by Anil Menon
More loud hoarse laughter from the sage.
‘B-r-i-e-s-t. Effi Briest is the name of a nineteenth-century German novel. I am reading a good translation. I have a spare copy, I’ll lend it to you.’
‘Durga, I am a writer. I have explained to you we don’t read. Who is Effi Briest? I’m intrigued.’
She’d moved her pallu to the side, pulled up her blouse, released a breast.
‘Mir, Effi’s the woman we need. Effi is a pretty, fun-loving girl, married, as they tend to be, to a stern, principled and much older man. He’s a Baron, Baron Geert von Innstetten. She is only sixteen. A year and a child later, Effi finds herself bored and in need of some attention. This arrives in the form of Major Crampas, a rapscallion, but attractive to Effi on account of his attraction for her. The two have a brief but intimate affair. The affair comes to an end when Effi and her husband move to Berlin. In fact, the adultery makes Effi a better and contented wife. Six happy years pass but then one day the Baron discovers a few of the Major’s love letters and realizes his wife is an adulteress.’
‘That brings us to the interval,’ said Mir, cracking his fingers. ‘Saki, something soothing to drink?’
How about some soothing breastmilk?
‘The Baron thinks he loves his wife,’ continued Durga, ‘and he understands why she’d strayed. He is aware Effi has been an exemplary wife and mother for the last six years. He knows they now have a good marriage. He is not unduly worried about what society might say, and harbours no jealousy towards Crampas; indeed, he feels nothing but contempt for Crampas. So what does the Baron do?’
‘He kills Crampas in a duel and forgives his wife?’ said Mir Alam Mir, after he’d tilted his head and considered.
‘Yes and no. He indeed challenges Crampas to a duel, kills him. But he also divorces Effi, turns their only daughter against her, never sees his wife again, and does his best to ensure that she suffers at society’s hands.’
‘Justification?’
‘What if every husband were as forgiving? What would happen to society? As a man of principle, he cannot just look to his own situation. There is the social impact to consider. If you don’t pick up a piece of paper on the road, fine, no big deal. But what if everyone were to behave the same way? If everything depended on the context, then why bother having rules at all? Just make it up as you go along. A rule is meant to make context unnecessary. So he reasons. The Baron is a man of iron principle. It wasn’t a compromise he could make. However, Effi could; she forgave him, pitied him.’
Stupid cow.
‘Wah! But then, what else can we do with Gods? Forgive Him, pity Him. Brave Effi, noble Effi. Why does this story feel like a familiar stranger to me, Durga? I have this sense of jamais vu. Is there a Hindu epic—’
‘You’re thinking of the Ramayana. The same triangle but a complete dual. Prince Rama is the exact opposite of the Baron. Sita is kidnapped, not seduced. Ravan is not insignificant. The Prince fights for his beloved, not for honour. He fights for her, rescues her, brings her home.’
‘Yes, yes. How could I have forgotten Sita and Surpanakha? The Prince chooses love at every fork. So why did the story fail? Why did I not remember it? Why does no one remember it?’
‘Perhaps because a moral tale must not leave morality unquestioned,’ declared Durga. ‘I envy your gender, Mir Alam Mir.’
‘Why so?’
‘I understand Effi but—’
‘You cannot be her. Yes. I am Effi Briest.’ Mir’s eyes were wet. ‘Let us do it, Durga. An Indian Effi Briest. Let us tell the Ramayana as it should have been told. But not another tedious retelling. It must feel like a remembered dream. Surpanakha might reappear in our telling as a crumpled bedsheet or the streak of vermillion in the chaste parting of a wife’s hair. Rama’s original smile may reappear in ours as the collapsed arch of a ruined temple. Everything is mixed, everything is mashed. I can see you as the Prince, yes I can. Or should I say the Baron?’
She’d tucked her breast back into its silken enclosure. It was hopeless. ‘I’m always game for foolhardiness—Oh no!’ Durga jumped to his feet with unexpected vigour. ‘Mir, my talk at Mandi House! Come, come, we must leave immediately.’
They had left as abruptly as they’d arrived. On the way out, Mir had turned and asked.
‘Saki, if we make this movie, I’m assuming of course, we can count on you?’
‘Absolutely not.’
Two friends had arrived, two friends had left. It had been over a decade ago, but it was yesterday. She was getting old. She was just thirty-two and she already felt ancient. She had lived too many lives. She studied the poet and fought the urge to give him a resounding slap.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Mir snarfed down a spoonful of the khatta-meetha mix Saroj had brought with the chai.
‘All the different ways in which you’ve killed me. I have been poisoned, drowned, dropped to my death, strangled, buried alive. All that remains is to set me on fire.’
‘I must kill you in order to say we may choose love. A writer has two kinds of paper: necessity and choice. And two colours of ink: love and death. There are only four stories in all the world, Saki. What do we do about Love Ka Logic? Somehow we have to get the no-objection certificate. The movie will restart your career.’
‘I suppose getting the certificate is my problem now? Why do you always bring me turds wrapped in rose petals? Do you think I have no problems of my own? Whether it will be a problem for you, I am not sure. Your busy mind seems to have many other busy things to be busy about. General Victor Dorabjee is getting tiresomely infatuated. That is a problem. I have to be in Delhi at least for the next two months; the location shoot for Chola was mysteriously changed from Ooty to Delhi. That is a problem. Broker Bhai was also moved to Delhi. That is another problem. I bet Love Ka Logic will also be shot in Delhi. You see my problem? Soon I shall have to find a lover who has the balls to stand up to the General.’
The only way for her to regret words that had already done their damage was not to show regret at all. She had wanted to wound him for having wounded her—‘restart your career’, just remembering his cavalier dismissal enraged her all over again. Chalo, at least she could still feel things.
Then she noticed his tiredness, the bags under his eyes. The idiot would now spend the whole night poisoning himself with sorrow. She should have been more careful. He couldn’t handle too much responsibility. There was no point in tormenting him with problems he couldn’t resolve. It was no accident the project had stalled. The cunning Director of Cultural Affairs was just Dorabjee’s puppet.
‘What do we do?’ Mir’s voice had lost what little timbre it had. It was that of a little boy who’d just realized he had lost sight of his parents. ‘Saki, what do we do?’
‘Come,’ she said tenderly, and drew him close. ‘We talk too much and don’t hold enough.’
He buried his face in her lap and she sighed with pleasure as his nose drew deep comfort from her agar-scented thighs. It was all so very simple, in the end. Enough with this reading and writing. Just stay here, between my thighs! When he emerged from her sanctuary, the sparkling flecks of glitter clinging to his skin turned him into a creature of fantasy, a child of her womb. She felt her heart would burst.
He got to his feet. ‘I’d better go.’
‘Sit, sit. You come, you go. What is the hurry?’ She was troubled, as if the conversation hadn’t come to its natural end. It felt vaguely inauspicious. He wanted something more, she was sure of it. Hence all this uncomfortable twitching. She wasn’t surprised. Mir had had a difficult childhood. Children unsure of their breastmilk could never take favours for granted. She understood that uncertainty first-hand. She leaned forward, pulled him back by his sleeve.
‘I have to prepare some nice things to say about Rai and his execrable book.’ But Mir sat down. ‘What a topsy-turvy world we live in. A hack like Rai rises while a genius such as Durga will soon be forgotten.’
‘The differenc
e is that Rai cares what the world thinks of him, Durga never did. There is a price to be paid for indifference.’
He gave her an admiring look. ‘How true. Consider that line stolen.’
She laughed. ‘By all means. I know you’re busy worrying about other people’s books, but what about you? Are you making progress?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Yes, but that is why a judgment is necessary.’
‘Oh, you’re on fire today.’ Out came the notepad. Out came the ball pen. Scribble, scribble. ‘Am I making progress? If I’ve been cured of an illness that gave me a great deal of pleasure, is that good news or bad news? Recently, I erased all my files.’
‘They should ban computer crashes,’ exclaimed Saya. ‘But you have a backup? Quickly, tell me. Tell me you have a copy. I told you to stick with the typewriter.’
‘There was no computer crash or any such thing. Some days ago, I met Durga’s last student at a party. A Madrasi. Lovely human being. She gave me some audio recordings of Durga. His secretary Shabari had made the recordings. It appears Durga spent an hour each evening for some three weeks narrating a story for Shabari’s son’s benefit. I listened to the recordings. Then I erased my novel.
‘Saki, Durga had achieved the love story I’d been trying to write; the story I thought I was writing. It’s the Ramayana that should have graced this world. It’s the best kind of story: a womb for other stories. When I listened to Durga’s story, I recognized I wasn’t writing the story I’d wanted to write. Fortunately, it wasn’t necessary any more and I was liberated from my task.
‘Initially I was surprised Durga had thought this mature story suitable for children. But it is. If a tyrant were to permit but one story to be told to children, this is the one I would pick. But only if it’s told orally, no other way.
‘I was using the wrong form. Every story has a life force and the force informs the form. The true form for this story is oral, not the novel or the essay or film or theatre. It can be told in all these ways but this story becomes beautiful when it is heard.’
‘In short, your work is stalled, is that what you’re telling me?’ she asked, fidgeting with the zari threadwork on her choli.
‘Yes.’
Saya sighed, glanced at the clock. ‘I know the ending to this story. You are doubting the very need for your existence as a storyteller. Am I right?’
‘What do you think?’
‘That I love a fool.’
He took her hands, kissed their fingertips, held them to his eyes. ‘You mustn’t think I’m unhappy.’
As always, she was sorry to see him leave. Time spent with him was never enough. She wanted to keep him for a little longer, shout some sense into him. Every time she met him, Mir had a new excuse, some new doubt about his bloody useless novel. This alleged mokshainducing, pregnancy-effecting, child-rearing recording of Durga was just the latest excuse. He only needed a little flattery to resume work. She’d call him tomorrow. Tonight, it was hard to concentrate. It was like preparing for a role.
Never mind. She had died many times; she would survive. Hadn’t Scheherazade also been made to dance on the tabletop? Wasn’t she Scheherazade’s sister? Her fans didn’t know her. They didn’t know the woman who had been smelted from the dreck of Chandni Chowk’s alleys, the transmuted amalgam of tin and mercury, slipping through every pair of hands that would strain her, own her, contain her, shape her into receptacles of their meat’s desire. Death was nothing, she would survive.
9
ALL I KNEW OF DETECTIVE WORK CAME FROM THE SMALL STOCK OF detective novels in my possession. They’d led me to the conclusion that the detective is a debunker of accidental events, and as such, renders the world a cosmic service by making the world less accidental, that is, more reassuring. But it is odd that other species do not have such agents of reassurance. The zebras have no Poirot; penguins murder each other with impunity; there is no Vyas-the-squirrel preparing to harass some poor squirrel mom just to locate his missing nuts. I’d never thought about this striking difference before and it seemed far from accidental.
‘It’s seven, sir-ji.’ Rathod glanced at me significantly, and then quietly repeated. ‘It’s seven.’
I got out of the jeep and studied the building. Saumya Apartments was a typical middle-class apartment building in Noida, just a little too upscale for Miz Khargane, a mere personal assistant. ‘Am I working you too hard?’
‘No, sir-ji.’
‘Speak frankly, lieutenant. I am not just your boss. I am also your HR department.’
My assistant looked trapped. He had one of those honest bodies that had never figured out faces could not only reveal feelings but also hide them.
‘Sir-ji, please don’t take offence, but I have observed you don’t use your power. For example, one word from you and I would have dragged this bitch by her hair to your office! Why are you taking the trouble? You are such a senior officer! You should be pampered. Other officers I worked for, complete nobodies compared to you, never left their offices. I’m just humbly wondering, that is all.’
What Rathod was saying of course, was that being my sidekick hadn’t produced an uptick in his income. So far, working for me was to just work for a salary, the stupidest reason to work for something. Didn’t I care he had a family to take care of ?
There was also genuine concern about my disregard for my status. If I compromised my dignity by wandering around like a second-class detective, it would affect his standing as well. It would affect how he would be treated in his next assignment. In an organization with a mostly static hierarchy, being part of the right pecking order was important in circumventing the limitations of rank. He had been thrilled to learn Dorabjee was related to Tanaz. All Parsis were related, everyone knew that! He had hit the lottery! If I was a clown, he was a clown. If I was a king, he was a king. People like Rathod understood in their very marrow how a feudal order functioned. It would pay to heed his advice. But I couldn’t let him think he had taught me something. ‘So the bedbug is trying to teach Dracula?’ I placed a brotherly hand on his shoulder, smiling to indicate I wasn’t offended. ‘We’re here because she doesn’t expect us to be here. We have the advantage.’
Rathod wobbled his head. ‘Game over. Checkmate.’
‘No, this isn’t a game!’ I said, sharply. ‘We aren’t playing a game. There’s no such easy escape from responsibility. What is a game? There is some goal to achieve. So many wickets, so many runs more than someone else. You have to run faster, punch harder, jump heavier, some such goal. And there are rules which make it difficult for you to achieve the goal. So if you’re playing, you’re trying to achieve some goal following rules which make it difficult for you to do so. Isn’t that the definition of a moron?’
‘Hahn sir-ji, only your gyaan I will trust.’ His fervent tone suggested if nothing else, I’d completely subjugated him. ‘Sir-ji, one question.’
‘Yes.’
‘Are we going to torture her?’
‘Only with your limited intelligence.’ I punched the elevator button and heard the elevator begin its grinding descent. Why had I bothered to have Rathod along? Because investigators in movies always worked in pairs. ‘We’ll be playing good-cop, bad-cop. You’re familiar with the procedure?’
‘Yes sir-ji.’
‘Good. Let me be clear. There will be no need for force whatsoever.’
Rathod grunted, his expression a replica of what his parents must have seen when they denied Little Rathod a treat.
The apartment was on the fourth floor, with three apartments to each floor. The door to Apartment 3B lacked the usual necklace of lemons, chillies and mango leaves over the door. The garbage pail hadn’t been set out. Otherwise there was little to distinguish it from the other two apartments. I could hear the TV’s sounds through the door, but when Rathod pressed the doorbell, it abruptly went mute. Rathod pressed the bell again, this time emphasizing it for an extra couple of seconds. The apartment’s inner door opened a
nd a woman’s head peered through the grill.
‘What is it?’
‘Shabari Khargane?’
‘What do you want?’
Definitely hostile. The aggressiveness could be discounted. It was a signal to strangers she was to be treated as a virtuous woman. A point she must have had to repeatedly make in Delhi. Shabari was fair and appealing, undeniably voluptuous. The touch of baby fat about her cheeks offset the tired eyes and just-emerging lines on her forehead. Her hair had been swept into a careless bun and the shapeless nightdress showed she hadn’t been expecting company. She seemed familiar. I initially assumed it was because she reminded me of the actress Saya, but then I remembered seeing a photograph in Dhasal’s office—Shabari standing next to the great man, looking up at him, black eyes adoring, smiling, ready to serve.
‘Open!’ barked Rathod, stepping out from behind me.
But Shabari Khargane had already registered his uniform and her hostility collapsed entirely. She unbolted the inner grill with exaggerated haste, pushed open both the door panels. The door was set to one corner of the room’s width, and as I entered, instead of noticing the room’s proportions, my eyes picked up the framed reproduction on the opposing wall. It showed a cute English kid in a red velvet coat, seated, hands on knees, rosy cheeks, staring at the viewer with a somewhat petrified expression. Odd. I glanced around. The room was cosy in the middle-class manner. The standard diamond-shaped quilt on the wall, a sepia-coloured sofa set you could find in any metro store, a wall with framed pictures of dead people, a midget-sized hookah which like all hookahs looked out of place, a wooden cabinet probably filled with old photo albums, a factory rug on the tiled floor, a glass-topped dining table supported on conical black legs ringed with steel bands. At the table was a fat little boy with a subversive face, plugging away at homework. Her son, I guessed.
Shabari retreated towards the table, tugging at the front of her nightdress, blocking our view of the kid. She was Hindu, middle-class, respectable, and a mother. And fair-complexioned. A perfect storm of virtues that clearly made Rathod uncomfortable. But her discomfort eclipsed his. She stood there, her arms locked in an ‘y’, the right hand folded across her torso, clasping the straightened left, the palm revealing its worry by hiding its thumb. She asked if we would take some chai.
