Kabhi kabhi, mere dil mein, khayaal aata hai . . .
Sometimes, in my heart a feeling emanates
As though you’ve been created just for me;
Before this, you existed among the stars somewhere,
And now, you’ve been called down to earth only for me.
It had been nearly fifteen years since her death. He’d tried to not think about her so many times while at boarding school that he’d actually become reasonably good at it. But at times, fragments of her, or memories of her, would come racing into his consciousness from afar—sometimes, it seemed, at breakneck speed from the farthest reaches of the universe; other times, imperceptibly, like daybreak spreading across the sky, leaving him uncertain of their authenticity. He wondered if his memories had begun to take on a verisimilitude, an appearance of the real thing, a close copy, leaving him feeling uncertain, lost at sea.
He would’ve liked to have gone for a drive but the Benz was totalled. If he married Jyoti, the old man would buy him a better car.
Anush went back to his room for another whisky and turned on the TV. On Discovery an astrophysicist was talking about the universe, intercut with computer-generated visuals: “Who are we? How did we get here? What are we made from? The stars can reveal all. All stars have the same destiny. All matter in the universe came from stars. Atoms are the building blocks of life and all atoms come from stars. Stars were born in nebulas—nurseries in space where new stars burst into life. All matter in the universe comes from these stars. Our own sun’s destiny is the same as every other star that has ever existed and will ever exist. One day, it will run out of hydrogen and helium, become unable to produce nuclear fusion, and expand to hundreds of times its size. This is the red giant phase where its surface will burn hot while its core cools, and at its core, where all the ingredients of life are—atoms of hydrogen, oxygen, and so on—the star will battle against gravity, in a fight of futility, protons and neutrons will struggle, atoms will be formed, they will desperately try not to collapse in on themselves but eventually they will succumb to their fate. And as the core collapses, hydrogen and helium and carbon and oxygen and magnesium and iron and other elements that make up all life will be created, and then with a large bang, the star will burst, distributing these elements through space. This is the destiny of all stars. It has happened billions of times and will continue to happen countless more.”
Anush turned off the TV. The house was quiet. Chottu and the other servants were sleeping in the garage downstairs because the ceiling fan in the servants’ quarters was broken. Anush found himself pacing the dark flat. There was something strangely unsettling about all the stars collapsing in on themselves, buckling to the laws of the universe, succumbing to their fate. Is that what we all had to do in the end? Yield? Capitulate? Cave in?
The shop had just been sold for well below asking price and the paperwork was with lawyers. Any contracts Anush had with hotels to provide furniture would be winding down. What would happen to Reza and his family? Would they be thrown out onto the streets? The old man had no idea anyone was even living in the flat above the shop. Anush could see his future in fast forward: working at Sharma Shipping, drawing a decent salary, never making furniture again, being married to Jyoti Patik, and living out a mediocre life. The alternative was unthinkable—to be cut off financially. Jyoti was pleasant, intelligent, and sort of pretty, in a regular, boring kind of way. They were cordial to each other and Anush could see the two of them being a couple. Going out for dinners, entertaining friends, having children, taking family vacations, growing old, eventually submitting to life’s tedious monotony. The children would supply some joy, but would the happiness last? Would he be able to shake that sense of having lost the chance to really live? The chance to be with someone special? The chance to be someone special? He’d have to recalibrate, convince everyone he was content, including himself. It wouldn’t be easy. Being with Jyoti wasn’t even comparable to what he felt like being with Nasreen. But then again, Nasreen didn’t feel the same about him. Thinking of her and Zafar gutted him. After guzzling another glass of whisky, Anush found himself knocking at his father’s bedroom door. The old man was most likely in a deep sleep after his usual dose of Blue Label Reserve and Calmpose pills. Anush banged on the door with his fists and feet. He was shaking and had no idea what he was going to say or do but something in him had come unhinged.
Finally the door opened. Standing bleary-eyed in his rumpled white kurta, the old man was still half asleep. “What? What is it?”
“I’m not marrying Jyoti Patik, and I’m not going to work with you,” Anush blurted out and barged into the room. He hadn’t been in there in years. It felt foreign, but also eerily familiar. When his mother had been alive, he often ran in there to jump on the king-sized bed and stick his head under the air conditioner. The decor in the room hadn’t changed much. The bed was still the same, as were the almirahs. Everything was in the same spot as it had always been, there were just fewer things: his mother’s makeup was no longer on the dresser; her bedside table, usually strewn with bangles and earrings and creams, was now bare.
The old man scratched his head and yawned. Anush continued to the end of the room, towards the balcony. The old man, baffled, said, “Are you drunk?”
“I’m not going to marry Jyoti Patik and I’m not working with you,” he said once more. It felt liberating saying the words out loud again. Maybe the more he said it, the easier it would come true. He should’ve done this a long time ago. He wasn’t a puppet. He could decide for himself who he was going to marry and where he’d work for a living. It was time he stood up for himself.
The old man shuffled towards his almirah, from which he took out a bottle of whisky, poured a glass, and drank it as though he were dying of thirst before wiping his mouth with a sleeve to say, “Listen to me. You will marry Jyoti Patik and stop fooling around with your silly daydreams.”
Anush shook his head. “No. And I won’t come to work with you. I want the shop. I don’t need an inheritance from you, just the shop.”
“You ungrateful bastard!” The old man’s voice cracked, his pride injured. “Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to convince the police commissioner not to press charges against you when you killed that dog and crashed the car? It was just like when you were in college—I had to pay your professors to pass you.”
“Maybe you should’ve let them fail me.”
“And then what would you’ve done? And what the hell will you do with the shop? Make some strange chairs and fuck Muslim sluts there?”
“You take that back!”
“I will take nothing back!” the old man said, his nostrils flaring.
There was an altogether different look in the old man’s eyes. Anush wondered how drunk or high on Calmpose he was, if he’d even remember all this the next morning.
The old man swayed while he waited for a reply, but Anush couldn’t think of what to say. The old man continued, “Sometimes I can’t believe you’re my son.”
“I wish I wasn’t,” Anush said and lunged at the old man, clutching his throat. The old man dropped his glass and the two of them were face to face, grabbing at each other’s throats. As much as Anush wanted to punch, stab, and kick his father, he also wanted the same wrath on himself—he wanted to be punched, kicked, and beaten, to be obliterated and disappear into nothing, to cease to exist. Anush could see the broken blood vessels in his father’s eyes and smell the whisky on his breath, which for some reason reminded him of the sweet-smelling orchids and jacarandas he’d laid on his mother’s funeral pyre. The two of them fumbled onto the balcony, awkwardly jostling back and forth. They were near the balcony railing when it occurred to Anush that this was his opportunity to get rid of the old man. All the other windows were dark. No one would know. But because of Anush’s broken collar bone, the old man was able to overpower his son and drove him into the balcony railing. Anush’s back hit the railing with a dull thump and every bit of balance a
nd stability he lost was taken up by the old man, and Anush realized if the old man didn’t relent they’d both end up toppling over the balcony and plummet nine floors to their deaths. Anush tried to speak but the old man was choking him, and he had a look on his face Anush had never seen, a demented, tortured glaze.
What if this was the end? What if the two of them died just like their mad grandfather? There was no way to survive the fall. Would he die and be burned on a pile of wood? Who would burn him? Would his soul cease to exist while his body converted into hydrogen atoms in the atmosphere? Or would he join his mother up there in the sky somewhere? Or would he be reborn in some other part of the world with no knowledge of this life? Or would he defy gravity on his way down like the eagles? Would he suddenly grow wings and unfurl them at the last split second? If he truly had an extraordinary destiny, something would save him.
Nasreen came to him, her perfect face, her full lips, her big brown eyes that he could swim in for an eternity. But of course she didn’t feel the same about him, she’d lied to him, made a cuckold of him, and was moving to New York with Zafar. The hollow pit in his stomach would never be filled. Maybe it was better to be burned on a pile of wood than to live with the humiliation of unrequited love.
But then there was his destiny. He’d not even come close to doing anything extraordinary. How could he quit now? Maybe surrendering to his father and being thrown off the balcony would be the one extraordinary thing he’d do. Yield. Capitulate. Cave in.
The thought of stars dying, losing their light, turning black and collapsing, then exploding with a blinding flash of light inspired him. Anush stopped struggling and went limp. He rolled his eyes as though he were losing consciousness. The old man relented and that’s when Anush suddenly sprang back to life and mustered a knee into the old man’s groin. In one deft move, Anush switched places with the old man and now had him over the balcony railing.
With his hands around his father’s neck, Anush was shaking and crying. Through the tears streaming down his face, Anush managed to say the thing that he’d kept in his heart for so long. “I wish it was you who’d died all those years ago instead of her.”
The old man gasped for air and Anush loosened his grip just enough to let him speak. There was a wild look in the old man’s eyes. He seemed to smirk while sputtering, “I guess this is only fair. Like father, like son. Come on, do it! For once in your life, do something extraordinary!”
Anush tightened his grip on the old man as a cool waft of sea breeze blew in, and with it a small epiphany: it was the old man who’d pushed his own father over the balcony all those years ago. It made sense. The old man’s aversion to the furniture shop. Maybe he blamed his father for what happened to his mother all those years ago when she was lost during Partition. Maybe Anush and his old man weren’t that different. Like father, like son.
With one heave Anush could easily push his father over the railing now. He realized it would be a sort of justice for his grandfather. No one would know. Anush would inherit everything. Buy back the furniture shop. Buy a hundred furniture shops. He wouldn’t have to answer to anyone. He wouldn’t feel like a stranger in his own home. Everyone knew the old man enjoyed his whisky. And there were the Calmpose pills. There’d be enough empty containers of those around to convince the police if foul play was suspected. Like father, like son, everyone would assume. The old man was depressed, Anush would say, addicted to the pills. He must have jumped. It would be the extraordinary thing Anush was destined to do. Like father, like son.
- 44 -
ANUSH
1998
“CONGRATS,” PARRY SAID, PUMPING ANUSH’S hand and slapping him on the back. “Kuttay, Kaminay!”
The wedding reception was well underway at the Taj Hotel ballroom where hundreds of guests were mingling among dozens of wait staff serving hors d’oeuvres and drinks. The majority of the guests were business associates and friends of the old man. The rest were friends and family of the Patiks. Anush had a few friends in attendance, mostly acquaintances. Parry had just returned from his travels and was standing by Anush’s side now in the receiving line while Jyoti’s parents and the old man mingled among the crowd.
Before Anush could introduce Jyoti to Parry, Parry did it himself. “You’re more beautiful than I remember,” he said, shaking her hand.
Anush was as perplexed as Jyoti, until Anush realized Parry had Jyoti mixed up with Nasreen. Parry’s first and only night in town was the night they’d gone to the nightclub, the first time Anush had met Nasreen.
“No, uh, my cousin Parry’s a little confused. He’s been travelling for four months—the heat’s obviously baked his brain,” Anush said.
Parry corrected Anush. “It’s Paresh. And yes, I’ve been travelling quite a bit, just got off the train this morning.”
Anush was glad Paresh was using his Indian name but still wondered if he was a confused coconut. Paresh kept talking. “Goa, Kerala, Rajasthan, Dharamsala, Varnasi, Nepal—it was incredible. Soul nourishing. I never once travelled first class. It’s amazing—so many people with so few things, and yet they seem so content. It really makes you think.” He went on at length, forgetting to ask Jyoti about herself.
Anush tried not to let Paresh’s narcissism irk him too much. He’d be flying back to Canada soon and no matter how many times he travelled third class or what he changed his name to, he didn’t live here. He’d be back in Canada skating on a frozen lake and India would always be a fondly remembered vacation. He’d frame exotic photos of his travels on his walls of his dorm room, speak of his time in India as soul nourishing, life changing. Bullshit sandwich. Countless people had come and gone and done the same, seeking some sort of enlightenment, feeling blessed to be able to see that there was beauty in poverty, that it was somehow noble to have so little, but that was so reductive, patronizing, lacking nuance and complexity. The truth was more elusive. Of course the people in the slums and villages were resilient, ingenious, but there was little nobility or grace in having to endure hardship and suffering. Anush had accompanied Reza to his village not long ago to help his family move to Bombay, to the flat above the shop. The shame of treating Reza any differently in the past still clung to Anush, and he knew no amount of money would be able to forgive his previous conceit. But for Reza’s whole family to not live in squalor, the chance for his daughter to go to a good school, was something real, a change that Anush was happy to be able to provide.
Now at the reception, Jyoti turned her attention away from Paresh to receive guests. Anush was thankful she was as kind and patient as she was, but she kept a part of herself hidden. Maybe he did too. It would get easier as they got to know each other. At least that’s what everyone kept saying.
As Paresh chased after a waiter who was walking around with a tray of champagne, Anush rolled his eyes at Jyoti, apologizing for Paresh. Jyoti smiled and squeezed his hand while whispering, “It’s OK. I have some annoying cousins too.”
The two of them had been standing for nearly two hours and so far had only received half the guests. At this rate, it would be an eternity till Anush was able to have a drink as it was disrespectful of the bride or groom to be drinking alcohol in front of their elders—it being a Gujarati marriage reception. Trust the Gujus to take the fun out of every thing. Maybe he’d nip to the toilet and get Paresh to sneak him a quick whisky.
While guests congratulated them and shook hands, he wondered what Jyoti was thinking. It was difficult to see her whole face with the jewelry and Gujarati-style sari that draped her head. Over the past couple of months they’d been on a number of dates, and each had gone slightly better than the last. There were no sparks or fireworks. In fact, they’d only kissed once. It was barely a peck. No passion, no yearning, no tongue, but they got along well enough. They even talked about it, admitting how strange it felt to be considering marrying the other. Jyoti had said, “My friends confessed that getting along is what’s required at first. Maybe the rest will evolve naturally?”
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Anush had admitted, “Yeah, I hear that too. And arranged marriages have a much better track record than Western marriages, half of which end in divorce.”
Even though that first kiss was more like a handshake, it was a good start. It felt like an honest beginning. Something he had never had with Nasreen.
In between guests now, Anush leaned towards Jyoti and whispered, “Do your cheeks hurt from smiling as much as mine?”
“Absolutely. And I don’t even know most of these people.”
Mrs. Patik arrived with a couple of drinks, a pineapple juice for Jyoti and a Coke for Anush. Anush was so parched he took a large gulp only to find his glass half full of whisky. Mrs. Patik shot him a stealthy wink before she disappeared back into the crowd.
Maybe the old lady wasn’t as uptight as she appeared. Breathing a little easier, Anush caught a glimpse of the old man celebrating among a crowd of his friends with the colonel and some BJP men. They were so boisterous that they seemed more like a group of college chums. The old man was smiling wide and embracing people with an enthusiasm Anush had never seen.
He wondered how much of their fight on the balcony the old man remembered. It was difficult to tell. They would never speak of it—that was certain. The old man had been in such a haze that night when Anush pulled him up over the railing and put him back into his bed that he fell asleep almost immediately and was snoring by the time Anush left his bedroom.
An Extraordinary Destiny Page 28
