An Extraordinary Destiny

by Shekhar Paleja

  Of course, it didn’t always work on everyone. Anush, for example, was impossible to figure out. It was likely the boy was confused and didn’t know what he wanted, which was at the root of his problem. Varoon nearly shook his head in disappointment before reminding himself of the task at hand, but not before wishing for a split second that he had another son, that to have his only child turn out this way could only be penance for his own unforgivable sins.

  - 40 -

  DEEPA

  1998

  EVEN THOUGH JYOTI AND ANUSH were the same age, Deepa hoped Varoon wasn’t old-fashioned enough to think that the boy needed to be older. She knew how people talked about girls from decent families who weren’t married after their mid-twenties—of course boys were always exempt from that type of judgment. When men remained bachelors into their thirties, they weren’t regarded with the kind of pity or chastisement reserved for single women. Even if a girl was fiercely intelligent, beautiful, and charming, people would wonder why she hadn’t been snapped up. “There must be something wrong with her,” they’d whisper. A shady past, an illicit boyfriend—rumours were endless. There was the Nandani girl from their building—her family was filthy rich but the silly girl ran off and eloped with a young man from college who came from a lower socio-economic background. The two of them probably thought it was the most romantic thing on earth until they floated down to the real world six months later and ended up getting a divorce. With the blight of divorce permanently staining her, it was impossible to get the poor girl married to a decent family. She had to settle for a small cloth merchant in a paltry town in Northern Gujarat, living in a two-room flat with his parents where electricity and running water were sporadic. The mother of the poor girl put on her bravest face in public but she ventured out less and less, the shame too great to bear. No thank you, Deepa thought.

  Anush was difficult to read, with his gaze lowered and slightly slumped in his seat. He seemed capable of being very handsome, heroic, if he’d just straighten up. But he didn’t seem to take interest in conversation. Perhaps he just didn’t like small talk. Was he obedient or just shy and withdrawn? Deepa couldn’t tell. Did being capable of extraordinary things in his future mean he had to contain himself at present?

  Deepa hoped that Jyoti’s laconic answers hadn’t come across as curt. Deepa was aware that at these first meetings there was pressure to be perfect. It wasn’t an easy ordeal and a shy girl like Jyoti might find it overwhelming. But if anyone could impress anyone here it would be her perfect little Jyoti baby who finished her MBA at the London School of Economics, with distinction. It was Anush who would have to prove himself. Of course the Sharmas obviously had enough money. It was impossible to find a family with so much square footage in the city these days. Jyoti would be provided for, as would her children. Deepa knew Jyoti disliked it when her mother was so pragmatic, so old-fashioned, but Jyoti had the luxury of youth. When it was Jyoti’s turn to find a suitable match for her son or daughter—after Jyoti had endured the hardships and overwhelming floods of love that accompany raising children, rendering her loyal to them to her last dying breath—Jyoti would feel the same way, of that Deepa was certain. It was up to her now to safeguard this most important decision for her daughter, which needed to be handled with competence, a dash of cleverness.

  She wondered if Jyoti and Anush found each other attractive. Surely they must have been somewhat curious if not a trifle aroused by each other, since they were both young and handsome. But the two of them had hardly said a word, except chiming in every now and then to politely agree on how delicious the food was.

  On the teak dining table, rivulets of condensation snaked their way down the bulbous silver water jug.

  Her husband said, “Did I mention our son is studying at Stanford? He’s a freshman, along with Chelsea Clinton.”

  Mrs. Sharma wanted to kick her husband. The boast about Rahul attending an Ivy League school with the daughter of the most powerful man in the world was too obvious, making them seem desperate. The bit about Chelsea Clinton could have come out later. The fool didn’t know how to bridle his pride.

  Varoon said, “Congratulations. I hear it’s an excellent school. In my opinion, there are some good things about America, but most Americans have become morally bankrupt. President Clinton’s illicit affair is just the tip of the iceberg.”

  Deepa hadn’t kept up with all the goings-on of the affair in the news but she had no sympathy for the pasty-white saxophone-playing president with the big smile who had a fondness for cheeseburgers and young interns.

  “Compared to Hindu values,” Varoon said, “the Americans have nothing but fast food and fancy cars.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Deepa said. America was mired in a cesspool of selfish sex addicts. She not only approved of what Varoon said but also his forthrightness. The ability to voice challenging opinions confidently required a delicate balance. Many toppled over into cocky self-assuredness, which was arrogant, unbecoming, but Varoon was passionate without being self-righteous, and there was something else about him. Perhaps it was those broad shoulders that suggested he could be a bulldozer if need be. But at the moment he was a graceful Baryshnikov, not afraid to let his opinion be heard. A unique man, to be sure.

  Deepa glanced over to both Jyoti and Anush, who remained frightfully shy and kept their focus on the table, as though the teakwood would come to life any minute.

  “And did I mention that we have no Muslims in our building?” Varoon said, at which her husband nearly spat out a mouthful of his ice water. Varoon was pointing out that if Jyoti and Anush were to marry, Jyoti would be able to live in a Muslim-free building, but of course Deepa’s politically correct husband was shocked by Varoon’s audacity.

  Even though many, including Deepa, might normally take offence at such a remark in mixed company, Deepa found herself thankful for his honesty. After all, at these first meetings parents went out of their way to fabricate or conceal so many things in order to seem flawless, impeccable. But the attempt to be infallible was vain, hypocritical, and so she was somewhat relieved that Varoon, even though maybe a bit prejudiced, was honest. No Hindu Gujarati ever really wanted their son or daughter to marry a Muslim, no matter what they proclaimed to one another while drunk over whisky, competing over who was more liberal and open-minded. As far as Deepa was concerned, wealthier classes always professed their progressiveness and tolerance while looking down their noses at all those below. Always denouncing the poorer classes as racist fanatics whenever a race-riot breaks out in the slums, even though the wealthier classes knew that the biggest bigots, con-artists, and crooks walked among their own—yet this fact was ignored while those in power covered it up, even manipulated it to their own advantage. Politicians even created incentives for slum dwellers to start riots, or pay villagers to burn down Hindu or Muslim homes, whatever suited their agenda at the time to get elected. God only knew how many poor victims of callous, power-hungry men there were in the world. Varoon Sharma, however old-fashioned, wasn’t conniving. He wasn’t angling to hide his thoughts and opinions and had the courage to be honest.

  She asked, “May I ask how you’re able to keep a Muslim-free building?”

  “Well, you see, all transfers of sales have to be approved by the building president.” He smiled.

  “And you’re the building president.” Her husband returned Varoon’s smile. Deepa couldn’t tell if her husband was repelled or fascinated by Varoon’s uninhibited outspokenness.

  Varoon continued, “You see, I have nothing against Muslims, but if we can live separately, then why not?”

  “Absolutely,” Deepa said. She’d rather be run over by a slow train than see her children marry Muslims. One did hear about the odd Hindu-Muslim marriage—young people madly in the throes of passion—but families always opposed it and cut relations with the couple. Children growing up without grandparents, aunts, cousins. Not being able to celebrate holidays and birthdays together, being ostracized by the
public or—even worse—by your own family. What kind of life was that?

  Like her, her husband said he didn’t believe Muslims were inherently beneath Hindus, in fact at a dinner party recently, the doctor had said, “I don’t give a damn if my children marry Muslims, but what would people say? Society would make it too difficult for it to be feasible—too much water underneath that bridge.” A convenient argument. Liar! she’d wanted to yell. It would kill him if Jyoti or Rahul were to marry a Muslim, and whether it was because of society’s issues with it or his own, he would not be able to deal with it so easily as he made appear. He’d just wanted to come across as noble and high-minded to his friends. The truth was his open-minded liberalness had bounds. He liked to live in his make-believe world that only existed in the editorial pages of the newspapers that proclaimed equality for all and an end to communal bickering, but offered little in the way of implementing these ideals to a country whose very fabric was woven with enmity between Hindus and Muslims even before its inception. Of course we all wanted a world where everyone got along, but it was naive to think that hundreds of years of history could be erased. How would hundreds of millions of people be taught to break with age-old perceptions, doctrines, and customs? Who would teach them new notions of equality when there existed a caste system? Deepa knew a few Muslims, all of whom were pleasant people, but it was pointless to pretend that society would ever let their children be happily married. The few out of touch, educated men who lived in comfort and read the sanctimonious liberal editorials were disconnected from the realities that most people in the country faced every day. The fact that Varoon wasn’t trying to pass himself off as one of those hypocritical intellectuals was a breath of fresh air. She only hoped her husband, who’d yet to voice any disagreement (but might when they got home—the coward!), would eventually see her point of view. He might not want an in-law as brash as Varoon, but for Jyoti’s sake, Deepa would have to make him reconsider.

  Now it was the boy who had to prove himself. He seemed shy. Was he really capable of being extraordinary? Her daughter’s happiness was paramount. Let her be the final judge.

  - 41 -

  ANUSH

  1998

  AS THE FIRST MEETING WITH the Patiks was wrapping up, Anush became fidgety. He needed a smoke, a whisky, and to see Nasreen right away. This whole thing was preposterous. While they said goodbyes to the Patiks in the front hall, Anush could barely stand to look at the Plain Jane Jyoti any longer. She wasn’t ugly by any means, but her long hair tied back into a ponytail made her look like a schoolgirl—virtuous and boring.

  As soon as he could, Anush raced out of Sea Face Terraces in his Benz, sucking hard on a Marlboro. He put a Fugees CD in and turned the volume up so he could feel the thud of the bass in his chest. The idea of spending the rest of his life with Jyoti Patik made him nauseous, not to mention that bitch of a mother, who veiled everything with a congenial decorum but was silently judging every fucking thing in sight. Bullshit sandwich. The worst thing was the entire time with them he’d lied and pretended to be amused, interested. It galled him to have to play that game. With Nasreen, he didn’t have to be anything other than himself.

  But why hadn’t she returned any of his calls over the past few days? The last time he’d spoken to her, she said she was busy writing her first feature article for the Times and that she wouldn’t be able to go out for a while. Every time he called her mobile after that she didn’t pick up, and whenever he tried her home number the servants picked up to say Nasreen wasn’t home. They hadn’t seen each other since that night at Juhu Beach a week ago. He hadn’t told her about the tirade the old man had unleashed on him after spotting the two of them in the paper, how the shop was being sold, and how he’d just had to endure a meeting with the Patik family to marry their nerdy daughter.

  Anush sped along Marine Drive while taking a healthy swig of whisky despite knowing the moustached police officer might catch him again. This time Anush wouldn’t get away so easily as there was no American cash to bribe him with. And yet Anush kept accelerating down the last stretch of Marine Drive and stopped at the paan walla stand near the Air India building, the one Nasreen had taken him to. He ordered two paans and raced towards Nasreen’s building. Once there, he beeped his horn for the night watchman to let him in, but the watchman said, “Sorry, sahib, new policy. Only building residents can park in the compound.”

  Anush had parked his car there plenty of times in the past month. “Come on, there’s lots of parking space.”

  “Sorry, sahib. I get the boot if I don’t follow orders. I have a wife and three daughters to think about back in my village.”

  Anush had never been to the remote villages his workers talked about. The night watchman seemed too young to have three children, let alone be married. But then again, Reza from the shop had a wife and a daughter.

  What would become of Reza? He’d been an excellent assistant to Anush. The old man had just let all the shop employees go, but Anush had kept Reza, paying him from his own pocket. What would happen to him once Anush went to work at Sharma Shipping? Maybe he could convince the old man to hire Reza as an assistant in the office. But what would Reza do there? Anush wasn’t even sure if Reza could read or write much. Anush’s stomach turned at the thought of having to work at Sharma Shipping and so he did what he’d done all week, which was avoid thinking of it. But he grew anxious now, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to sidestep it forever. He needed to see Nasreen. She would help calm him. She would make him make sense of it, of what to do next.

  Parked on the street, Anush could see that all the lights in Nasreen’s flat were on. Maybe her parents had returned from their vacation in Alibag. He hadn’t met them yet. Would they think it strange Anush turning up out of the blue? But he had to see her. Besides, she’d been working so hard over the past week, she’d welcome an interruption.

  Earlier that evening at the dining table with the Patiks, Anush couldn’t stop thinking of Nasreen, how making love to her was so blissful, how her neck smelled slightly of sweat and orange blossom from her perfume, how being inside of her felt like being home.

  Jyoti Patik was nice enough, and maybe even somewhat pretty, in the most boring kind of way, but she was bland. Nasreen was a sensual woman. Apples and oranges. He wondered if he should tell Nasreen about his father forcing him to meet Jyoti Patik. Nasreen might be angry at him for even considering the meeting, but perhaps Nasreen’s jealousy would finally spur her to commit to their relationship. Perhaps they could take off and elope somewhere. Or was that absurd? They’d never talked about anything like that. But they’d discussed a trip to Goa. A nice beach resort with a swim-up bar. No one ever planned on eloping. But maybe Goa would be perfect. And once they were officially married, his father would eventually have to capitulate. Nasreen was so charming, so intelligent, so driven, so ambitious. So like the daughter he never had. So like the son he wished he did.

  With the paans in hand, Anush knocked on her door. He knew not to ring the doorbell. Only strangers did that, which upset Daisy, the senile Irish terrier who bit strangers. He could hear muffled sounds of people talking, laughing inside. He knocked louder on the wooden door, his knuckles having to squeeze through the outer steel grate that was just a couple of inches away from the inner door. Ever since the Hindu-Muslim riots of ’93, in which people had been dragged from their homes and beaten, burned, even killed, many homes had added this level of enclosure for protection against vigilante justice.

  From the muffled sounds of conversation and laughs inside, it sounded like a large dinner party. Maybe Nasreen was working in her room while her parents entertained guests. What would he say to them? His heart began to race. But no, there was no reason to get nervous. He would say he was Nasreen’s friend who was stopping by to say hello, and the paans were a present.

  He heard high heels clacking down the hall towards the door. Nasreen opened it, looking stunning in an evening dress. While keeping the outer steel enclosure shut
, she closed the wooden door behind her as much as she could, keeping Anush from seeing inside. She whispered, “Anush—what are you doing here?”

  “I thought you might want a paan,” he said, trying to figure out why she was keeping the door shut behind her.

  “Anush, not now,” she whispered, unable to meet his eyes. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  He’d never seen Nasreen nervous before. Even when she was uncertain, she was adept at hiding it. Something was wrong. Now he saw the diamond ring on Nasreen’s finger. His heart began to pound.

  “How’s your feature for the Times going?” he asked.

  At that point Daisy came to the door and pushed her nose out to see who it was. Anush called to her affectionately and stuck his hand out for her to sniff. As he reached to scratch behind her ear, she bit him.

  The pain stung much more than he thought it would and he instantly recoiled. Nasreen berated Daisy, who was now barking loudly.

  A man came to the door and shouted at Daisy with a booming voice, making Daisy scurry inside the flat. He opened the door and asked Nasreen, “What the bloody hell is going on?”

  She turned to Anush and then quickly back to him, “It’s a friend of Taran’s. He just came because he thought Taran was here tonight.”

  The tall, broad-shouldered man said, “Well, let him in,” and opened the steel grate for Anush. “Sorry, yaar. That dog is a total lunatic. I don’t know why she hasn’t been put down. I go to New York for a bit and the dog goes even more mad.”

  And just then as Anush got a good look at him, at the two of them standing together, he realized he’d seen the man before. At the club that first night when he met Nasreen. It was the man she’d been dancing with. He noticed the familiarity between Nasreen and this tall man now, how close he stood to her.

  “Come in, yaar, come in. I’m Zafar. Is your hand OK?” he said, guiding Anush to a chair near the door. He ordered one of the servants to bring Anush some water.