“Fetching water from the pump. She’ll be back soon,” his mother said. “Your brothers are both working in Rajkot and come home on the weekends.”
“But I thought Parvez was going to finish school,” Reza said.
His mother said, “School fees have risen. Everything is more expensive these days.” Reza’s salary hadn’t kept up with soaring inflation rates.
A few of the neighbour’s children were playing hopscotch outside their hut and Reza waved to them. They ran over to Reza, who gave them a few confectionaries. The children were elated.
Reza went inside to see Nabil chacha, who’d been bedridden for nearly two years. He was asleep now. Reza knelt next to him and touched his feet.
The old man opened his eyes and spoke. “Welcome home, behta.”
Reza held his fragile, wrinkled hand. “Sorry to wake you.”
“I lie here all day waiting to be awoken. Luckily it’s by you today.”
His eyes had become even more yellow and sunken than the last time.
Reza said, “Is there anything I can get you?”
“Just stay here a while,” he said, fighting to keep his eyes open. Since they couldn’t afford morphine, he was sometimes given bhang, a drink made with the cannabis plant, milk, and honey. Reza remained by his side and soon they both fell asleep.
Half an hour later, Shareen returned and tapped Reza awake. Despite being exhausted, he perked up instantly at the sight of his beautiful wife. They’d been married a year and a half, and in that time had spent a total of two months together. Reza squeezed her hands but before they could speak, Mona called from outside, “Dinner’s ready.”
The gujarati dhal smelled wonderful and tasted slightly sweet with its jaggery and cinnamon. It was a welcome change from the eleven months of spicy maharashtrian tomato dhal. The bajree millet rotlas were thick, and Reza ate half a dozen of them, along with the salted, creamy buttermilk and rice.
After dinner, Reza wanted to retreat inside and be with his wife but neighbours stopped by, eager to say hello. He chatted with the men for what seemed like an eternity. In the past most of them had looked up to Reza with a certain amount of reverence for being one of the lucky few to live and work in a metropolitan city like Bombay, but the prestige of it had begun to fade as more of the men were finding jobs in nearby cities.
Reza finally yawned and excused himself after nearly an hour of small talk—anything less would have been rude. Shareen, Mona, and his mother had finished cleaning up. Outside, Reza splashed his face with some water from a clay matka and chewed on a bavel twig to clean his teeth. The bark had natural antiseptic properties and villagers had been using it for generations. Before going inside he noticed the little Ganesha idol near the entrance to the hut. After the Babri Masjid riots in 1992, many Muslims in nearby cities and towns had been dragged from their homes, beaten and burned by Hindu mobs seeking revenge, so the Hindu idol, although a blasphemy, served as protection, to fool angry Hindu mobs. Over the years of living in Bombay with many Hindus, Reza had come to the conclusion that there was little difference between Hindu and Muslim. People were just people. He took one last look at the crescent moon and stars in the sky. So many more here than in the city. Anush had said, “There are other solar systems and galaxies with billions and billions of stars out there we can’t even see,” but Reza wasn’t sure even after Anush had shown him pictures of it on his new computer in the office.
Retreating inside, Reza bid his mother and sister and Nabil chacha goodnight and made his way to bed, which lay behind the bamboo screen. Shareen was there, lying down, facing away from him. He took off his clothes and lay next to her. Through the small window near their bed, the crickets chirped loudly, creating the perfect type of white noise that could drown out quiet conversations inside the hut.
One night last year they’d discovered a mutual love for a local folk song in which the hero and heroine reunite after a long separation. That night, Reza had put his hand on Shareen’s belly and started whispering the song.
Farmers search the skies for rains that are late,
But, my lover, you have yet not returned,
Without you, I’ll not touch a fig from a Queen’s plate,
Your name from my soul shall never be burned.
Shareen had closed her eyes, tilted her head back, and responded,
Peacocks in the dry fields do dance and sway,
But, my lover, you have yet not returned,
I will drip streams of blood if my skin they flay,
Your scent from my soul shall never be burned.
Reza had cupped one of her breasts while kissing her neck. She had writhed against him, breathing deeply,
Heaven and its stars finally entreat us with monsoon,
But, my lover, you have yet not returned,
Street urchins laugh, but from their mockery I am immune,
Your eyes from my soul shall never be burned.
Reza had restrained himself, but continued to kiss her neck. She’d bitten his lower lip, drawing a trace of blood. They’d breathed in synch and moved as one. She’d guided him into her.
Orange blossoms in the orchard are flowering,
But, my lover, you have yet not returned,
My entire body yearns for you, can you hear it sing?
Your lips from my soul shall never be burned.
Tonight, while they lay together, Reza began the poem “Farmers Search the Skies for Rains,” but Shareen didn’t respond.
“Are you asleep?” he whispered.
“Of course not,” she replied, still keeping her back to him.
Are all women impossible to figure out, or just my wife? Reza wondered. Had he done something wrong? He gently touched her hip but she flinched.
Too tired to continue this game, Reza whispered, “What’s wrong? Tell me.”
“I don’t see you for a whole year, and then you expect me to lick your face like a dog?”
“I’m sorry. I wish I could home more often. Jaan, I’ve missed you so much.”
He caressed her back, and she allowed him.
“How’s it been? You happy?” he asked.
“It’s lonely. Your brothers are gone. Your uncle is in bed all day. All I do is cook and clean, like a servant.”
He slid himself closer to her and said, “One day I’ll return home and start a furniture shop of my own.”
“How? How will you be able to do that?”
“I’ve been promoted at the shop. I’m now the assistant to the new sahib. I no longer sleep in the musty godowns with the rats. Now I have a cot, upstairs by the office.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” he said, gently pulling her warm body towards his. “I’ve been teaching him how to cut and sand and join wood, helping him make furniture. A newspaper even came with a photographer to take pictures of the furniture we made.” He could smell her musk and it aroused him instantly.
“Seriously?”
“Yes,” he said, cupping one of her breasts. “The sahib is a mediocre furniture maker, at best. I have to help him with his joinery, detail his sanding, remind him all the time which woods to lacquer once, which ones need multiple coats. I could make much nicer furniture. If I opened a shop in Gondal or Surat, we could maybe live in a flat there, send my sister to a proper school, give Nabil chacha better medical care.”
“Did this new sahib buy the shop?” she said, closing her eyes, undulating her hips into him.
“No, he’s the son of the owner,” Reza said, almost near ecstasy, breathing deep to make sure he didn’t come right away.
“That’s great. So did you get a raise?” she said, getting undressed while they lay together.
“Well, no. Not yet.” His erection was rock hard against the small of her back.
“Why not? You’re doing all this extra work. You’re important to him.” Their lips touched as they whispered.
“Yes, I know but—” He was finally inside her.
“You said a pho
tographer came and took pictures of your furniture,” she said, pulsating and breathing in synch with him.
“Yes, just give it time. I’m sure when the time is right, he’ll pay me more.”
“Wait,” she said, stopping her hips from gyrating. “The son? The son of the sahib who owns the shop? You mean the one who blinded you?”
“Yes,” Reza sighed. “But it was an accident. We were children.”
It was complicated. At first he had been angry when Anush turned up at the shop, acting like a spoiled brat. But things had changed. Reza didn’t know how to explain the nuances of his relationship with Anush. A camaraderie had developed between them. Anush no longer talked down to Reza, the way he did to the other workers. Sometimes they even joked about things. Recently a fat white lady had come to the shop for a coffee table, her hair parted in the middle and curled up at the sides, and Anush had joked to Reza in Hindi, “She looks like a water buffalo,” which Reza had to stifle his laughter at. After she left, they’d both howled.
Shareen pulled herself apart from Reza and turned away. Reza kissed Shareen’s neck but she recoiled. He whispered in her ear, “Please, jaan, I’m sorry. It’s not the right time to ask for a raise. They might be selling the shop.”
“Then what will you do?”
This had been on Reza’s mind a lot. If the shop were to close, would he be able to find work elsewhere? A one-eyed carpenter? No matter how good he was or how glowing a recommendation he’d get from Anush, it wouldn’t be easy.
Shareen pulled the sheet over her head and turned away from her husband.
He lay looking at the cracks in the mud ceiling. Maybe she was right. Maybe he was nothing more than a coward who was helping the selfish brat who’d blinded him. Maybe he was nothing more than Anush’s loyal dog, licking his master’s heels.
Rather than becoming soothing white noise to fall asleep to, the crickets chirping outside grew louder as Reza lay awake.
- 12 -
1998
AT INTERNATIONAL ARRIVALS, ANUSH SCOURED the crowd for his cousin. Paresh lived in Calgary, where, depending on the time of year, there was an eternal sea of snow or dead brown grass. Paresh had come home from university when Anush visited. Despite not having seen each other for over a decade they got along, playing ping-pong and video games in the basement of Paresh’s parents’ suburban home. They never spoke of the night of the fireworks, or how Paresh played ice hockey with white friends now and wore baseball hats with sports team logos that Anush didn’t recognize, or how Paresh listened to bands like Nirvana that Anush thought dressed like beggars. Despite their differences, they had fun night-bowling and drinking beer in parks around campfires. Paresh’s friends got a kick out of Anush’s Indian accent and designer dress shirts; meanwhile, Anush pointed out that Paresh was the one who sounded funny with his Canadian accent and looked like a bhikari, a vagrant, with his beard and long hair and rumpled T-shirts.
Life in Canada wasn’t that great. Apart from the climate being inhospitable, his aunt and uncle worked like dogs at jobs they constantly complained about, and of course they didn’t have servants to cook or clean. Despite having a large home there was something altogether sad about their lives. Perhaps it was the lack of people. Anush and Paresh would drive in Paresh’s mother’s Toyota Corolla for miles sometimes without seeing a soul. A couple of weeks later when the time came for Anush to go home, he was happy not to extend his open return ticket, which the old man had bought, hoping Anush would fall in love with the place and attend a university there.
Now, at the airport, Paresh didn’t spot Anush and was caught off guard when Anush embraced him. For flinching, Anush gave his cousin two swift punches to the shoulder.
“Fuck, it’s hot!” Paresh said, letting Anush carry his gigantic backpack.
“Bhain chod, it’s January—the coldest month,” Anush said under the weight of the bag.
When Anush put the bag in the trunk of the Fiat, Paresh said, “Dude, vintage car!”
Anush wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or an insult. Even though in Canada it’d struck Anush as odd that Paresh spoke with a Canadian accent, Anush had assumed that in India Paresh would revert back to his natural Indian accent. The fact that he didn’t made Anush realize that the Canadian accent wasn’t put on; it was how Paresh spoke—or, rather, how Parry spoke—and forever would. Dude was a full blown coconut, brown on the outside . . .
Paresh wiped the sweat off his brow as he rolled down his window. “Holy shit, I forgot how hot it was.”
A few beggar children came up to Paresh’s window with matted hair and open palms. Instead of telling them to buzz off, Paresh pulled a bill out of his pocket and gave it to one of them. Anush couldn’t believe it. Paresh was acting like the most moronic of tourists, giving money to beggars while other beggars watched. Before they knew it, a small crowd had surrounded the car, and Anush said, trying not to show his irritation, “Paresh, don’t be fooled by their puppy dog eyes, yaar. They’ll make dog food out of us.” He honked the horn several times, but it had no effect on the children. Fearing that even more beggars would notice and join in, Anush revved the engine, which made the beggars leap away.
A hundred yards later, the Fiat sputtered and died. Anush restarted it and continued to drive. He’d taken his father’s Mercedes-Benz for a short test drive and fallen in love with the soft leather seats; the clutch and gears were sturdy with just the right amount of give. The old man could easily afford to buy Anush a dozen Mercedeses but Anush knew that would never happen. Not as long as he continued making furniture.
Before long they were racing south, towards the city, whizzing past poor neighbourhoods, makeshift huts made from scraps of corrugated tin and steel.
“So, my old man says you’re travelling around?” Anush said. His father had told him nothing. Anush made an educated guess from the gigantic backpack.
“Yeah, dude. Goa, Delhi, Rajasthan, Kashmir, Varanasi, maybe Nepal,” Paresh said, looking out his window, absorbing the foreign surroundings.
“So you finished uni?” Anush asked.
“Well, not really. You got a smoke?”
Anush tossed his pack of Marlboro Lights at Paresh. “Light me one too.”
After lighting two cigarettes, Paresh explained, “I finished pre-med but didn’t get into med school.”
“So now what?”
“Fuck, I dunno. The ’rents want me to apply to law school,” Paresh said, handing Anush a cigarette. “I’m just glad I don’t haveta be an intern and work thirty-hour shifts at an ER and haveta put my finger up some fat fucker’s ass to check his prostate, ya know? I just wanna travel and experience life and and not be in school, ya know? Maybe even write a book about it all, ya know?”
Anush nodded but wasn’t sure if he did know. Despite being best friends once, Paresh now seemed from another planet. Anush considered how much he himself had changed. Even though it was a fraction of Paresh’s transformation, Anush reasoned that he must have morphed somewhat. How different he was he couldn’t say for sure. He cared less about things that many people talked about: politics, current events, sports—maybe at this rate he’d stop caring about everything by the time he was thirty. He wasn’t sure why or when he’d become so indifferent. Sometimes it came in waves. Perhaps he was susceptible to his grandfather’s depression or madness.
There had been a show on Discovery the other night about how each human cell dies and is replaced by a new one every seven years. So, technically, after seven years we all become completely different people. No matter how enthusiastic the host of the show had been in explaining how we, literally, became new people every seven years, suggesting that there was something profoundly exhilarating, rejuvenating in the process, it only made Anush wistful. There was something inherently despairing about it because the thing we lost was ourselves, and we had no control over it.
A huge truck zoomed past in the opposite direction so close that Anush could feel its displaced air.
&nb
sp; “Whoa! You OK, dude?”
“Yeah, fine,” Anush said, sitting up a bit, rolling his window down all the way for some fresh air. As they got near Worli Sea Face, Anush stopped near a shop and whistled for the shop boy, who came running to the car. Anush gave the boy some money and seconds later the boy returned with a plastic bag and some change that Anush told the boy to keep.
Anush could tell that Paresh was curious, so he explained, “Indian drive-thru,” while opening the bag to reveal a quarter bottle of whisky.
The two of them laughed. Anush said, “Welcome home, Kuttay! Kaminay! ” their favourite childhood defamation, while offering the bottle to Paresh, who took a swig and coughed a bit, trying not to pull a face though the whisky was too strong for him. Anush laughed, remembering how Paresh and all his friends in Canada only drank beer. He took a healthy swig for himself before putting the rest of the bottle in the glove box.
“So you have a girlfriend in Canada?”
Paresh pulled out a wallet-sized picture. “I’m seeing this dancer chick, Jenny. Smokin’ hot bod, dude.”
Jenny was a pretty, thin blonde. Anush couldn’t help but feel a little jealous because even though Paresh was two years younger, he was probably more experienced than Anush. The German woman that one time above the shop was the only notch Anush had on his bedpost.
As they drove towards the heart of the city, it struck Anush as odd that Paresh had yet to ask Anush a single question about himself. Wasn’t Paresh at all curious as to what Anush was up to? Was Paresh jet-lagged or just self-involved? Not that Anush had done much with his life. When the two of them had last met, Anush had finished college. Apart from making a few chairs he’d accomplished nothing. Maybe his old man was right—he had pissed away the last few years.
Perhaps he was incapable of being extraordinary. That was the thought that lingered more often lately. That he’d never be able to live up to his kundali. He wished these thoughts were cricket balls he could bat out of his head with a resounding wallop, driving them into the sky in grand arcs to finally plop into the middle of the Arabian Sea, never to be found again.
An Extraordinary Destiny Page 8
