, the workers and those TV channel vans are blocking the drive. Make them move. People won't be able to get into the hospital - Amma isn't the only patient here, you know.'
She nodded. 'Yes, didi,' she said, laying a hand briefly on my shoulder. Then she raised her chin and stomped away, yelling bossily, 'Yeh drive clear karo! Drive clear karo! Hospital ko Numaish ka mela bana rakha hai! Move, people, move!'
Gudia aunty looked up from her non-stop dialling and said gently, 'Jinni, why don't you try and sleep for a while?'
'I'll sleep when we get through to Ma,' I told her fretfully. 'I don't get it, she never switches her phone off. And I've no landline number for her. Just the two cell-phones. Do you think I should send her an email?'
'Great idea,' she said encouragingly. 'Jyoti's always online, no? I'm sure these people have internet here. This place looks very high-tech.'
I rushed off to the nurse's room, intent on getting my hands on a computer. I just knew everything would be fine once I got hold of Ma. She always managed to pull Amma together. She'd done it the last time, after the morphed photos affair. She would come down here, we would have a long crib session about how badly Amma had behaved, slyly hiding her illness from us, and then Ma would bully, cajole and nurse Amma back into the pink of health, never mind Duck Saab's gloomy prognosis. Everything would be fine.
The guy at the reception desk directed me to an office upstairs and I hurried towards it. As I was crossing the corridor, I heard a voice, Our Pappu's voice, speaking in a hoarse whisper.
'If jiji dies now we will hundred per cent win on a sympathy vote.'
I felt like somebody had slapped me hard across the face.
Rocket Singh's dour voice replied, 'But if jiji dies won't they call off the election?'
'No, no,' Our Pappu's voice said excitedly. Then there was a pause and a slight puffing sound. The two of them had stepped out for a ciggy break. Then Our Pappu's voice continued. 'Because jiji is not really the candidate - didi is the candidate! EC rules only call off the election if a candidate dies! It's brilliant! It is a lottery! We will get the sympathy benefits of a candidate's death without the candidate dying!'
Rocket Singh, voice heavy with emotion, said, 'Yes, but it is still very sad...'
Our Pappu's voice grew lugubrious instantly. 'I know,' he replied.
Two long drawn-out, gusty sighs.
Then Rocket Singh asked, somewhat wistfully, 'Do you think the sympathy wave will stay till the assembly elections? And help us win that too?'
'I'm not sure,' Our Pappu's voice said somewhat flatly. 'Effect may not last that long. But we should definitely increase the size of jiji's pictures on the posters. And add a thick golden halo...'
His voice seemed to be coming from farther off, they must have stubbed out their cigarettes and walked away. Giving myself a little shake, I started walking again.
Then Gudia aunty hurried up to me. 'Jiiini, what took you so long?' she demanded. 'Madam wants to see you. Go in and talk to her. No, wait, you need to wear these sanitized bags over your shoes...'
***
Amma?'
'Hmmm?' She twitched slightly, then opened her eyes. There were huge shadows, purple as jamuns, under them. She looked a little strange, unfamiliar somehow, probably because they'd removed the gold naakphool from her nose. She was propped up against the pillows, and there was a pipe going up into her nose. She was wearing a long, loose white hospital nightgown that was tied up with a string to one side of her chest and there was a green surgical cap on her head.
'We look like khwaja mere khwaja!' she said resignedly, waving the loose, flapping sleeves of her white nightgown around. 'Like a Turkis dervis. Why are we in this stupid Mohammedan hospital? How could you do this to us, Sarojini?'
'It's a standard hospital gown,' I told her, as I sank down on the bed next to her. 'And anyway, how could you do t
his to me? Why didn't you tell me you weren't well?'
There was a long pause, broken only by the steady beep beeping of the vital signs monitor hooked up to her left index finger.
'We are fine,' she murmured finally, reaching out to hold my hand, but not quite looking me in the eye.
I stroked her silver hair gently. 'You should've been getting treatment in AIIMS,' I said reproachfully. 'Not bullying poor Duck Saab into giving you a clean bill of health so you could eat like a pig and gad about bloody Bittora in the heat!'
She winced. 'But we wanted to settle you properly,' she said, 'then we could relax and feel that chalo, our duty is done.'
I gave an incredulous, tearful laugh. 'Then you should've just found me a boy, Amma,' I said. 'That's what settling a girl usually means.'
Amma snorted. Weakly, but it was unmistakably a snort. 'What are boys?' she said dismissively. 'You will get many many boys! Just grow out your hair, that is all. We wanted to settle your career.'
'Well, you've settled it all right,' I said, as cheerfully as I could. 'We're going to win this election for sure.'
This drew a faint twinkle and a reluctant half-smile, but then she was wracked by a sudden bout of coughing. Her shoulders shook, her eyes watered. I realized again, painfully, how frail she was.
'Don't bullsit us!' she managed to gasp out finally.
'Okay, okay,' I said, then added, lying glibly, 'Hey, Ma will be here any time now. That's nice to know, isn't it?'
'Yes,' she sighed, patting my hand and then resting hers over mine. 'It will be good to see her before we d--'
'Before you sleep?' I broke in with a little laugh.
She snorted again. 'Before we die,' she said firmly. She felt around under her pillow for her prayer beads, fingered them meditatively for a while and then said suddenly, 'I wonder what He will have to say to us when we meet Him?'
'Who?' I asked, bewildered. 'Bhagwanji? God?'
One more snort. A tiny one. 'No, you foolis,' she said mildly, 'your grandfather. Hamare hujbend. Panditji Madan Mohan Pande.'
'He will say,' I said gently, 'that you are one sassy, kickass babe and he's very proud of you.'
She gave a rather tremulous laugh. 'Aisa?' she said. Then she sighed. 'We tried to do our best, Sarojini. We struggled. One-two things we have done we are asamed of, rest everything, we can hold our head high.'
'You did good,' I told her earnestly.
She said, 'If you get confused about anything, read your Bauji's diaries. Your mother always does.'
'Okay, okay,' I told her, 'now rest, Amma.'
'He left them to her,' she added, somewhat irately. 'Not to us.'
She closed her eyes and started to lie back against the pillow but then, abruptly, she snapped them open and smiled. 'You are going to win now, you know,' she said, her voice suddenly, vibrantly, powerfully alive. 'We have settled it, hundred per cent.'
'I know, Amma,' I said, blinking back tears. 'Thank you. Rest now.'
She nodded, closed her eyes and sank back into her pillow.
I sat there, holding her hand, looking down at her, so tiny in the huge hospital bed. Her chest was barely rising and falling. Her eyelids were as thin and veined and translucent as new leaves uncurling.
Then abruptly, they flicked open again. She tried to sit up. Her lips twitched. Her small gnarled hand clutched mine compulsively, her eyes locked into mine, urgently appealing.
'Don't...' she gasped. 'Don't let...'
I bent down, hugging her frail shoulders. 'Don't what, Amma?' I asked, fighting back tears, my voice breaking.
'Don't let that fat Katrina play us in the movie,' she said.
Then she dropped back against the pillow and very quietly, so quietly that I didn't realize at first that it had happened, she died.
***
By noon the next day, the Begumbagh mandir community hall, scene of my 'test-by-fire', was chock-full of crowds shuffling past in darshan, as Amma lay in state, while they chanted:
Till the sun and moon remain
Pushpa we will say your name.
I'd spent the morning getting her ready. Joline Bai and Gudia aunty and me. We'd laid her out on the floor of her room on white bedsheets, and sponged her down, using all her Sha-this and Sha-that products. I'd always thought this ritual extremely barbaric, but doing it had actually felt deeply satisfying.
I combed out her silvery hair, braided it into a single long plait and laid it along her left shoulder, so her head could rest easy. I screwed in her dainty gold naakphool and her heavy earring tops. I sprinkled her with Anais Anais, her favourite perfume, and then, as she lay there, regally swathed in a kora, never-before-worn-or-washed purple Benarasi sari, I got Munni and Joline Bai to carry in the one lakh rupee, forty-three kilo, desi gulab and jasmine garland that we'd ordered for the no-show TB and lay it around Amma's frail form.
It suited her tremendously. She looked like a queen, smiling peacefully, like she was having pleasant dreams of me kicking major IJP butt.
I sat on a cotton dhurrie, dressed in a white sari, with a silently weeping Gudia aunty by my side. The musty dhurrie, with its inevitable pattern of intertwining bright cotton threads in every colour imaginable, whirled and swam before my eyes. The weather was almost unbearably oppressive and the constant clicking of newspaper cameras didn't help.
People walked up to me, endless lines of people, all muttering vaguely consoling things. The women bent down and kind of hugged my head silently. Some kissed my forehead or held my hand. I got a peep into about a thousand cleavages. Withered old ones, massive matronly ones, perky young ones, you name it. I sat stoically, numb, cauterized, like somebody playing a part, and mechanically whispered thank you after every encounter.
I could sense a mutedly jubilant mood emanating from the crack team, and everything inside me recoiled against it. To my newly cynical eyes, every mourner, every single one of them, was insincere. None of them had loved Amma, none of them meant what he said. They were happy Amma was dead, that she had died when she did, with such impeccable, obliging timing, so they could win the election.
Our Pappu, who kept rushing up to ask if I wanted coffee or juice: Fraud.
Rocket Singh: Ditto.
Munni, tears leaking uncontrollably from her eyes, her face a red, blotchy mess: Hypocrite.
Jugatram, stoic, soldier-like, with ravaged eyes: Oscar winner.
Gudia aunty, all fights forgotten, asking me with gentle concern if I wanted to pee: Sycophant.
Tawny uncle, harassed, hovering protectively over me: Fake.
I hate all of them, I thought bitterly. I have no friends here. None.
'Jinni?'
I looked around and saw Nulwallah. He'd tied his wild hair into a ponytail and was wearing white. There was a mournful expression on his long face, probably the kind he thought suitable for meeting bereaved people, I thought with a twinge of irritation.
'No interviews,' I said, without looking at him. He nodded vigorously several times.
'Of course! Of course!' he said, looking all sensitive. 'I wouldn't intrude at a time like this!'
Then he glanced around and added, his voice oddly gentle, 'Listen, I know it's none of my business, but where's your family? I mean, was it just you and your grandmother against the bad old world or what?'
'My mother lives in Canada,' I informed him tightly.
He nodded sympathetically. 'Well, if there's anything I can do, just holler, okay?' he said, reaching out, grabbing my shoulder and squeezing it firmly.
'Okay,' I said.
He stood there looking at me uncertainly for a bit, like he was thinking about maybe lunging down and attempting to hug me, but then he ducked his head and walked away to where Amma lay in state.
I continued sitting there, watching everybody pay their respects, my mind a chaotic, angst-filled mess. Incense burned, the smoke rose straight up into the air in the stillness of the muggy afternoon. A sombre attendant dressed in white wheeled an ancient gent on a
wheelchair around the pedestal where Amma lay. The old man was hunched low in his chair, drooling slightly, clutching a rose garland in claw-like fingers. His attendant parked the chair and tried to take the garland from him to lay it on Amma's body, but the old gent shook his head firmly. He leaned forward, hands shaking, lips tight in concentration, and sort of threw his garland at her. It landed more or less around her neck and he gave a satisfied grunt. Then he looked around the square triumphantly, almost like he expected an applause, like he'd won first prize at the hoopla stall at the Numaish ka mela or something.
And then, suddenly, Our Pappu gave a loud, involuntary squawk. An electric current seemed to pass right through his body. He sat up very straight and hissed at me in an urgent, excited whisper, 'Didi, didi, Top Brass is here!'
I looked up and saw that Top Brass, obviously recognizing campaigning manna from heaven when he saw it, had rolled in to offer his condolences, dressed in white.
Gudia aunty snapped, 'Theek hai, Pappu, she's not going to get up and receive him, you know, she's in mourning. Take TB to do darshan of madam first!'
Our Pappu nodded and hurried away, his white kurta crackling with starch. Should've brought your shiny little digital camera today, baby! I thought sourly, as I shredded little cotton threads from the dhurrie before me.
Rocket Singh cleared his throat and said, 'Didi, TB is here, I think so we should do the cremation now'
I didn't reply.
I knew what was on his mind. On all their minds. They were thinking that if the funeral took place now, the pictures in tomorrow's papers would be fantastic. Flames burning in the background. The nation's most charismatic leader in the foreground, his expression sombre, perhaps with one avuncular arm around me. The kind of images money couldn't buy. The kind of images that would send voters out to the hustings in droves to put their finger on the pointing finger. Well, I wasn't in the mood to oblige them.
Meanwhile, TB had finished his reverent little perambulation around Amma and was now headed towards me. Years of Praggu indoctrination made me rise to my feet involuntarily. He came up, grasped both my hands and murmured some meaningless platitudes, which I answered with a polite thank you. Then he started holding forth about Amma and Bauji, and what stalwarts they had both been, but I wasn't really listening. As far as I was concerned, he'd showed how much he cared for Amma by not showing up yesterday.
Battle for Bittora Page 29
