Exile

by Akhilesh

  When the crop was ready, it was bountiful. The scene was like this: Baba was happy to see Dadi and Dadi was happy to see Baba. The two, in their joy, started peeling the sugar cane and sucking it. The juice trickled down their throats and they enjoyed the joy of each moment. That night, Dadi cooked halwa, poori and vegetables and joined Baba at dinner. The spell of euphoria was so boundless that during copulation both Baba and Dadi were in high spirits and finally, that which had not happened in so many years finally occurred.

  The upshot was his only son, who was intelligent, diligent and a conqueror of destiny but so ill-fated that he died in his youth. However, within the span of his numbered years, he had run his business well enough to amass a good amount of money. A few years before his death, Surinam was making amazing progress in bauxite mining, small-scale farming and urbanization projects. This talented son of Baba, this glowing comet, raked in money with both hands.

  And in Bhagelu Pandey’s Shravan Kumar’s heart, there never was any waning of fondness, service and devotion towards his father. He thought, my father has grown so old, who will look after him if I don’t? Even Mother isn’t here to take care of him. Another reason for his sentimentality was what he saw in his father now. After acquiring wealth and stability, Baba had begun to recall his village and his first family quite fervently. He would sob in the middle of the night and talk to God. One night he asked his father, ‘Do you harbour any sadness?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You are not revealing your heart.’

  ‘No, there is nothing.’

  Baba’s comforts were doubled. A swing was hung from the tree in the front of the house, and Baba used to swing on it. When the son returned from work, he would chaperon him inside dotingly. He obtained a liquor permit for himself and his father. In one part of the house, he constructed a grand bar with the best wines and spent his evenings with Baba there. Since it was necessary to share some time with his own son, Ramajor, he would also usher his child, the apple of his eye, into the bar. Two generations sipped the choicest wines and the third generation, Ramajor, grew up in the bar, playing, studying, falling asleep there.

  And so, Ramajor Pandey was telling an absolute lie when he said that his veins were filled with native hauli hooch. The other lie was that Baba liked to smoke bidis. The fact was that Baba had never even touched one. As far as tobacco was concerned, he sometimes used to smoke a hookah which a girmitiya had brought from his village, and after whose death his wife had gifted it to Baba.

  Why was Pandey lying then? A truth in this world is not measured by its objective. Truth by itself is a benchmark. But a lie is evaluated by its motive. If the intention of a lie is in doing good, extending pity or the welfare of others, it acquires the grade of truth. Was Pandey’s lie something of the sort? Or was it the lowest of lies, ones told for self-interest? In fact, Pandey’s lie was neither. It was a unique, complex and pointless lie. A lie which Pandey believed as the truth. A lie in the truth of which Pandey existed. To clarify this contradiction, we have to travel back into the past once again.

  He was given the name Ramajor by Baba.

  When Baba advanced in years and his grandson Ramajor started going to school, the pair became inseparable. Baba would wake Ramajor up in the morning and get him ready for school. He would not eat until Ramajor returned, glancing at the clock all the time. Grandfather and grandson ate and slept together. When the grandson fell in deep slumber, Baba would ponder: had I remained in Gosainganj, what would have become of me? He would answer his own question: What else but the potter’s wheel, earning, eating and then dying one day? I would not have been delivered from the tedium of fate. This comfort and respect, this coat, pair of trousers, suit, this delicious food, drink and luxuries – wow! He would express his gratitude to God and feel proud of himself.

  But memories of his past grief were also combined with all these happy feelings. They accompanied him all the time, leading or following him like his shadow. Whereas all shadows vanish and rest at night, Baba’s shadow engulfed him. His heart would bleed for the loved ones he had left behind. He would compare their condition and his own in his heart and would be seized by self-loathing. But no matter how miserable, depressed and unhappy he was, if Ramajor put his arm on his chest or a leg on his waist, all his sadness vanished. The touch of the child’s tender fingers poured love into Baba’s soul.

  The darling grandson also cherished his grandfather. Those were excellent days. Ramajor had only two grouses against his Baba. One, that he did not help him with homework. Two, the stories that Baba narrated were not very exciting. They contained neither kings and queens nor fairies, nor did they have battles, nor chests of laughter. Mystery, sensations, curiosity and thrill had no room in them either. Moreover, there were no miracles performed by seers, auliyas, saints and mendicants. The stories were so drab and monotonous that the grandson soon nodded off.

  Sometimes, the grandson felt his Baba was loony. After all, only a mad man would gaze at his grandson when they were alone and start calling him by other names. He would say, ‘My Parmu, my son, won’t you ever forgive me?’ Or else he would hug him and say, ‘You are not Ramajor but Bisnath.’ Sometimes he would ask, ‘Ramajor, had you not one but two grandmothers, how would you have felt?’

  Another proof of his insanity was that in spite of Ramajor having the best toys in the world, he would personally mould toys for him. He was really crazy. On some days, he left the house at daybreak to collect clay. His joy, his enthusiasm was worth watching then. He would say, ‘This is fine clay.’ He would shape various kinds of toys skilfully. He would cast ladders, rats, elephants, swords, glasses, plates, pots and ovens and gift them to Ramajor. He would ask, ‘How do you like them?’

  The grandson would answer, ‘They’re wonderful!’

  He would lament, ‘I can make the best pots, but I don’t have my wheel here.’

  ‘You can mould pots?’ Ramajor was amazed.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘All kinds of earthen utensils.’

  ‘Name a few.’

  ‘Surahi, pitcher, parai, hanriya, meta … everything.’

  ‘You are a real potter, Baba!’ Ramajor exclaimed in delight.

  ‘What’s a potter?’ Baba asked.

  ‘A kumhar. You are a real kumhar, Baba.’

  Flies of fear buzzed over Baba’s face, unease filled him. He pursed his lips and walked away with leaden steps.

  If one overlooks these eccentricities, Baba was a wonderful person. As Ramajor grew up, Baba’s love for his grandson grew more eloquent. He regularly bought him things, finding pleasure in doing small chores for him. Ramajor too had grown quite fond of his grandfather. Even when he turned sixteen, as he emerged from a bath, he would find Baba waiting to comb his hair. One consequence of this reliance on Baba was that when he started doing it himself, the parting in his hair always remained crooked. Similarly, for many years, he was unable to button his sleeve or knot his tie or fasten his pyjamas string because his Baba had been doing it for him for years. When he would walk out of the bathroom in his slack pyjamas, Baba fixed the string with a kind smile.

  When Ramajor grew up, he thought, Baba has done so much for me, now it is my turn. So, when his company earned its first profit in America, he rushed to Baba, who was sitting on his haunches in the sun and drawing figures in the soil with his fingers. When he noticed Ramajor approaching, he rubbed them off quickly. Ramajor was hardly aware of this creation and annihilation. Buoyant and exhilarated, he arrived, picked up Baba in his arms and stepping into the house, planted him on the bed.

  ‘Come, you won’t live here any more,’ Ramajor said excitedly.

  ‘Where shall I go?’

  ‘Come and live in America with me.’

  ‘I’ll stay here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just like that.’

  Ramajor was disappointed. He wanted Baba to come with him to America; he wanted them to remain together but more than t
hat, he was filled with a fervent desire to do something extraordinary for Baba. He wanted to express his gratitude for Baba’s unparalleled affection. But Baba did not yield. He was not ready to go to an alien country. His head was still shaking in refusal.

  It was then that the best solution flashed in Ramajor’s mind, one with which he was certain there could be no better way of showing his respect for and intimacy with Baba. He did not waste a moment, ‘Would you prefer to travel through India and see everyone again? I’ll make preparations.’

  Baba started shuddering. Ramajor thought it was ecstasy, and that Baba was unable to come to grips with this sudden endowment. But he was stunned when Baba held his hand and pleaded, ‘Let me remain here. Let my life go on like this.’

  Two years later when Ramajor Pandey’s company earned a profit of fourteen lakh dollars, he came to Baba once again.

  ‘Baba, I think you don’t want to go to your homeland because of your old age. It doesn’t matter. Tell me the name of your village, district and state, I’ll go personally.’

  A question mark swam in Baba’s eyes, ‘What will you do there?’

  ‘I’ll bring your family here.’

  A glow appeared on Baba’s face for the first and the last time. Baba mumbled, ‘Gosainganj.’ But it was momentary. It appeared like a bubble and vanished. After this incident, his eyes turned into vacuous holes of darkness and not another word spilled from his mouth to provide a clue to his native place.

  When Ramajor Pandey’s firm was celebrating their success, Joen, a reporter from a business magazine asked him, ‘What is your most pressing wish?’

  ‘There are two.’ Pandey caressed his tie knot. ‘First, I want to see my company at the top of the field in the next five years.’

  ‘The other?’ Joen asked impatiently, although she should have listened quietly.

  ‘The second is that I must arrange for my grandfather to meet with his family in India.’

  Joen failed to understand how such a simple matter could be an ardent wish for a filthy rich man like Pandey.

  The future provided plentiful openings for Joen to understand this wish because she grew quite intimate with Pandey during the press conference, and within a year they were married. But Joen was unable to figure it out even as Pandey’s wife. She visited Baba in Surinam but in vain. Baba came from India to Surinam, he had a family there. Now he could go visit them. Whenever she found Baba and grandson feuding on the issue, she was seriously perplexed. Gradually, she started believing that Baba was bananas and his grandson had inherited it. If Baba were not nuts, why had he moulded cheap clay pots for her wedding?

  No normal man can possess the kind of attachment Pandey had for his Baba, so Joen had begun to believe Pandey too was batty. But the control that Pandey exhibited over his business, his decisions, his assaults on competitors and his understanding of his colleagues dispelled all such misgivings. Besides, Pandey was so indulgent of all her desires that she always absolved him. Pandey was so devoted to her that he had reined in his third (and perhaps the most pressing) wish to beget a child as soon as possible. Joen was not ready for pregnancy. Pandey had inquired once, ‘When?’

  Joen had giggled, ‘When your company is top dog.’

  Pandey’s company reached the top in four years and Pandey came back with the idea, as if he had been waiting for this moment all along. When he came to bed after the party celebrating his success, he was neither exhausted nor sleepy in spite of the day’s activities. His kiss stunned Joen. She had never been kissed so passionately. It was as if the entire universe had condensed into that one kiss. At first, the kiss was passionate and pressing and then it grew subtle and weightless. Joen recalled his question from four years ago and also her reply.

  She was not willing to be a mother yet, but Pandey’s activities in bed that night were so intense and skilful that her resistance started losing its edge. She was caught in the dilemma of receiving and rejecting, ecstasy and anxiety, losing and winning. It was the first time they’d had sex when she’d not used her teeth and nails, her arms and thighs. Most times, she was like an expert combatant, biting and hitting strategically. She would be filled with boundless vigour, agility and excitement but today, every victory fell in her lap spontaneously. When it was over, she was suffused with singular fulfilment. She touched Pandey’s eyelids softly – and then viewed him with loathing. Ten months after the abortion, she married a famous costume designer from Hollywood.

  It was on one of these days that Baba was enjoying the sun outside his house in a reclining chair. He died like that, half-reclining. Nobody knew what hour he departed this world, and it was irrelevant in the circumstances. Everybody agreed that Baba had lived a full life in spite of the fact that nobody knew his exact age since he had no reliable proof of his birthdate. On the basis of whatever he had said, toting up and taking off the months of Asarh and Magh, etc., one person calculated it to be ninety-four while the other thought it was ninety-seven.

  Pandey was distraught by Baba’s death. After performing the last rites, Pandey stayed in the house, but did not sleep a wink, going from one room to another, from the ground floor to the upper floor, sagging down every so often, exhausted. His parents were dead, and now Baba too was gone. Even Joen had deserted him. He felt utterly alone in the world. The question throbbed in his heart – who is there for me? Neither Baba nor Babu, neither son nor wife. Who is there for me now in this world?

  And when he did not discover the answers in these clogged spaces, he mounted the stairs and went to the roof. It was two a.m., and it was a resplendent night. The moon was low on the horizon and stars were sprinkled richly about. He looked around and demanded, ‘Who is there for me in this bleak, lonely universe?’ He received no reply. Finally, he came to the room downstairs and sat in front of Baba’s picture till dawn.

  To drown his grief, he worked on a two-pronged strategy. First, he remarried but this wife quit him in less than the time he had spent with Joen. She believed that she had made a mistake by marrying because marriage is actually a sort of suicide. Obviously, Pandey’s wish of begetting a son remained unfulfilled. The second was his business. He immersed himself in it and started getting rid of his sorrows gradually. He did not overcome Baba’s loss completely. Rather, he reminisced more frequently about him than about his parents. He was quite young when his mother and father passed away, and so his memories of them were not as extensive and lively. In a way, the oldest and the most profound memories he had was of his Baba.

  But the dust of his professional time poured upon the memories and eventually, they were cast in the basement of forgetfulness. His hectic life did not let him peer in the basement. He was so occupied with his business, so involved in its expansion, management and profits that he did not have the time to reminisce any more. Later, when his companies started expanding in other fields, he was caught in a whirlwind. He would either be attending a meeting or be travelling. He evaluated new projects before going to bed and enjoyed dreams of success.

  In between, he also had a vision of his third wedding but he was cured soon enough. Being betrayed by two wives had scared him so dreadfully that he was afraid the next one would also run away. Now, out of fear of being spurned by women, he rejected them first and moved into a new relationship. In his own firm, there were plenty of gorgeous women Pandey bedded and then severed ties with. His longest liaison was with the marketing director of his seafood company, from Germany. It almost became a permanent bond and when the affair peaked, Pandey started spending time with the CMD of an airlines.

  Pandey went on hoarding dollars and affairs. There was probably nobody to tell him or perhaps, he was not conscious that he was growing older. Finally, one day, he realized that there was something missing in his life and this was causing him a lot of distress. Even on the verge of old age, he yearned for a baby. The wish grew more insistent and stubborn with the passage of time. Had he consulted a psychiatrist, he would have realized that he nurtured a subconscious des
ire to have a child. He longed to dote and fawn over someone. He craved to hand his financial empire over to somebody with whom he enjoyed a rapport similar to what his Baba had with him. But this was not to be and when he turned sixty-five, one tipsy evening he had an insight – all the women from Joen to his present consort had conned him. He resolved that if he wanted sex, he would sleep with whores. He concluded hatefully, ‘These bitches were sluts, incapable of bearing my child.’

  Keith was unaware that fate was waiting to pour fortune over him. He was a tall and slender young man with a brisk, confident gait, a rare candour and recklessness danced on his face all the time. A slight smile always played on his lips and a sense of wonder filled his eyes as if the world were some curiosity he enjoyed watching unravel. He had joined one of Pandey’s firms after an MBA and had leaped up the rungs of success to become vice-president.

  One fine day, Pandey suddenly had an idea. He wondered how old his child would have been had Joen not had an abortion? He made calculations and then pored over an HR list on his laptop to check if there was anyone in the company whose date of birth coincided with the date of the abortion. It turned out to be Keith.

  Pandey called a meeting with the marketing and HR heads the very next day and inquired about Keith. He was told that the boy was bright, sincere and simple. He then hired a private detective to report on all Keith’s activities for an entire month. The day the detective was to put in his report, Pandey checked his email several times since morning. Finally, at 10 p.m., he went through the report. He was thrilled to discover that there was no blemish in Keith’s persona, no drama, no mystery. Pandey also managed to acquire records from the lab Keith used to visit for his health check-ups and discovered that he was in the pink of health. The reports on Keith were so upright that Pandey found it almost boring and wondered, ‘Do such young men without secrets really exist?’ However, generally speaking, he was extremely pleased and decided to go ahead with his plan.