Looking at this frenzy of life, I wished I could tell all these people what I had learned at Dr. Doongaji’s. I wished I could repeat the wisdom of the price of progress need not be death. I wished I could say this in as many words—in Hindi, Gujarati, Marathi, Tamil, and all the languages of India. I wished I could put this on posters, banners, and billboards, across bridges, across highways, and of course at Mantralaya, where our leaders, our kurta-clad politicians, sway the people for their votes. But for their lives? No, never.
Until that happens, until a dream of such waking proportions is possible, I thought I would search for some recognition in Dr. Sayoni’s eyes. I would save lives, collectively, individually, as if my own life depended on that. And I would sing along with her, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, sing spiritedly, heartily, from some place deep down in my gut, from where I would try to match her enthusiasm, her conviction, her flow of beauty and sacrifice. I would sing at the police station, in colleges, in maidans, in places of high-exposure risk, where fools, as they say, fear to tread. And under my breath, I might change the words to sound like this: “O Condom Man, give me your hand, for I am the one who understands.” And I hoped that she would understand, too. She would find the pitch I was trying to reach.
Having come to the conclusion that Dr. Sayoni was more on my mind than the woman with AIDS, I tapped the cabbie on the shoulder and instructed him to take a right to Lamington Road, to the police station, where my Condom Man fought charges of indecency. And while the cabbie grunted and protested, asking why I couldn’t make up my mind from the beginning where I wanted to go, I chose to observe an expression of tight-lipped, well-guarded silence. For how to explain to him—a man who toiled under the scorching sun, shifting gears and switching lanes a hundred times a day—that I myself had no clue to my own journey or my destination, that I was just one of those for whom the call of love had triumphed over the drone of death—one being the assertion of life; the other, its prompt denial.
BABU BARRAH TAKKA
♦ ♦ ♦
GOING BY APPEARANCES, Madhulikar Srini was taking a tea break over an afternoon newspaper. His office wore the usual signs of a public sector undertaking: pale, gray blinds shutting out the light; a large, rickety steel desk with an off-white Formica top; an old desktop computer covered with a plastic jacket, tucked away in a corner; a calendar hanging off the wall, the year’s theme being unity in diversity, expressed by birds and bees flitting over a field of sunflowers whose petals were upturned in an eager pollinating smile; at the side, a Godrej cupboard, a last man standing, in steel, memories of a day and age when steel was not yet deemed a designer metal. A tall floor fan threw a concentrated breeze in Madhulikar’s direction; it formed a wrinkled coating over his tea. On a chipped plate, next to the teacup, were two plump vadas, around them a moat of thick orange sauce meant to pass as ketchup. The vadas had gone soggy from being soaked too long in the sauce. All the items on the table were lying untouched, and this spoke of Madhulikar’s state of mind, which was disturbed, terribly, terribly disturbed.
Strange it was that Madhulikar should be like that, for at the place where he worked—the National Petroleum Resource Corporation—few employees could be found dispirited. Most of them enjoyed their work for the reason that there was very little work; they could leave at 6:00 P.M. sharp. You should see them scurrying home, shuffling into the ample bus designated to reach them to the railway station, their faces bright and beaming, their jokes friendly and prodding, their twos and threes decided as schoolchildren might: “Ithe Sonwalkar, ithe. We got much to talk about.”
Yet Madhulikar was disturbed. The newspaper was frozen between his fingers. Its front page was unturned; its edges flapped noisily under the fan. Madhulikar tightened his grip and stared remotely at the news. The murder of a social activist, the arrest of an income tax commissioner who was found to have assets worth rupees thirty crores, and the entry of an underworld goon, Varun Paoli, into politics—these seemed like trivial happenings compared to his own problems. He read without the usual relish.
Like all problems in their state of incipience Madhulikar’s problems appeared insurmountable. They occupied him, distracted him, bore down on him, and left him feeling crushed.
It had started with Disha, his elder daughter, wanting to marry a boy she had chosen. The two had met at management school. For twenty months nothing had happened. Just group outings, laughter, a common sympathy for the environment, and a certain fondness for the Mumbai Film Festival, for which they had cut lectures together. Then, during the last seminar, having muddled heads over a project that required marketing the state of Maharashtra to non-resident Indians, they had fallen in love. In between coffee breaks, burgeoning data, and PowerPoint slides, they felt something confusing and real. They emerged dazed from this revelation. Wonderful thing, love! It made you feel foolish and inspired in the same breath. At times, they worried, too: would this wave of emotion dislodge them from their careers, which were important to them? But as they shared views and drew closer, they realized their love could lead to a mutual striving; they could build something strong together. Their dreams took on a new meaning. Their resolution showed on their faces and in their smiles. Madhulikar saw this and his heart opened up. By God, all he wanted was for his daughter to be happy.
Where was the problem then? Nothing really, nothing initially! The boy’s side met the girl’s; they enjoyed an evening of laughter and snacks. The boy’s father was short, fidgety, and laughed a lot. “Ha, ha,” he went like Santa Claus, dangling his stubby legs from the sofa. The boy’s mother smiled with her cheeks and facial muscles. With her eyes, which were small and riveting, she ripped loads of information from the girl’s family—from their gestures, manners, clothes, conversation, all that slipped casually and unconsciously in the course of an evening. The boy was to study in the United States. Twenty-five lakh rupees were being spent in a nudge, which could have been averted by opting for a not-so-expensive university. “But then, what is money when it comes to a child’s future? Don’t you agree, sahib?” the boy’s father had said, leaning over and extending a tray of sweetmeats to Madhulikar. “Of course, of course,” Madhulikar had said hurriedly, helping himself to a piece of mithai. When he bit into it, he found it wasn’t as sweet as it looked; it was sticky and difficult to chew, a nuisance, in fact, to his public composure.
The first few weeks went by in meeting relatives from the boy’s side. Aunts, uncles, cousins, elder cousins, elder aunts, elder uncles, oldest living aunt, oldest living uncle: they were all eager to see the girl. So lunches and dinners were organized. Hearty introductions took place. The girl was adorned at the door, her feet rather—with long grains of rice and vermilion. When they did that, she blushed and her cheeks mirrored the glow in her heart. Inside homes, on large, copious sofas, family roots were dug out and discussed; connections were traced and established. The state of the country, too, was discussed: the upswing in the stock market, the real estate boom, the foreign investment pouring in. Madhulikar’s job was envied. How lucky to be working for the government; the government looks after its own. He smiled, wondering whether there was an insinuation of lethargy, of corruption and decadence. Either way, they’d be right.
Jokes were bandied about how in the old days wives were chosen by the boy’s parents and no one questioned or challenged the logic. Some grooms—now uncles, gray and potbellied—had gone in blindfolded, without even seeing the girl or her picture, and they’d done well, from the looks of it. A smart-aleck uncle cleared his throat and asked Disha if she could trust her man to the US of A—to its blue-eyed, white-skinned femmes fatales? She laughed. “Where will he get the time for mischief, Uncle? He will be busy working overtime. He has to save, to bring me over.”
The boy’s mother stiffened. The girl was impractical. Where would Jai have time to work? They weren’t spending twenty-five lakh rupees so that he could work in some lowly cafeteria or in some gloomy library. She put on her most charming s
mile and said, “Beti, why not stay with us—here in India? Let us be parents to you, while Jai is away. Give us the opportunity to look after you. What do you say, bhai sahib?” she asked sweetly, turning to Madhulikar.
“Of course . . . of course,” he replied softly, sadly. He realized Disha’s absence was imminent. In India, a bride’s place was with her in-laws, and he didn’t have the money to send her overseas.
Late that night, when her mother was putting away the dinner leftovers in the refrigerator and her sister was plodding at her homework, Disha said to Madhulikar, pouting, “I don’t want to stay with them, Papa. I want to be with Jai. During my best years of marriage, I don’t want to be away.”
“I know, love,” Madhulikar had said, noting her expression and thinking, God, he’d miss her. “But your presence will distract him, and besides, it’s only for two years. He will be back soon, and then you can be together for a lifetime!”
“But don’t you see?” she said, sitting up, looking at him like he were the only man in the world who’d understand, who’d do something to change her situation. “I don’t want Jai coming back to his parents. Their wealth will spoil him. I want him to have his own life, his own money, his own future. Our life, our money, our future.”
Madhulikar sighed. What do you do when your offspring sounds exactly like you? When she echoes that strain of gene you’ve passed on to her. And you know it’s being played right back at you. Hugging helps, or so he believed. He did just that. Without saying a word, he held her tight.
From that day on, the boy’s parents took to looking after Disha the way they said they would. “We must shop for our daughter soon. Nothing less than a Paithani sari, mind you. And jewelry from Khubchand Amirchand, head to toe, so all can see. One set for the engagement, and one set for the wedding, and one set for later, when she attends important functions with us. And one set for Kahini. Who knows? She might find a nice boy at the wedding. Yes, such things happen,” the boy’s father would say, looking at his wife, who would add with a smile, “And why only for the girls? One set for bhabhiji and something for bhaiyya. And anyone else in your family, near or distant, who needs to be pleased, just let us know.” “Yes, sir! Just don’t hesitate,” the boy’s father would say, beaming. Then he’d break into that loud, uproarious laugh of his.
Madhulikar had blushed and protested. He said all this expense wasn’t necessary; they were getting a gem of a boy; what more could they want?
“Arrey, what are you saying, sahib?” the boy’s father would retort. “Give us a chance to show our feelings. She is our daughter now, and you are our family.”
“Of course, sir, but you needn’t be so generous,” Madhulikar would say.
To which the boy’s father would reply, “What is money, sir, I ask you, in front of children’s happiness?”
“What is money? What is money?” Madhulikar saw the full face of it over the next few weeks. He saw a fortune being spent on astrologers, one lot from the north, one from the south. The pundits pondered over their charts, discussed, debated, and finally agreed that the sixth of December (three months from then) would be the ideal date, so auspicious a day that even the Gods would attend. The boy’s father glowed. “Worth it, no?” he asked Madhulikar. “Calling these men of God. They know how to make a marriage work.”
Priests were appointed. They would arrive shaven headed and bare chested, in cloudy white dhotis, looking aloof and sanitized. Naturally, such purity would come at a price. And since money was never discussed in matters of the heart, it was invited in the form of a donation to the temple. On this arrangement even the Gods would smile; they’d confer their blessings on the young couple. And, for a more temporal angle, there was tax relief under Section 80CC of the Income tax Act: 100 percent exemption for such donations.
Madhulikar brooded over the amount to the priests: twenty-five thousand rupees, payable in advance, cancellation not allowed. Later, there’d be plane tickets for them, their accommodation, their food, car hire, special clothes, special footwear, shawls, chappals, visits to other temples, and daan, which was charity in armfuls, not alms, like in the old days. “Of course, we will share everything,” the boy’s father had said. “Right now I will pay through my company, and later, we can do the accounts. So I am going ahead, huh, and no compromises on the ceremonies, on their new life about to begin?”
“Yes, please,” said Mrs. Srini, Madhulikar’s wife. She didn’t see the look her husband gave her. Or perhaps she chose to ignore it.
When it came to choosing the venue, the boy’s father suggested they book two gymkhanas, side by side. “In business, one has so many obligations, so many commitments, that leave out one person and you never know when you will need him.”
Madhulikar wondered what this was going to cost him, whether he’d be expected to pay half the amount for the boy’s guests as well. His own guests wouldn’t be that many: no more than two hundred or so—so why should he foot the bill for this man’s extravagances? On second thought, might it not look cheap if he refused? Might it not be an admission of inadequacy, of small-mindedness? All these thoughts assailed him. He carried them to work. And back again.
Planning the mandap, the backdrop, was another event. Sitting with the boy’s family in their Nepean Sea Road flat, sitting on the terrace, facing the sea, sipping chai and chewing on chutney sandwiches, they flipped through a book of designs. The mandapwalla sat on the floor, on his haunches, rubbing his knees. They glanced through the designs, ranging from floral and geometric to graphic and symbolic. They lingered over some of the designs and flipped through others cursorily. They stopped at a design of Rama and Sita in exile, exulting in each other’s love. The God and Goddess looked wide-eyed and radiant, joyous and inspiring. The mandapwalla had to stop himself from whistling out with excitement. “This will look beautiful, sahib,” he said, “but so much time and labor will go into it that I will have to hire four men to work full-time.”
Anxiously Madhulikar spoke. “Yes, but do we really need this? Seems such an extravagance, don’t you think?”
The boy’s parents exchanged looks. The father said curtly, “Ha, sahib, it might be expensive, but it’s like having a murti at the wedding. It’s out of respect—for the Gods.”
“Besides,” said the boy’s mother, drawing herself up. “It will be inspiring for the priests. They will be reminded to chant their best. And if there’s a problem, we can . . .” Her voice tapered off. She looked at her husband, who said yes, they could spend if money was an issue.
Madhulikar blushed. “Nothing like that, sir. I just thought . . .”
“Arrey, sir, don’t think. I always say, at a time like this, we parents must give up thinking. Money goes like water. But what to do? All our life we have done so much for the children, and then, to hold back at the last minute . . . let no parent be guilty of this.”
Madhulikar murmured that he felt the same way, but to his own ears his voice sounded hollow and insincere. He felt a kind of a dread, as if, through some act of betrayal, he had let himself down.
The boy’s father began to speak of the in-laws of his elder son, Jai’s brother, who had married and left for the United States the previous year. “I tell you, sir, what a heart that family has. Forty lakh rupees they put down without a thought. Even the couple’s air tickets they bought, right down to the airport transfers!” His voice dropped. “They even did a havala transfer. Moved rupees into dollars, all hush-hush and illegal, and used that money to set up the couple. At first, they were nervous. Not used to it, you see. But I told them how in business we do it all the time. We know all the tricks. In fact, I got it done for them—through my contact, Mussabhai. And now the couple is so happy, they can see it was worth it. First, even I used to wonder: why are they spending so much money? But then I realized this is not money we are giving; these are blessings. How to deny that to our children? How to steel our hearts?”
I must be a fool, fool, fool, Madhulikar thought that night. He w
as sitting on the living room floor, surrounded by a bunch of fixed deposits and share certificates. Next to him were two dusty box files with their clips open. In front was a pad with calculations: with columns, scratches, and revisions. Some of the share certificates were old and discolored; they were cracking in places where they’d been folded, and the staple pins on them bled rust.
He glanced at the sum on the pad. Had he missed anything: an extra zero, a carry-over digit? It could make all the difference. But, no, this was the truth. After thirty-four years of service, the sum of his savings was eleven lakh, eighty thousand rupees. That would be how much he’d get if he were to liquidate everything.
He glanced at a paper lying next to him, sticking out from under the pad. It was a longer list, with longer figures and more zeroes. His tab for the wedding came to sixteen lakh rupees. That would include the costs for the ceremony, the priests, the venue, the mandap, the food, the flower decoration, the lights, the tables, the chairs, the carpets, the music, and the buses—strictly air-conditioned, he had been told. Roughly, it would also take care of the outstation guests. “You will like our people from Jaipur,” the boy’s father had said. “They are like Rajputs in matters of enjoyment. You do this much for them,” he said, showing a pinch, “and they will do that much in return.” And he had thrown open his arms wide and smiled a lush, broad smile.
Breathless in Bombay Page 28
