He also thought of how he should’ve taken Anju to the hospital earlier. Couldn’t he have spent more time with her? Some evenings he only made a brief appearance at the hospital, as she kept insisting she was fine. He wondered how long she’d lied to him and put on a brave face. Had he spent less time at work and more at home he might have noticed her discomfort. If surgery had been performed earlier the cancer might have been eradicated. He’d failed in his duty to his family: his father, his wife, his son. His son—how was Anush going to cope with this? The boy was probably lying awake in his bedroom.
Varoon put his drink down and went to the mandir where Anju prayed daily and picked up her sandalwood mala. He rarely went to the temple these days, despite promising Anju he would, because work had become more demanding. He’d said, “I’m trying to reach more wholesalers—it takes time, jaan. Praying won’t help.” He loathed himself now for his hubris.
Varoon sat on the floor and lit a devo. Anju would make a month’s supply at a time of the homemade cotton wicks dipped in ghee, and the little wooden box in which they lived was still nearly full. The flicker of light from the devo lit the Ganesha idol in the mandir. Lighting a stick of sandalwood incense, Varoon closed his eyes and began to pray with Anju’s mala. Om tát savitúr váreṇyaṃ bhárgo devásya dhīmahi dhíyo yó naḥ pracodáyāt Om. In an instant, acrid smoke filled his nostrils and the spokes of the carriage wheel came into focus.
Varoon inhaled sharply and stopped the memory. He had no room in his heart to endure past loss; the present was enough.
Looking around the dark room now, he summoned a more pleasant memory, one from 1967, the day he and Anju moved into the flat. A priest had been hired to perform the Griha Pravesh, a ceremony performed on the first entry into a new home. Anju had wanted to wait for another month to do the ceremony on Uttarayanan, an auspicious day when the sun begins its journey northward as a sign of coming summer, but Varoon didn’t want to wait any longer to move out of his father’s tiny flat above the shop. He’d worked tirelessly at growing his shipping business, meeting suppliers, distributors, manufacturers, struck friendships and bribed dozens people, secured cargo and containers with larger exporters and importers to make his business a success. He’d worked like a dog to get away from the shop and didn’t see why he had to spend any more time there than necessary. Anju pleaded quietly at nights while they slept on the pathari, not far away from Varoon’s father, “Please, jaan,” she’d whispered, “let’s wait till next month. It’s bad luck not to wait till the auspicious day.” But Varoon had feigned sleep and assuaged his guilt then by reassuring himself that she’d love the new luxurious flat, the incredible view of the Arabian Sea glimmering nine floors below, how there were two bedrooms, each with their own bathroom; even the servants’ quarters had its own bathroom. How many people could boast of that?
The priest had been called and the ceremony went ahead at Sea Face Terraces as Varoon had arranged. They sat on the floor in the living room by the balcony while the priest chanted Sanskrit verses and poured dollops of ghee, handfuls of puffed rice, and other offerings into the bronze portable fire pit. Varoon and Anju were both garlanded with vermillion and white flowers, their foreheads marked with bright yellow turmeric. Anju’s hair was in a bun, draped by her green and gold sari, and she wore a mangalsutra around her neck.
After the ceremony had finished and the guests left, the two of them were finally alone. On the balcony in the master bedroom, the ocean glimmered before them, and Anju’s eyes welled up.
“What’s wrong?” Varoon asked.
She shook her head, wiped away her tears with the end of her sari, and said, “It’s so big, so—empty.”
He laughed, held her close, and said, “It’s all for you. Look, the whole ocean is yours.” They held each other. “It’s so beautiful,” she said. “Maybe we should’ve moved earlier.” They laughed. He remembered that one of his importers had given him a gift, a new Nikon camera. With it, he took a few photos of Anju.
After putting the camera away he tugged at the end of her sari and began to unravel it from her body. She slowly turned in circles helping him, at first a little hesitant, then letting the centrifugal force quicken and unwind her. She giggled as she twirled, enjoying the feeling of being a little out of control. She usually wore her hair up in a loose bun so it remained out of her way while she was doing housework, and despite the bun having a haphazard quality to it, it never failed to arouse Varoon. During the ceremony, Varoon had noticed how the bun was sculpted and held together steadfastly with pins. Her exposed neck seemed so elegant, making her seem taller, more graceful than she already was. As soon as her sari was unravelled, they held each other in a tight embrace. He could smell the garland of vermillion flowers that had hung around her neck, and the faint scent of the coconut oil she combed her hair with every morning slowly burst into bloom as she let her hair down.
Varoon opened his eyes now in the dark, seated on the floor. Apart from his own rapid breathing everything was silent. Guilt began to multiply in him. Was Anju’s cancer somehow his karmic fault? Was his impatience, his refusal to observe the auspicious day all those years ago somehow responsible? Or was it something else he had done? Like sending Chottu, the most loyal of servants, to jail for the Lal Nagas? The boy was incarcerated for six months and even though Varoon had compensated Chottu handsomely for it and continued to send money to Chottu’s family every year at Diwali, the boy never spoke of what happened to him, and Varoon never asked. But the boy returned from prison with a permanent scar on his forearm, probably as a warning from the Lal Nagas—what Varoon had asked of them in return for sending Chottu to jail was too much. The senior government official at the Port Authority had mysteriously disappeared soon after and his body was found in the sea, his throat slit, leaving Varoon to keep his profits. And then, of course, there was Varoon’s father—was Anju dying from cancer a kind of karmic payback for killing his own father?
Putting Anju’s mala down, he rushed for the Calmpose pills, popped two into his mouth, and swallowed them with a large peg of whisky.
If he was younger he would’ve argued with himself that one thing had nothing to do with the other, that it was foolish to be so superstitious, but he knew now life didn’t work like that. You couldn’t just pick and choose the things you were superstitious about. You couldn’t waver on the things that were important. He was to blame. Perhaps if he’d kept going to the temple he would’ve made better choices, been more conscientious. But then again, he’d compensated Chottu well. And didn’t the senior government official deserve his fate after suggesting Varoon pimp his wife to him and then by continuing to take an unfair portion of Varoon’s profits? And anyway, Varoon hadn’t asked for him to be murdered. As for the Lal Nagas, Varoon had slowly curbed his business with them. He’d done the best he could, always trying to be as fair as possible, rewarding meritocracy in the office rather than nepotism, unlike many in the country.
In his bedroom now, he looked at a framed photo of Anju he’d taken with the Nikon on the day of the Griha Pravesh ceremony and decided to commission a large portrait of the photo to be painted. He promised himself he’d go to the temple every morning till the day he died. It was the least he could do for Anju.
He could only hope God would forgive him. He took a certain pride in having achieved all he had by himself, but he could see now that abstaining from daily prayer had caused a lapse in judgment and given him a false sense of pride. He’d have to pray for forgiveness.
Sitting back down in front of the mandir, with the mala in hand again, he repeated the gayatri mantra and willed himself to not think of the memories that were intertwined with it, but even so he could smell the acrid smoke, hear the distant cries. Immediately he stopped and took another Calmpose pill. He wished he could erase that night from his mind. He hated how some nights, while lying in bed, that memory would come to him, like a fissure in the sky opening and swallowing him whole.
Poor Anush. He wonder
ed how the boy was coping. Earlier that day, as they drove in silence towards the cremation site near Marine Lines station, Varoon had never seen the boy so well behaved. He thought Anush would be in tears, and so he’d readied himself to be strong. He refused to show any grief in front of the boy, giving Anush the opportunity to grieve, but the boy simply stared out his window, most likely overwhelmed. When the car reached the cremation grounds, Varoon sensed his son’s trepidation. Before opening the door, he wanted to say: Your mother loved you more than anything. She wanted you to know that, or Life is sometimes unfair, cruel—you have to keep on going. But he didn’t say any of those things. They seemed condescending, trite, even for an eleven-year-old. Instead, he placed his hand on his son’s head, hoping to bestow a kind of benediction. He’d never felt more useless. He realized Anju had been doing most of the parenting up till now and he had no idea how to deal with Anush.
After finishing his whisky, Varoon quietly let himself into Anush’s bedroom and sat on the edge of his bed in the dark while waves crashed outside. Varoon whispered, “Anush,” to see if he was awake. He was.
As Varoon sat there, the drugs began to take effect. His body relaxed and he felt as though he’d been submerged in a tub of warm water.
“You know, I lost my mother, your dadima, when I was young too.”
Anush asked, “How was she lost?”
The dhobi walla being stabbed in the stomach flashed in his mind. His wife’s cries echoed in Varoon’s head. The men crowding around her, stripping her of her clothes and throwing her into the Jeep before driving away.
“Many people were lost that night. It was chaos. But your dadaji and I made it to Bombay. We stayed together and thrived. Just like you and I will.”
Wanting to mitigate Anush’s grief, Varoon began to lie. “Your mother and I were going to tell you something special when you were a bit older. Do you want to know what it is now?”
He wanted to protect his son from the times in his life when the fissures in his own sky would crack and want to swallow him whole. He wanted to make Anush feel as though he were someone special.
Anush sat up, nodding, intrigued.
“The next night after that dream she went into labour. A monsoon storm was beginning to gather offshore. The wind was tossing branches and spraying dust in all directions. We made it to the hospital just before the rains began. After you were born, I ran through the raging storm to the astrologer to find out your kundali, your destiny. Even though it’s customary to wait for the seventh day after a child is born, I went—I was too excited. With sheets of rain flying sideways into my face I ran to the astrologer to find out your destiny . . .”
As he continued the story, he reminded himself to get rid of Anush’s real kundali and have a new one made soon. It occurred to Varoon that a panditji might not be so easily swayed to concoct a kundali, but he knew that Manu’s family had connections to an esteemed panditji. With enough money, nearly anything could be bought.
- 38 -
DEEPA
1998
DEEPA PATIK’S SEARCH FOR THE ideal young man for her Jyoti baby had begun the day after she returned from London, more than six months ago. Once word got out that Jyoti had finished her MBA from the LSE, inquiries began to pour in, but one had to careful. In a city of twelve million, God only knew how many unscrupulous families there were just waiting to dupe you into marrying their no-good, deadbeat nephews, sons, and cousins. It’s how people were—snakes ready to climb any ladder of opportunity. Her Jyoti baby was special. Deepa had to be certain that the boy was equally exceptional, his family as worthy; after all, this was Jyoti, her shining star. If Deepa’s ulcer flared up again, and God took her from this life, her husband would be incompetent when it came to ensuring Jyoti a suitable match. The man was a capable geriatrician but useless in practical affairs. They’d be swindled out of the family wealth in weeks and Jyoti would be married off to a middle-class family in the suburbs. The onus of choosing the right boy fell squarely on her.
Over the months, through intermediaries, photos of boys and information about their families were presented, but they were either too plain, too ugly, too dark, too short, lived in cities too far away, from families too conservative or, too modern. A few non-Gujarati families also had the gall to approach her. To those, she didn’t even respond.
There were an infinite number of things to consider not just about the prospective boy but what were the mother and father like? From where in Gujarat were they from originally? What caste? How religious were they? Did they observe auspicious days in the lunar calendar? Were they vegetarian? Where did they live? What kind of building was it? How many people in the household? How much square footage? The boy’s age, his education, his job, his salary were all pertinent, as was estimating the family’s net worth, and which private clubs, if any, did they belong to? There was much to consider. Over the months, a five-star rating method developed in her diary. There were plenty of twos and threes, a few fours, but never a five. Her search had uncovered a few decent families in the suburbs, but when it came down to it, Deepa didn’t like the idea of Jyoti living so far away.
Then one day, she heard that a rich, handsome Gujarati man had just begun his search for a suitable daughter-in-law. Apart from Sharma Shipping, it was said that Varoon Sharma had other businesses, but the accuracy of such information was questionable, as it came filtered through a handful of gossipers at the temple. You couldn’t believe everything people said these days. After digging around, Deepa was ecstatic to find that Sharma Shipping seemed as large and profitable as people had claimed. It was rumoured Varoon Sharma had his hands in construction, that he lived in Breach Candy—an affluent neighbourhood only a stone’s throw away—in a palatial home on the top floor of a building with an ocean view, and had only one heir, a handsome son with a terrific kundali. She refused to believe it all—it seemed too good to be true. A life lesson she’d long ago taught herself was not to be fooled into believing you were more special than you really were. So she didn’t aim her hopes too high, knowing where hubris led, and buttressed herself accordingly, waiting for something objectionable or unpropitious about the Sharmas to surface.
The Patiks were introduced to Varoon Sharma by a common friend at the temple he went to nearby. A few cordial conversations were had and it was Varoon who invited the Patiks for lunch.
It was unusual for a first arranged marriage meeting to be held at one of the families’ residences. Customarily, it was held on neutral ground. Deepa and her husband would have preferred to go to one of the restaurants at the Taj or to Gallops Restaurant at the Mahalaxmi Race Course, but Varoon insisted they come to his home.
When Deepa took in the unobstructed view of the Arabian Sea glimmering nine floors below from the Sharma drawing room, she was speechless. At this time of the evening, the sun shimmered brilliantly over the sea like a million strewn diamonds. The beautifully manicured gardens across the street were filled with people strolling among the violet petunias, crimson gulmohars, orange marigolds, and magenta morning glories—flowers that also grew in the finely manicured courtyard of the building that the Patiks resided at nearby in Malabar Hill. Just beyond the lush gardens at the Sharma residence the sea extended to the horizon as far as the eye could see.
“Welcome, welcome,” Varoon said. After introductions, the five of them sat at an elegant teak dining table. Anush was a handsome young man with hazel eyes and a thick head of hair, like his father. Perhaps a bit short, but that wasn’t a deal breaker.
Deepa appreciated that Varoon had chosen to serve traditional Gujarati food—a simple yet elegant choice. She’d heard that the Sharmas were new money and was relieved that Varoon hadn’t tried to impress them by ordering pizza from one of the new Domino’s restaurants that had popped up across the city—popular places with the incondite upwardly mobile.
Small talk was made over appetizers: the rapid growth of the city, the soaring real estate market, the official name change from Bombay
to Mumbai.
Varoon said, “I just read today that at the current rate, prices will soon eclipse Tokyo and Manhattan. The building boom in our country has just begun. People don’t believe it when I tell them our skyline will be changed soon with tall towers.”
Her husband said, “Yes, I can’t imagine Bombay with more traffic. But tell me, how do you think we’ll do at the Cricket World Cup next year?”
Varoon said, “India will dominate. Tendulkar is going to beat Sir Donald Bradman’s batting record.”
It was a game, this arranged marriage business. They had to maintain the facade of not being aware of the possibility of all their lives changing forever when it was really all that was on everyone’s mind.
Deepa wondered if Jyoti and Anush found each other attractive while they were all seated at the teak dining table. More importantly though, through the small talk, she tried to assess if relations between both families could truly be convivial. Of course one always treated their in-laws with exceeding goodwill at first, but if the families weren’t a good match, relations became fraught with veils of kindness and cheer, quickly leading to bitter resentment and decades of antagonism. Deepa knew all about pretense. Fortunately, her in-laws lived in Gujarat and didn’t visit often.
An Extraordinary Destiny Page 24
