Diwali in Muzaffarnagar
Page 12
‘This is the one that we were planning to give to my mother,’ Ankush told Ravi.
‘Yea, this is the one,’ Taruna confirmed.
‘We can hang this one here,’ Ankush said. ‘And give one of the others to my mother on our next trip.’
‘No, no, what’s the point,’ said Taruna. ‘We will take it to Muzaffarnagar as planned. Ravi will get the other two redone for here.’
On Ravi’s proposal, Ankush agreed to some drinks that evening – beer, basically – and it was arranged that while the two would accompany everyone at the dinner table, they would have only some starters and then eat their food later in the night, after their drinks. Despite Ankush’s request, Taruna’s father excused himself from the session. His wife answered on his behalf: ‘Beta, alcohol gives Papa acidity. You young ones go ahead, please.’ For Taruna, there was a bottle of rosé wine in the house, and she promised to have a glass with the boys after dinner. As for the cousins, they were deemed too young to be offered alcohol.
Taruna was glad that the cousins had stayed back for dinner. Although she had disliked the carefree, jovial airs her parents had unsuccessfully donned earlier in the day, the prospect of another energy-sapping conversation at the dinner table was too much to bear. The cousins would make that impossible, she knew. And any serious talk she wanted to have with her parents could now be had when Ravi and Ankush would be drinking beer in the other room.
At the dinner table, the conversation began, understandably, with the wedding. Some new anecdotes were shared. ‘Some of the baraatis were jaahils, by god! Only interested in dancing. As if they had never heard music before.’ This was Akanksha. ‘There was one, you know, who was teasing me,’ Avantika added, ‘so I poured water on his plate of food when we were serving the baraat. Good lesson he got.’ Taruna’s father felt the need to admonish them: ‘You shouldn’t have behaved badly with our guests.’ ‘But Tayaji,’ Avantika protested, ‘it was they who were behaving badly.’
Ankush didn’t like this talk – not because he was offended by the jokes made at the expense of the baraatis, but because of the semblance of a method being followed even while making this small talk. He knew for certain that the drinks session that he and Ravi were supposed to have was planned well in advance.
‘Well, jiju, the marriage-sharriage was all fine,’ Akanksha now nudged Ankush, but where exactly did you take our didi for the honeymoon?’
Ankush smiled back at her vacantly. Then he looked towards Taruna, hoping that she would provide an explanation on his behalf. She offered him no expression.
‘It was Lonavala, wasn’t it?’ the younger one now asked. ‘I’ve heard the place is closer to Mumbai than Mussourie is to Delhi.’
‘What, jiju? We were all thinking that jiju is a corporate hotshot and all. That he will take didi to Europe-shurope and all, and you two went to Lonavala! Tch,’ Akanksha said with an exaggerated pout.
Ankush looked towards Taruna again. This time, she gave a little shrug. ‘Well, that’s how it turned out,’ he answered the cousins.
Perhaps his tone wasn’t even when he said that, which is why his mother-in-law asked the cousins to shut up. ‘That’s a matter between them both,’ she chided the girls. A couple of giggles later, the honeymoon talk died down.
But Taruna’s father started something else now. ‘So, in your company, Ankush beta, what is the highest position that you can attain?’
‘There is of course the CEO. I’m six levels down,’ Ankush answered.
‘And how much does the CEO earn?’
‘I don’t know exactly. But one point five, two, two point five crores? Maybe more,’ Ankush said.
‘Anyway, how many years,’ Taruna’s father asked, ‘might it take you to reach that level?’
Having predicted this question, Ankush chose to answer with a cruel degree of exactitude. ‘Several years. And given that not everyone becomes a CEO, the likelier scenario is that I’ll never become one.’ After a pause, he turned to the cousins: ‘So Europe-shurope might always be difficult, hain?’
In a gesture of taking up the awkward challenge that Ankush had thrown to the table, Taruna’s father spoke first: ‘You should develop a savings habit, then.’
This time Ankush checked himself for rudeness. ‘I do save, Papa,’ he said in a conciliatory tone. ‘I save some each month. Ask Taruna.’
Taruna nodded towards her father with her eyebrows raised. She was swallowing a morsel.
‘And where do you put your money?’ Taruna’s father continued.
‘I buy mutual funds. Mostly. Or an FD every now and then.’
‘Mutual funds are good – good for medium-risk investing. But individual shares are where the real money is made.’
‘That’s true,’ Ravi chipped in. ‘Papa had some pharma company shares once that gave like 300 per cent return in six months. Right, Papa?’
‘Right,’ the father-in-law said. ‘I get these tips from some of my friends. They always work out fine. It’s all about putting the right capital in at the right time.’
Inevitably, as it seemed to him, Ankush thought of his serviceman father. Thoroughly risk averse, the man was suspicious of even mutual funds, always favouring simple savings products from the national banks that he held his accounts in. Ankush knew better; he surely managed his money alright. And his education had told him that anyone who professed mastery over the share market was a fool. If it was a place to make easy money, it was also a place where one could lose their life’s work in a single hopeless hour.
‘I’m not willing to move my mutual fund portfolio,’ he addressed his father-in-law, ‘considering that my CAGR has been a good 13 to 14 per cent.’
‘CAGR?’ Ravi asked.
‘Compounded Annual Growth Rate. Yeah?’ Ankush answered.
‘Good,’ the father-in-law said. ‘That’s very good.’
The cousins left soon after dinner. Ravi and Ankush went to Taruna’s room and opened their beer pints. Taruna filled her glass of wine and only half finished it before moving to her parents’ room, saying that she wanted to ‘catch up with them’.
Ankush soon grew bored in Ravi’s company. There was nothing that was common between them. Unlike Ankush, Ravi liked neither football nor detective stories. But Ankush sensed that they were different at a more fundamental level. While Ankush had left his parents’ house in Muzaffarnagar at the age of seventeen, and had never since been in Muzaffarnagar for a stretch longer than a month, Ravi had, on the other hand, never left this home for more than a month. Not knowing how to strike an interesting conversation, Ankush took to drinking faster, and was down to his third pint inside half an hour. Ravi was still holding his first pint in his hand.
‘Fuck, man,’ Ankush said, slightly tipsy, ‘you nursing a heartbreak or something?’
‘No. Why do you say that?’ Ravi laughed.
‘I don’t know. Just.’
‘I don’t have a girlfriend, but I’m not heartbroken either,’ Ravi said.
‘Hmm … so how’s it like, taking care of that old one?’ Ankush asked.
Ravi’s face showed a momentary confusion. ‘My grandfather?’ he asked then.
‘Who else?’
‘I’m not really in charge of taking care of him.’
‘Aren’t you helping him in the toilet?’ Ankush asked.
‘Not really. Once or twice. Just holding him while he loosens his pyjama. Papa is the one who does most of the caring.’
‘Don’t you feel like shit doing this? After all that the man did to your sister?’
Ravi shifted in the small chair that he was seated on. ‘I’ve always stood by my sister’s side in her arguments with the family.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
‘My father is a social man. It’s his personality, you know,’ Ravi’s voice was a bit more sure now. ‘He does what is expected of him. And in this case, what are his options, really?’
‘It doesn’t take much to kill an old man,’ Ankush sai
d. It was only after he uttered the words that he realized that he did, indeed, believe what he said.
‘Are you really suggesting that?’ said Ravi, his forehead scrunched.
‘I’m sure you’ve thought of it,’ Ankush answered. ‘Haven’t you?’
‘Can’t say I have not,’ came the reply.
‘And I bet your father has thought of it as well.’ Ankush realized he liked being the provocateur.
‘I am not sure of that,’ said Ravi. ‘You don’t know my father enough. He’s very correct, you know.’
‘Can you pass me another pint?’ Ankush said. Some of the conversation on the dining table hadn’t felt correct.
‘Sure.’
‘Thanks,’ Ankush said. He used the opener to remove the cap and took a large swig. ‘And what about your mother? What are her views about the whole affair?’
‘Apart from his food, Mummy has taken a vow not to do anything more for the man,’ Ravi said. ‘She doesn’t want to see him, and I don’t think she’s had any need to till now.’
‘That’s because of Taruna?’ Ankush asked.
‘Yes. My mother hasn’t spoken a single word to that man for twenty years now. It’s really tough for her too.’
Seeing Ravi get emotional, Ankush held back his next question. The whole family was stuck up, he thought. He gulped down his beer then, and asked Ravi for another, which Ravi opened without question. It was Ankush’s fifth pint inside an hour and he felt he was getting sick.
Just then, Taruna came into the room and asked them if they wanted to have dinner.
‘What! It’s just been an hour,’ Ankush said.
‘He’s drinking very fast,’ Ravi complained, pointing to the empty bottles lined next to a wall.
‘I’m heating the food,’ Taruna said.
After they were done eating, Taruna requested Ravi not to sleep in the other room. ‘Bring in a mattress here,’ she said. ‘There is enough room.’
‘If I feel any trouble, I’ll come here,’ Ravi said. ‘It’s just for a night.’
He left the room.
Taruna and Ankush prepared to sleep. In bed, Ankush took Taruna in his arms. ‘So what did you discuss with your parents? Which shares should I invest my capital in?’
‘No, not that,’ Taruna said. ‘Although it won’t be too bad if you took Papa’s advice and tried in a couple of shares.’
‘What I don’t understand is the … the … incorrectness of the conversation?’ Ankush mused. ‘He shows interest in my money right after your cousins tease me about the honeymoon.’
‘The honeymoon talk shouldn’t have offended you. They were just pulling your leg.’
‘Maybe they were. But if it was a joke, then why was I the only one at the end of it? If the honeymoon location was so important for your family, maybe they should’ve paid for it.’
‘You think so?’ Taruna said.
‘In fact, for a long time, I assumed that your father would pay for it.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? Wasn’t he already spending so much? Your biggest worry in those days, remember? That he was overspending to make a show of wealth to his relatives. He could have spent a few more lakhs and gifted us the honeymoon. The show would have been complete. And, you know, my love, I really wanted to go to Iceland.’ As he said the last bit, Ankush tried to snuggle into Taruna’s neck. She pushed him away.
‘Fuck off, man,’ she said. ‘You’re drunk.’
‘Yes, I am. But mostly fucked by your family. Why don’t they tease you about not taking me to Iceland?’ Ankush slurred. ‘That would be proper feminism, right?’
‘Please shut up, Ankush. Don’t say stuff you will regret. Sleep.’
Ankush went to sleep in the next five minutes, but Taruna had many thoughts to keep her awake. The conversation that she had had with her parents rang in her mind.
Taruna had joined her parents in the bedroom after a hasty glass of wine with the boys. There, she had found her father on his desk, fiddling with his laptop; her mother was on the bed, leafing blankly through a magazine.
Taruna placed herself on the bed. ‘Has he eaten?’ she asked the room.
‘He eats much earlier than us,’ her mother replied.
‘And sleeps earlier than us?’
‘Yes.’
‘What a life.’
‘We are under a lot of stress already, Taruna,’ her father said, angry. ‘Are you always going to be sarcastic?’
‘You should hire an attendant,’ Taruna quipped.
‘I told you that an attendant costs money,’ said her father.
‘Yes, and I’m wondering where your money has gone.’
‘You don’t know?’
Taruna knew. ‘Papa, that’s the thing! Why did you have to spend so much money on the wedding? I asked you not to, at every step I asked you. But you didn’t listen. Your stupid Punju pride came in the way.’
‘Don’t talk like that, beta,’ her father said, softening a bit. ‘To spend for your wedding was my pleasure – my pride. It had to be done like that.’
‘Tell me, how much have you spent on this? On the oldie? And how much more are you going to spend?’
Her father didn’t answer. He acted busy with the laptop. ‘Five lakhs, that’s what the hospitalization cost us,’ Taruna’s mother answered for her husband. ‘Now it’s all the medicines. His heart is operating at 10 per cent; so, surgery isn’t possible. This could drag on for a month.’
‘How much more is needed?’
‘Your father is already in debt, beta,’ Mother said.
‘Stop, Sheela,’ Father interrupted her.
But she didn’t stop. ‘Every day that the man lives, it becomes worse.’
Taruna shook her head. She knew that her father had no income since his business had folded three years ago. He had otherwise been deft at managing his savings and assets, but the extravagance of the wedding had had its impact.
Her father was holding his head in his hands now. Taruna went up to him and rubbed his back.
‘How much do you owe people?’ she asked him.
‘If it has to be done, it has to be done,’ Mother said. ‘There’s no point in counting how much.’
‘How much is it?’ Taruna asked again.
‘Three,’ Father responded.
‘How much more do you need?’
‘Four. Maybe five. I can keep an attendant then. I owe this money to your mother’s brothers. They contributed to the wedding too. That wasn’t a loan, true, but I cannot stretch their generosity any further.’ He wiped his eyes with his T-shirt. ‘I can manage. I would just have to sell something.’
Taruna’s first thought was what all this meant for her brother. Ravi wanted to set up his own design firm, and he would need some help from their father. Now she feared that the family might have to sell its assets in the near future, all because they were short of seven or eight lakhs in cash.
She sat on the bed, right beside her father’s desk, and considered the situation. After spending a considerable portion of his savings on her wedding, for which he had felt the definite compulsion of tradition, her father was basically done with her. She could never ask him for any financial help ever again. Her dowry, so to say, had been dealt with. She knew that, in her father’s mind, all that was his was now part of Ravi’s inheritance. If this were some other family, she would have been critical of the mindset in which only the son inherits property. In her own family, though, her natural reaction was to not quibble about her share but to think of her brother’s well-being. She hoped that when the time to help Ravi came, her father would have something left to sell.
‘Why did you irritate Ankush with the share market and all? All this talk about where to put money. You’ve your own issues to handle, right?’
‘If he felt bad, tell him I’m sorry. Though it’s true that I can give him some share market tips. And everything will be alright; you don’t need to fret.’
Taruna smiled wistfully. Then sh
e said, ‘Why don’t you just kill the old man?’
Her father was silent. Then: ‘Don’t say stupid things.’
There was something about Life that had revealed itself to Taruna just then. Lowering your head and carrying on – that’s life. Carrying on and finding solutions. But her father wasn’t finding solutions – he was borrowing from his son’s future to pay for his father’s last ransom. Realizing this, Taruna felt a spurt of anger.
‘You have screwed Ravi’s future,’ she mumbled. ‘You’ve made him a house boy and you’ve fucked his dreams.’ She stormed out of the room then, looked with rage at the closed door of the other room, and walked towards the room where Ankush and Ravi were having their beers.
Despite her anger, though, she’d understood that her father was in need of financial help.
A few hours later, Ankush woke up in sweat from a dream. He had seen himself investigating the murder of someone dear to him, although the dream hadn’t allowed him to ascertain the identity of that person. There were no clues to be worked upon, and the crime seemed unsolvable. He was desperate; he saw himself scribble something excitedly in a small notebook; it was also something inconsequential, something unrelated to the crime, something the dream didn’t allow him to see either, and something that therefore became a mystery inside a mystery.
When he had shaken himself out of the dream, he realized that he was thirsty. He heard Taruna’s calm breathing, though once in every few seconds her lips pursed to let out a little whistle. How different she seemed now – different, vulnerable. She was his wife and she was another person: these simple facts achieved a certain magnitude in the moment. He felt a surge of affection towards her – an affection tinged with fear.
He checked the time on his cell phone: 2.30 a.m. He stood up from his bed and tiptoed towards the kitchen, where he gulped down two glasses of water. Coming out of the kitchen, he turned to look towards the other room, the one in which the Bastard was sleeping. The door was ajar and, out of a morbid fascination for what was inside, he approached it.
Inside, it was darker than the lobby, and he heard loud snoring before he saw anything clearly. Slowly, the figures on the bed gained shape. Ravi was on the far side, taking as little space as possible; and the Bastard, his face turned towards Ankush, was snoring spectacularly. The shrivelled old man who once raped a child, thought Ankush. He tried to stoke his hatred, but what was before him was only the vestige of a man. The face conveyed no trace of the evilness that Ankush’s mind had imbued its earlier version in the photos with; and now, in its withered avatar – relaxed, rotting, eaten by age – it was the face of a man whose crimes were a long distance past him. Death was the only outcome waiting for him, and Ankush allowed himself the thought that the delay in this outcome was a kind of justice. For a brief second, he even considered if it would be good for Taruna to see the old man in his current state. She would not be able to forgive him, or feel that any semblance of justice had been granted her, but her malaise would at least erode a bit. For what retribution could be sought from a man sleeping on the rim of life?