by Amitav Ghosh
It was all changed, but now my grandmother didn’t care any longer. It wasn’t the house she remembered, the house she had built for me in Calcutta, but it was near enough.
I can see her, wandering into that yard, heedless of the pools of grease and the discarded tyres, gazing up at the balconies with their spindly wrought-iron railings, tripping over a bent wheel as she looks for the lime trees her mother had once planted, knocking her knees against a set of twisted handlebars, until Saifuddin, the mechanic, leads her gently to a bench and persuades her to sit down. She looks at his grease-blackened face then, and wonders from which part of the house this new relative whose face she can’t remember has appeared. And Mayadebi, trying to rescue her from her bewilderment, explains softly that this is Saifuddin, the mechanic who is going to help them take their uncle back to India. My grandmother starts, because she has forgotten all about her uncle, but slowly, with an effort of that prodigious will of hers, she brings herself back to the present, reminds herself that she has a serious duty to perform, that she hasn’t come all this way merely to indulge her nostalgia – she hates nostalgia, my grandmother, she has spent years telling me that nostalgia is a weakness, a waste of time, that it is everyone’s duty to forget the past and look ahead and get on with building the future – so now, slowly, she reminds herself of the duty that has brought her here, her duty to take her uncle away from his past and thrust him into the future.
Oh yes, Jethamoshai, she said to Saifuddin. And how is he now?
Saifuddin, who was a stocky, powerfully built man, in his mid-forties, explained to her, in rapid Hindustani-accented Bengali, that he wasn’t well, that they ought to do something for him as soon as possible.
My grandmother, nodding gravely, looked down at her hands, and saw to her surprise that she was carrying a brown-paper packet. Then she remembered why she had brought it, and thrust it into Saifuddin’s hands. Here, she said. It’s a sari for your wife.
A smile of pleased surprise appeared on Saifuddin’s grease-blackened face. He protested that she shouldn’t have bothered, and then thanked her profusely and shouted up to his wife to bring tea for their guests from India.
But shouldn’t we go and talk to him now? Mayadebi said. We haven’t got much time.
You have to have a cup of tea here before you go, the mechanic said firmly. After all, you’ve come all the way from India. Besides, it’s no use going to see Ukil-babu on your way; you have to wait for Khalil.
And who is Khalil? said my grandmother.
Khalil and his family look after Ukil-babu, Saifuddin explained to her. He’s a nice fellow. He came over from India too; from Murshidabad, in Bengal. He’s a bit stupid, but he’s got a good heart. That’s what I always say to people – I say, he may be foolish, but he’s got a good heart, otherwise why would he bother to look after that old man, a Hindu too, when he could easily have thrown him out and kept both rooms for his family?
He turned to Tridib, and said: Have you been to Motihari, sahb, in Bihar? That’s where I was born.
Tridib shook his head.
Saifuddin pursed his lips in disappointment. That’s sad, he said. You must go and visit Motihari when you get back. It’s a nice place, though of course there’s a lot of trouble there now.
How does Khalil earn a living? my grandmother asked.
He runs a cycle-rickshaw, Saifuddin said. And does little odd jobs here and there. Just about makes enough to keep his wife and children going. It was all right for them when the Ukil-babu was earning a little. But now that he’s bedridden, I don’t know how they manage.
He fingered his chin thoughtfully. There must be hotels in Motihari now, he said to Tridib. I believe the town has dozens of cinema halls.
Does Khalil’s wife cook for him too? my grandmother asked in a hushed voice.
Of course, said Saifuddin. If she didn’t the old man wouldn’t get anything to eat.
She exchanged a look of amazement with Mayadebi. Do you know, she whispered to Robi, there was a time when that old man was so orthodox that he wouldn’t let a Muslim’s shadow pass within ten feet of his food? And look at him now, paying the price of his sins.
Ten feet! Robi explained to May in a hushed whisper, marvelling at the precision of the measurement. How did he measure? he whispered back at my grandmother. Did he keep a tape in his pocket when he ate?
No, no, my grandmother said impatiently. In those days many people followed rules like that: they had an instinct.
Trigonometry! Robi cried in a triumphant aside to May. They must have known trigonometry. They probably worked it out like a sum: if the Muslim is standing under a twenty-two foot building, how far is his shadow? You see, we’re much cleverer than you: bet your grandfather couldn’t tell when a German’s shadow was passing within ten feet of his food.
But how, Tridib was asking Saifuddin, did Khalil come to move into this house? Was the house requisitioned by the government and divided or something like that?
No, Saifuddin said in mild surprise. He came like the rest of us, only later. Don’t you know? After Partition Ukil-babu went around looking for people to move into the house because he was afraid his brother’s family would come back to claim their share. He used to stand at the gates, welcoming people in. His own children had gone away long ago, no one knows where. One of his sons came once, but Ukil-babu sent him back. Khalil came much later than the rest of us. He just turned up with his family, and the Ukil-babu let him stay. And Khalil has looked after him ever since.
He glanced at them quickly, out of the corners of his eyes. Of course, he added, it’s getting very difficult for him now. He can’t afford it any longer.
Poor old man, my grandmother said, shaking her head. Do you think he’ll agree to go back with us now?
Who knows? Saifuddin gestured towards the heavens with his open palms: He’s very old and not quite right in the mind. He doesn’t recognise people any more – that’s why you have to wait for Khalil before you go to meet him. You may not find it easy to get him to leave. He’s grown old here. I couldn’t get my father to leave Motihari to come to Pakistan with us. He’d grown old there too … But you will have to try; there’s no alternative now.
The reedy blast of a rubber horn sounded in the lane outside. A moment later a rickshaw banked steeply through the gate and came shooting into the yard. The driver was standing poised on one pedal, preparing to jump off.
That’s Khalil, said Saifuddin. He usually falls off. Dhishum! Right on his head. But he has a hard head.
Khalil leapt off the rickshaw while it was still in motion, fell on all fours and abashedly picked himself up. He was a small, stocky man with powerful legs, broad shoulders, and an indeterminately young face. Respectfully lowering his folded lungi, he shuffled up to Saifuddin and said: Yes, sir? It was evident from the deferential angle of his head that he held the mechanic in considerable awe.
These are Ukil-babu’s relatives, Khalil, Saifuddin said. I told you about them. They’ve come all the way from India to take him back. You must do what you can to help them persuade the Ukilbabu to leave.
Khalil turned to them and grinned: there was a wide gap where his front teeth should have been. May remembered later that her heart was instantly won by that broad smile: it was a shy, simple kind of smile, but looking at his face she knew instinctively that behind it lay, not simple-mindedness, but its exact contrary, a quality of mind.
In a deep, low voice, shaking his head, Khalil said: He won’t go. It’s no use talking to him. He won’t go.
Khalil! the mechanic said sharply. You remember what I told you? You have to do something to persuade him to go. It’s for his own sake. It’s not safe for him here any more.
Khalil shrugged. All right, he said. You can try. But I tell you, it’s no use: he won’t go.
He gestured to them to follow him and led the way across the yard. My grandmother had difficulty rising to her feet now; Tridib had to help her up. Mayadebi linked arms with her as they slowly
walked across the yard. They both had tears running down their cheeks when they stopped at the door. We’re going to find out at last about the upside-down house, said my grandmother.
Khalil pushed open the door and ushered them in.
The room was large and very grimy, not from neglect, but from being too densely inhabited. The plaster drooped in blackened scrolls on the walls, and honeycombs of cobwebs hung down from the ceiling. The floor was littered with old tyre tubes and rusty handlebars while the walls were lined with shelves of peeling books and beribboned files.
Mayadebi and my grandmother began to laugh, hugging each other. Nothing’s upside-down, said my grandmother.
A woman, hooded in a sari, with two children clutching her knees, was watching them from the shelter of a curtained door at the far end of the room. Ei! Khalil said to her: make some tea for them, quick, they’re Ukil-babu’s relatives, come from Calcutta.
The curtain dropped and she disappeared, but the children stayed, watching them with bright round eyes.
It was not until Khalil crossed the room that they noticed the old man. He was sitting on a high, four-poster bed at the far end of the room, looking out of the window, unaware of their presence. Robi shrank back. He had never seen anyone as old as that: he was so old he seemed childlike – shrunken, tiny, with spit hanging in threads from the corners of his mouth.
My grandmother’s eyes misted over as she looked at the old man. Jethamoshai, she cried. We’ve come home at last …
He saw her then and turned his head slowly to look at her.
She covered her head and hurried towards him. We’ve come back, Jethamoshai, she said, her voice dissolving into a sob. We’ve come to take you with us.
Stop! he screamed shrilly, cowering back into the grimy bolsters and pillows that lay scattered around him. Stop, stop, stop! What are you doing woman? Stop!
My grandmother froze, in confusion. What do you mean stop? she said, her tear-choked voice taking on an edge of indignation. Don’t you recognise me? I’m your …
I know who you are, woman, he said irascibly, his thin voice quavering. But I never let clients touch me. My father never allowed it. It’s a dirty habit, he used to say. Now go and sit on that stool over there and tell me about your case.
My grandmother, taken by surprise, obeyed him and sat down.
The old man shook a twig-like finger at Khalil, and gestured at the others.
Tell them to wait in a queue outside, he said. I’ll see them one by one. I can’t see more than one client at a time.
Now listen to me, Ukil-babu, Khalil bellowed, at the top of his voice. They’re not clients, Ukil-babu. They’re your relatives.
But the old man was not listening. His eyes were fixed on May. His sagging mouth had fallen open and his tongue had spilled out from the gaps between his teeth.
Playfully, he waggled his head at her. She smiled back.
She’s a foreigner, Ukil-babu, Khalil shouted, so loudly that Robi heard him with his feet. She’s come from Calcutta with your relatives.
I know, the old man said, blinking at her. I know. I know everything. Clara Bow, Mary Pickford, I know.
Ukil-babu has so much knowledge in his head! Khalil said proudly to my grandmother.
How do you do? the old man said to May in English, whistling through the gaps in his teeth. How do you do?
A thought seemed to come into his mind and he raised his head and surveyed the walls. The pupils of his eyes had leaked into the whites liked punctured egg yolks. He found what he was looking for and slowly raised a matchstick-thin arm.
There, he said, pointing at a picture. Our King-Emperor. God save our gracious king.
There was so much dust encrusted on the picture that Robi could see nothing except a pointed beard near the bottom of the frame and a crown floating on a cloud of cobwebs at the top.
The old man began to sing – God save our gracious … But then he forgot the tune and managed somehow to convert the words into a cheerful hum.
May laughed and began to sing too: God save our …
That’s right, the old man said, slapping his pillows in applause. Then suddenly, his mouth fell open and his face darkened with worry.
Khalil! he whispered in a whistle that shrilled through the room. Khalil, run, run, go quickly and buy some toilet paper.
What’s that? said Khalil. Why?
What if she wants to shit? the old man said. My father always said: the first thing to remember if a foreigner comes to your house is to buy toilet paper. He knew: he read books.
Don’t worry Ukil-babu, Khalil shouted, trying to soothe him. She’s already been this morning.
How do you know? he snapped. Has she told you? You can’t even speak English.
My grandmother was distraught now; she couldn’t bear to sit still any longer. She leapt to her feet and shouted: Jethamoshai, don’t you know who I am?
His face twisted into a peevish scowl as he turned slowly to look at her. Didn’t I tell you to sit down, woman? he snapped.
Obediently, my grandmother sat down again. Can’t you see? she moaned, wringing her hands. I’m your own brother’s daughter.
All right, then, woman, he said. Explain your case to me. What’s it all about?
Then Tridib stepped in. Now listen, he said very loudly. We’re your relatives; we’ve come to take you back. Do you remember your brother who lived in the other part of the house?
The old man’s face lit up. They died! he said, his voice quivering in triumph. They had two daughters: one with a face like a vulture, and another one who was as poisonous as a cobra but all pretty and goody-goody to look at.
Tridib began to laugh. Well, they’ve come back to rescue you now, he said.
They both went junketing off somewhere, the old man went on. And as soon as I could I went out into the streets and got hold of whoever I could and moved them in. Now I’m just waiting for them to come back.
He grinned, and Tridib flinched from the festering malevolence in his bare, black gums.
I’m just waiting for them to come back, he said, so that I can drag them through every court in the land up to the Viceroy’s Council. ‘Possession is nine-tenths of the law’ my cousin Brajen used to say, and he knew because he had taken his uncle’s family through every court in the kingdom because they had taken away a handful of soil from the land on his side of the canal and added it to theirs.
It’s true, Mayadebi said to Tridib. I remember him: he had to sell his land to pay his lawyers.
For one handful of soil! the old man marvelled, staring up at the ceiling. That’s the kind of flesh I’m made of. They’ll find out: just let them come back.
They have come back, my grandmother said gently. But not to fight you in court. We don’t want the house. We’ve come to take you home with us. It’s not safe for you here. There might be trouble any day now. You must move while you can.
Move? the old man said incredulously. Move to what?
It’s not safe for you here, my grandmother said urgently. I know these people look after you well, but it’s not the same thing. You don’t understand.
I understand very well, the old man muttered. I know everything, I understand everything. Once you start moving you never stop. That’s what I told my sons when they took the trains. I said: I don’t believe in this India-Shindia. It’s all very well, you’re going away now, but suppose when you get there they decide to draw another line somewhere? What will you do then? Where will you move to? No one will have you anywhere. As for me, I was born here, and I’ll die here.
At that my grandmother gave up. She sighed and got up to go. There’s no use talking to him any more, she said. We’ve done what we can. We’d better go now.
Then Saifuddin the mechanic, who had been listening carefully, went quickly across the room and said: It’s no use talking to him. He’s not responsible for what he says; it’s the same as being mad. You’ll have to think of some other way of taking him back.
S
uddenly Khalil turned to my grandmother, appealing with open arms.
Don’t listen to him, he cried. He’s only saying this because he wants to put in a claim for the whole house and he can’t do it while the old man is still living here. You can’t take him away; he won’t go. Besides, he’s like a grandfather to my children now – what will they do without him?
The mechanic wrenched him around and pushed him back against the wall.
He’s lying, he said. It’s got nothing to do with claiming the house. You can see Khalil is simple-minded; he doesn’t understand anything. I’m telling you to take him away for his sake. He’s made a lot of enemies over the years. The last time there was trouble we had a hard time protecting him. Who knows what’ll happen the next time?
You can’t take him away, cried Khalil. He’ll die.
Then a female voice broke in; it was Khalil’s wife, half hidden by the curtain.
Take him with you, she said. Khalil doesn’t know what he’s saying. He doesn’t have to cook for him and feed him. We have two other children too. How long can we go on like this? Where will the money come from?
And while they were sitting there, frozen into a tableau of indecision, the driver of their car came running up to the door.
Please come quickly, madam, he shouted. We have to leave – there’s going to be trouble outside.
He turned on his heel and disappeared.
My grandmother made up her mind.
Listen, Khalil, she said. What we’ll do is this: we’ll take him back now and keep him with us for a few days, until the trouble’s over. Then if he wants to return, we’ll bring him back. What about that?
Khalil’s head was hanging down in defeat now. All right, he said sullenly. But he won’t go in your car. I’ll have to bring him in my rickshaw. I’ll tell him he’s got to go to court – otherwise he won’t leave the house. I’ll follow your car.
The mechanic laughed scornfully. How can you follow their car? he said. Have you seen it? It’s a Mercedes.
