One evening there was bickering in the godowns and Anush went down. The sanders and lacquerers were quarrelling. “Reza is in charge of the godowns,” Anush said, and strode back upstairs. Promoting Reza ameliorated Anush’s remorse, if only for a short moment. As he climbed the stairs, instead of feeling benevolent, compassionate, this little gift to Reza made Anush’s guilt flourish. He remembered the night of the fireworks vividly, in slow motion, his Roman candle shooting star that smashed into the other end of the courtyard cement wall with such great velocity that sparks showered everywhere. Anush remembered spotting Reza in the courtyard, and then aiming the Roman candle at him, the lift boy’s face being hit, him clutching his face and writhing on the ground. Anush’s culpability, for so long buried ocean-deep, began to float to the surface. Maybe he’d made a mistake in promoting Reza. Maybe he should have promoted another worker. Maybe he ought to have thought this through.
In the office, Anush lit a cigarette as he began to gather his things, getting ready to go to the gym. There was knock at the door. He expected it to be Reza or one of the workers but a woman with a German accent said, “Hello. Is the shop still open?” She was a blond, stout but attractive lady in her thirties.
Stubbing out his cigarette, Anush said, “Of course. How may I help?”
Her name was Ebba. She said, Namaste. Guten Tag, he replied. They both laughed. Anush turned on the lights in the little showroom on the ground floor and showed her various pieces that the workers had recently made.
She said, “This is my first time in India. My girlfriend and I are going to Rajasthan tomorrow, the Taj Mahal and Varanasi.” Anush tried to act surprised by her conventional itinerary. He’d been there on boarding school trips and like most teenagers had been bored.
While Anush showed her tables and chairs, he couldn’t help but notice the ample cleavage her blouse revealed. He said, “The walls of the Taj Mahal are inlaid with intricate, priceless jewels. The king who had it built ordered the architect’s hands to be cut off after it was finished because he didn’t want anything else so beautiful in the world ever to be built.” It was one of the few things Anush remembered from his visit there.
“Oh my goodness,” Ebba said, covering her mouth, floored by the brutal romance. As they continued walking around the show pieces, one of her sizeable breasts brushed against Anush’s arm.
He tried to conceal his erection while they talked about furniture. Ebba hung on Anush’s every word as he explained, “Cedar absorbs stain quickly, like a dry desert, but teak repels it like a green tree banana leaf. It’s all in the grain.”
He’d been somewhat popular in college with the girls, even kissed one of them, which was more than most of his college friends could say. After their second year, Anush and his friends had gone out to celebrate. A few drinks in, someone in the group accused someone else of being a virgin (which they all were) but the boy denied it. Someone suggested they go to a brothel, and once the dare had been put forth it could not be rescinded. A few of the boys were too afraid and slinked away with excuses but Anush was one of the three who remained. It was kind of a test. One thing Anush had learned at boarding school was not to back down. Among the whorehouses on Falkland Road, a boy said he knew one that was clean, safe—his older brother frequented it. The three boys went and sat in a dark drawing room on couches while girls their age, maybe younger, came and stood on display in front of them for their choosing. The boys were nervous and ordered drinks and smoked cigarettes, delaying the inevitable. Anush finally chose a pretty Nepalese girl with long straight hair. They went to her tiny bedroom, which was no bigger than a cell. She undressed for him but when it came time for Anush to put the condom on, he couldn’t go through with it. But he also couldn’t chicken out so soon—his friends might spot him leaving early—so he remained in the room, got the girl to fetch him a drink, and smoked a couple of cigarettes before leaving half an hour later with his reputation intact.
Ebba noticed a chair in the corner, away from the display pieces, and said, “Oh my, that’s lovely. I must have it.” It was a chair Anush had made. He’d tried to copy one of his grandfather’s miniatures but had messed up the eighteenth-century banister high back so he’d tried an experiment and turned it into an art deco back made from teak and dark walnut while keeping the fluted legs. Reza was perplexed with the mix of styles but helped with the dovetail joints. It had taken Anush months. He’d unwittingly inherited his grandfather’s sense of perfection. When it was done, Anush had stepped back and cocked his head a bit, unsure of what he’d made. It was an odd chair. The straight high back was not proportionate in size or style to the short, fluted legs, but he’d worked on it for so long, and it was the first thing he’d made that hadn’t turned out deformed. A small triangular piece of midnight ebony was added as an accent to the dark walnut, which contrasted the tan teak well. One side of the high back was purposefully taller than the other, resulting in a thirty-degree slant, lending the chair a unique and aesthetic air. As he looked at his first finished piece, for the first time in a long while Anush had felt a swell of pride.
Ebba asked, “How much?”
His first sale. He was euphoric. Although he didn’t like the idea of parting with the chair, he said, “Twenty thousand rupees—five hundred American.”
“If that includes delivery, you have a deal,” she said, and they shook hands. They continued the tour and ended up upstairs in the tiny flat that his father and grandfather had once lived in. After being abandoned for nearly two decades, it had recently been cleaned by the shop workers.
Anush got Reza to fetch him a bottle of whisky, ice, and two glasses. Once they were all alone upstairs, Ebba and Anush talked, drank, and flirted through the evening. He noticed a faint tan line around the base of her wedding finger, where a ring had once been. Was she divorced? Or just promiscuous? He wondered if she could discern his virginity. Ever since the brothel, all his college mates had looked up to him as an experienced man. He was so cocksure around them that he nearly believed the lie himself, but now his heart pounded as Ebba undressed him and then herself. Their bodies entwined on the cool slate-tiled floor. Eventually, she climbed on top of him and fucked him with a wild abandon that even a virgin like Anush understood was only possible because they would never see each other again—and also because she had paid him.
- 10 -
1997
AFTER FINISHING SANDING THE LEG of a mahogany chair, Anush browsed through the list of contacts on his mobile phone. It was nearly six o’clock. He was trying to find someone, anyone, to have a drink with. One hundred and fifty-nine people and not a single close friend. A wave of melancholy overcame him. At this rate he’d soon be a depressed, lonely bachelor like his old man.
On nights he didn’t have plans, like tonight, Anush could usually wrangle old acquaintances from college, or even old boarding school friends, out for a drink. Some were flattered to be called by Anush Sharma, who’d appeared in the society pages in the Bombay Times recently, photographed next to a former Miss India and other minor celebrities at a five-star hotel party. He’d made a bit of a name for himself as an artisan furniture maker using heirloom woods. New restaurants and hip nightclubs continued to sprout all over the city. There were more exclusive parties Anush hadn’t yet gained access to, but the cool indifference that the photograph had captured seemed to suggest he might be on his way to achieving this soon. However, tonight he either couldn’t get ahold of people or the ones he did weren’t interested. “It’s a Tuesday evening,” most of them complained, lamely.
Anush was about to step out to get a fresh pack of Marlboro Lights when the phone rang. The call display flashed HOME.
“Anush bhai,” Chottu said. Even though he was twenty years older than Anush, he referred to Anush with the respectful suffix of older brother. “Your father wants you to come home for dinner.”
Enduring dinner with the old man was the last thing Anush wanted. Anush had come home earlier than usual a couple of mo
nths ago and the old man had berated him for not selling the furniture shop. Later, Anush noticed him pop a few pills into his mouth while sitting on the balcony, staring out at the ocean, sipping whisky. The next morning, after the old man left for work, Anush rooted through his medicine cabinet and found several vials of Calmpose, valium. Anush wondered how long he’d been taking the sleeping pills. They hadn’t dined together since then.
“No, I can’t. I have customers coming,” Anush lied to Chottu.
Reza, who was on the floor sweeping, looked up with his good eye to correct Anush, but Anush put a finger to his lips to quiet him.
Chottu pleaded, “Your father says you must come home, Anush bhai. VIPs expected for dinner, and also don’t forget your cousin from Canada is arriving later this evening.”
Anush had visited Paresh—or Parry as he now went by in Canada—a year ago. Even though they didn’t have a lot in common, they got along, and so Anush was relieved to have found a drinking buddy for the evening.
After going to the gym for a short workout, Anush walked through Priyadarshini Park, where he spotted three vultures circling overhead, most likely from the Towers of Silence nearby in Malabar Hill, the sacred place where Parsi people left their dead. It made Anush thankful to be a Hindu, for even though over the years he’d had nightmares about lighting his mother’s body on the funeral pyre, he couldn’t imagine her being torn apart and eaten by vultures. The idea of it brought bile up his throat and he spat it onto the red dirt track.
The palm trees swayed almost in time with the waves that crashed on the shore nearby.
Thinking about his mother made him realize how lucky he was the old man hadn’t remarried. A stepmother, no matter how ingratiating, would be intolerable. Then again, maybe the old man would be happier remarried, and not spend so much time disappointed with Anush. Either way, Anush and the old man reminded each other of Anush’s mother. She was gone but always there. Anush wondered if his father, deep down, blamed him for her death. If only Anush had never been born, the old man maybe thought, if only Anush had never been in his mother’s womb, then she might never have developed cervical cancer. Did he subconsciously think Anush was somehow responsible for killing his wife? Did he think of Anush as the cancer? A cancer than had remained in her womb after Anush’s birth? Was that his extraordinary destiny? Killing his own mother?
As Anush got into his car, he reminded himself that the destiny stuff was a bullshit sandwich. The sun was setting as he drove along Nepean Sea Road. He was ready for a whisky. The first one always tasted the best.
There was a cavalcade of expensive cars in the front courtyard of Sea Face Terraces, so Anush had to park his Fiat on the street. His father could afford to buy him a dozen new cars but hadn’t yet. Anush knew it was a type of punishment for abandoning the plan to sell the furniture shop. The shop was making some sales, but Sharma Shipping still kept it afloat. After finding a spot Anush got out and slammed the door shut. It’d become increasingly embarrassing to show up to fancy parties and five-star hotels with this car.
At home, in the front hallway entrance, Anush could hear half a dozen men talking in the drawing room. He caught bits of the conversation, something about “A new civic manifesto . . .” “A saffron alliance . . .” Anush tried to sneak into his room for a quick drink but the colonel spotted him. “Anush, come join us!”
He had no choice but to be introduced to them all. One was a bigwig from the Shiv Sena, another from the BJP—right-wing Hindu nationalist parties. Another was a construction mogul, and one was the chief state minister. They all shook hands with Anush, including the colonel, who wrung Anush’s hand and slapped his back. Anush winced and laughed obligingly, taking a seat. The men all smoked cigarettes, but like any good Indian son, Anush didn’t smoke in front of his father or elders as a sign of respect.
“The slum dwellers need to be re-housed.”
“Yes, new accommodations and infrastructure is what’s needed.”
“The congress government is inept, corrupt!”
Anush nodded, trying to appear as though he cared, agreed. He could’ve gladly slit someone’s throat for a glass of the one-hundred-and-eighty-US-dollar-a-bottle Blue Label Reserve whisky the old man was serving.
The men spoke enthusiastically: “We need to open up the economy more.” “We will take the next federal election.” “With a majority.” “To the BJP!”
They raised their glasses while Anush alternated from sitting on his hands, to folding them, to plunging them into his armpits. He was dying for a cigarette.
“So, Anush, what is it you do?” one of them asked.
“I make vintage furniture, some of it with a modern twist, at my grandfather’s old furniture shop.”
The men seemed intrigued, even impressed with that, except of course his father, who grimaced and said, “Anush will be working at Sharma Shipping soon.”
Anush glanced at his father, and for the first time in months they locked eyes, staring at each other with equal intensity, a fierce fury. Anush could tell exactly what the old man was thinking, how he’d had enough of his only son dallying with furniture and partying every night. Anush should have been working under the old man’s thumb at Sharma Shipping, but all Anush did was shirk his duties, his responsibilities. He should’ve considered himself lucky that he enjoyed an allowance every month, an allowance that he didn’t earn, an allowance that the benevolent Varoon Sharma provided, hoping that Anush would come to his senses, but alas, what a shameful and ungrateful child Varoon Sharma had become burdened with.
Anush returned his father’s glare. The old man hadn’t even set foot in the shop to see Anush’s work, which had recently been featured in the local papers. They were mostly heartwarming stories, buried near the rear of the entertainment section, but Anush was stung that the old man had not said a thing about it, let alone come see his work.
Anush had learned how to handle a band saw, how to cut and measure and sand different types of wood, how to seamlessly join two pieces of wood by intricate dovetail joints, how to half-blind dovetails, how to do box joints and sliding dovetails. For the first time in his life, Anush felt as though he was reasonably good at something. Apart from adding his own twists to some of his grandfather’s models, he was now making originals. The process was slow, but you couldn’t rush these things. And besides, success wasn’t measured by sales, not right away. Didn’t that lunatic Dutch painter who sliced off his own ear die penniless without having sold a painting? Not that he was comparing himself to artists like that, but you had to admit that creating unique pieces of furniture was a skill not everyone possessed.
One of the men asked, “Anush, would you like a drink?”
But before Anush could accept, the old man said, “Anush doesn’t drink.”
A couple of years ago, a policeman had woken Varoon Sharma up in the middle of the night. Anush had been caught speeding. Anush had only had two drinks, but once the policeman saw the penthouse flat at Sea Face Terraces, in order to receive a larger bribe he’d lied and said, “Sir, your son was out-of-control drunk, driving like a wild man.” Varoon Sharma had paid the policeman and all was forgotten.
Father and son exchanged an icy look. The gloves were off.
“We can improve civic life for the city’s residents by adding new infrastructure, bridges, hospitals, roads.”
“Yes, it’s time for India to come into its own and show the world that we aren’t some backwater.”
“Absolutely. We need to address the needs of the poor, their votes are critical.”
“Yes, we can promise new housing to slum dwellers . . .”
It went on. Anush feigned attention. He was looking forward to picking up Paresh from the airport and having a drink. The old man stood up and everyone stopped talking as he presented a small duffle bag to the chief minister. “A humble contribution.”
Anush caught a glimpse of the stacks of cash inside. The chief minister said, “Varoon, you’ve done good work and
you’ll do much more. We only need a few more Hindus like you and this country’s problems will be solved. Here is a token of my appreciation,” and tossed a set of keys on a Mercedes-Benz keychain to Varoon.
Anush’s eyes almost popped out of his head.
“I can’t accept a gift so generous,” the old man said.
“You’ve earned it. A toast!”
The men filled their glasses and Anush filled a crystal tumbler as well. The old man shot Anush a look that meant Absolutely not, but it was too late. The amber liquor swirling around in Anush’s glass tasted like honey with the most potent but velvety venom.
- 11 -
1997
FOR HIS YEARLY MONTH-LONG VACATION, Reza took the train from Bombay Central to Rajkot, which took fourteen hours, followed by a two-hour bumpy bus ride to Gondal, and from there he’d have to hitch rides on bullock carts to his village, Jamkandorna, or it was about a five-hour walk. Luckily, today from Gondal he was able to get a ride most of the way and only had to walk for the last two hours. It was nearly dusk when Reza reached the outskirts of his village.
The balmy red earth filled Reza’s lungs as he made his way through the fields of wild Persian lilac shrubs where he’d seen male peacocks do their majestic mating dance.
The village had grown since he’d left nearly fifteen years ago. Now there were nearly five dozen dwellings, mostly made from mud and corrugated tin, scattered throughout the grove of lemon, walnut, and rosewood trees.
Outside his family’s hut, his mother and younger sister, Mona, were crouched on their haunches, making rotis on a small stove fuelled by cow dung patties. When Mona saw him, she ran to embrace him, yelling, “He’s here! Reza bhai is here!”
His mother stood up as Reza bent down to touch her feet and she said with tears of joy in her eyes, “May Allah bless you a thousand times, behta.”
“Where’s Shareen?” he asked. He hadn’t seen his wife in eleven months.
An Extraordinary Destiny Page 7
