She encountered a dense fog once she crossed Ghaziabad. She had to slow the car down, and the added concentration she had to put into driving made her headache worse. What a fucked-up morning, she thought, then felt guilty about thinking like that.
She and Mahesh had partied hard last night. It was the second time they had celebrated the coming of the new year together, their relationship being eighteen months old. Her mind went to their first meeting at a bookstore in McLeod Ganj where, over coffee and books, she had noticed Mahesh’s salt and pepper hair, his calm attention to books, his strong forearms, and several obscure hints of what she would only discover later – old money. From their flirtations, Gunjan found out that he had been backpacking in the most expensive hotel in McLeod Ganj – an irony to which he was insulated by his wealth. He invited her there for the evening and Gunjan accepted without a second thought. The hotel was a vintage property with a dozen or more suites, with generous balconies adding a shade of regality to the views offered. It was partly Mahesh’s balcony that seduced Gunjan that evening.
At thirty-seven then, Mahesh was eleven years her senior. After they got together, this age difference became a hindrance for Gunjan’s friends. One by one, they ceased being in contact with her. But she didn’t care. For a long enough period in the first year of their relationship, she had even suspected that she loved Mahesh. He was somewhat naive, but only in the way a nice rich person ought to be. Things were easy for him, and he had the basic sense to not make them artificially difficult. As a prospects-shorn advertising professional who did creative work but could never aspire to a more-than-decent salary, she felt inclined to enjoy her partner’s money. For her self-esteem, it was enough that Mahesh never treated her like something that he had won, though she had known right from their early days that some of his friends held that view.
They had met in late May 2013 and by September she had moved into Mahesh’s flat in Vasant Vihar. He, in fact, owned the entire building, which housed eight large flats in it. The other seven flats had been rented out to expatriate families. These were people from France, Germany, or the Scandinavian countries. Gunjan was friendly with all of them, even the kids; none of the white people ever made her feel awkward. At get-togethers on the terrace, the men sometimes tried to put a casual hand on her shoulder, or even around her waist, but their gestures always lacked the proprietorial air of Mahesh’s Indian friends.
Gunjan and Mahesh seldom discussed the issue of love with each other. He had never been married. She thanked her luck for that, for there was no way she could have dealt with a more complex scenario. But she knew that Mahesh had strong feelings for her, and that he would, at some point, raise the question of marriage. On her side, there was no possibility of a lifelong commitment. Once she had even tried to make that clear to Mahesh. ‘I don’t come from a place where a woman can marry an older man,’ she had said. But Mahesh had dismissed it with a smile. As for the status quo, she wanted it unchanged as long as she could help it. Mahesh was good in bed, good in hygiene, good in manners, and he was rich.
She took the Meerut bypass and the Delhi FM station, which had remained switched on from the beginning, suffered a bout of static that brought her attention to it. It struck her that it was probably wrong to play music. She blamed herself for not thinking of it earlier and switched off the radio. The fog had lessened considerably by now. To reduce the sudden emptiness she felt inside the car, she rolled down the windows – a cold wind gushed in with a pleasing sound. She tried to call forth some snippets of her life involving her father, to remember him, but nothing specific came to her except the three words that had inexplicably stuck to her mind ever since she had received the news: a simple man. A simple man, made to live and die in Muzaffarnagar. He had provided for her for the majority of her life. And she had needed him many times even after she had started earning in Delhi – after she had become independent – to help set up a monthly deposit in a mutual fund, to help move her meagre furniture whenever she changed apartments, to pay for a trip to Sri Lanka that all her friends could somehow afford and she couldn’t, to help file a police complaint against a guy who had been stalking her online, and so on. Her father had travelled from Muzaffarnagar to Delhi on each occasion of her need, except the times when she had asked him not to. Lately, since the time she had started with Mahesh, she hadn’t needed to fall back on him.
A simple man. He died without ever using WhatsApp or Facebook, Gunjan thought. The highway cleaved the fields between Meerut and Khatauli, and as her Jetta paced through the equidistant shadows of eucalyptus trees (the sun was out now), she wondered if there was some great insight hidden in that fact. It hit her then that she only understood her father as a certain type of man; that she didn’t know much about the individual that she would soon be required to mourn.
It was two in the afternoon when she entered the main gate of the Sugarcane Research Station, the government-run facility where her father had worked as a senior plant pathologist. The facility had the obvious aim of improving cane yields in the highly fertile zone of western U.P. The research on new cane breeds or pathologies was carried out in the hectares of government-owned farms that constituted a majority of the acreage in the Muzaffarnagar facility. Owing to this, the whole place was often simply called ‘ganna farm’ or, even more simply, ‘farm’. Gunjan had spent most of her growing-up years in the residential colony inside the farm. After his last promotion three years ago, her father had been given a flat-roofed bungalow here.
Outside the bungalow now were a dozen or more cars parked on either side of the road. A driveway descended from the road and ran for fifteen or so metres before being halted by a small portico-like space. Next to the driveway, running along the length of the house, was a kitchen garden. There were groups of men standing all along the driveway. Finding no other place to park the Jetta, Gunjan honked once to signal that she wanted to park the car there. It was only when she rolled down the windows and there was a hush of recognition from the crowd that she was given the space to manoeuvre her vehicle. Most people trampled the radish in the garden. Gunjan knew it had been planted by her father.
She got out of the car and opened the trunk. It was empty! She had forgotten to bring the suitcase. She must have taken it to the apartment after collapsing in the basement and then forgotten to take it during her second departure.
Her younger maama ran up to her. He hugged her and began sobbing. She found herself patting his back, as if consoling him. She could feel how his chest heaved. ‘I forgot my suitcase,’ she said.
‘Come inside, beta, come inside. Your mother is …’
They walked towards the house. Gunjan felt stupid and angry for forgetting the suitcase. Then she saw from close the damage that the crowd was doing to her father’s radish crop and it made her angrier. She could recognize most men as relatives and acquaintances. ‘Please, you people get off the garden,’ she yelled at everybody. ‘Get off it. Come inside or stand on the road, not in the garden.’ The area was emptied in seconds, even before she had entered the house.
Inside the big living room, her mother was seated on a central sofa, surrounded by women. Seeing Gunjan, she began crying loudly. Gunjan rushed to her and embraced her. Her bua, her father’s only sister, embraced them both. They stayed in that position for some time, till Gunjan felt her mother whispering something in her ear. She strained to listen. ‘Ask Chhoti Maami … she is in the kitchen … ask her to give you something to eat,’ her mother was saying.
What kind of a creature is a parent? Gunjan thought. She was hungry, and her mother knew that she was hungry. Even now.
She broke the hug, stood up and walked towards the kitchen. There were people everywhere in the house, and somehow for her this meant that she couldn’t cry even if she wanted to. ‘Cry, beta … it helps,’ someone said.
Maami gave her chapattis with curried potatoes. She was quite functional, Gunjan noticed. ‘The food is from the neighbours – the Sharmas,’ Maami said, poi
nting in the general direction of the neighbouring bungalow. ‘It was Mr Sharma who rushed Bhaisaab to the hospital this morning.’ She paused after saying this, as if allowing Gunjan a second in which to feel a tug of gratitude towards the man. ‘It’s not shubh to cook in this kitchen till the cremation,’ she continued, ‘but in case you want more chapattis, just tell me quietly. The women won’t notice.’ Gunjan nodded, not knowing how else to respond. She took the plate to the innermost room, where there was no one. There, she exhaled as if for the first time. How would she manage without her suitcase? After a while, Maami came in to ask if she wanted another chapatti. ‘Where’s Papa?’ Gunjan asked instead.
‘In the bathroom,’ Maami answered. ‘The big one. They brought in ice slabs just before you came. It probably wasn’t necessary … It’s winter, na … but they put the body on it nevertheless. He was in this room earlier.’
‘Where did he … pass away? How?’
‘Your mother and bua were sleeping in the main bedroom,’ Maami said, referring to the room adjacent to the living room. ‘Your father was sleeping on the living room dewan. He woke up around five in the morning, vomited. Didi said he was complaining of acidity. She gave him some cold milk. Then, an hour later, she found him … still.’
‘Hmm.’
‘His teeth were clenched. His pyjama … his pyjama was wet.’
‘What?’ Gunjan shook her head in incomprehension.
‘Your Maama said it means it was the heart … and that it wasn’t sudden. He felt pain. Probably felt helpless for a few minutes.’
Maami lingered for a moment before exiting the room. Not knowing how to react, Gunjan found herself nodding. When she brought the next morsel to her mouth, her hand was shaking. Was she supposed to have a look at the body now?
The toilet-cum-bathroom had been used exclusively by her grandfather when he was alive. For the old man’s comfort, her father had had it fitted with a Western-style pot. There was a steel handlebar affixed to the wall next to the toilet pot, to help in sitting and standing up. On the other side, a thin, two-feet high wall separated the toilet area from the bath area. Her father now lay on thick slabs of ice in this latter area – next to where his father shat for the last few years of his life. He was covered with a white sheet, and for a moment Gunjan was curious about whether he was naked under it. She took half a step forward and looked at his face. It was as if it had been pulled up from his forehead. His mouth was partly open, and it seemed that the life of him had escaped from right there.
She stepped out. There were four–five women – her mother’s cousins – seated in the adjacent bedroom. They looked at her with sad eyes, expecting her to cry. One of them goaded her to cry. But Gunjan just moved to the verandah outside, and from there to the open, walled area that could be called a backyard.
She saw her father’s scooter parked there, and next to it her old bicycle. The cycle had been repaired, and it surprised her to see it in a good state. She sat on the cycle, moved its pedals backwards to make that pleasant whirring sound. She remembered how her father had taught her how to ride when she was a child. He had held the carrier for her, run after her, had never let her fall. But when she had become an expert, he had not allowed her to take the cycle to school for a few years. He had relented only after tenth standard, when it became impossible for him to ferry her to and from the school and the many tuitions.
She got off the cycle and went to the verandah, somewhat content with having had a memory of her father. In the living room, her mother was still surrounded by people consoling her. She wasn’t crying now. But she was still repeating ‘why did you go so soon?’ in a soft murmur. Gunjan went outside, among the men. No one had dared to step into the kitchen garden. She approached Bade Maama and asked, ‘When is the cremation?’
‘We will take him in another ten–fifteen minutes.’
‘Only men are allowed, right?’ she asked.
‘Yes, usually. You have to be by your mother’s side when we take him. You have to console each other.’
Bade Maama had always comported himself as a stern person, with a liking for protocol and its adherence. He would be the last person to note any lack of grief on her face: for him, life was one situation after another, all to be processed.
She did namaste to the men she recognized. Her father’s three brothers were here, and Jagvir Chacha, the youngest among them, had tears in his eyes. The eldest one, Tauji, was smoking a cigarette. He had had his heart operated a couple of years ago and was prohibited from smoking. She had never been close enough to him, so as to be able to approach him and demand for the cigarette to be stubbed. The urge she had to suppress was a different one – to ask him for a couple of puffs herself. Jagvir Chacha walked up to her and hugged her, crying profusely on her shoulder. The other two also approached them and patted her head affectionately. Nothing brought tears to her eyes. ‘Go inside, beta,’ Tauji said. ‘Take care of your mother.’
Gunjan sat on the sofa, next to her mother, looking down at the cracked granite floor. No matter how old she was, she would always be a child in this house. No matter the exigency, her lunch would be a priority. Tauji had just asked her to take care of her mother, and although he had meant for Gunjan to be by her mother’s side when her father’s body was being taken for the cremation, she wondered if his words portended a fundamental change. No one had ever asked Gunjan to take care of anybody.
Her mother was next to her, exhausted from all the crying. Gunjan wondered what was going through her mind, and it occurred to her that it might not be all about the past: it was possible that her mother was less saddened by the loss of a husband and more terrified by the questions of her own future. Despite almost three decades of service, her father had not been able to buy or build a house of his own. ‘It’ll be alright, Mummy; it’ll be alright,’ Gunjan felt compelled to say. Her mother looked at her and gave a feeble smile.
Just then the cell phone in Gunjan’s kameez pocket began to ring. It was Mahesh. She felt it inappropriate to talk to him at this moment and cut the call. Then she asked her mother, ‘Papa was using my cycle?’
‘Yes. He had begun to like the exercise.’
They shared a glance for they both realized the futility of the last word, exercise. To Gunjan, it seemed unfair that a man who had begun cycling again had to die of a heart failure.
When the body was lifted for the cremation, Gunjan’s mother wailed. A tense calm was restored only after the group of men left. But the news of the death was still travelling, and each time a new relative turned up at the door, she would start crying again.
After a while, Gunjan found the space to make a call to Mahesh.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello. How are you?’
‘I forgot my suitcase.’
‘Yes, you did. How are you going to manage?’
‘I’ll buy stuff, I guess.’
‘So … how are things?’
‘Hmm … difficult.’
‘Yeah. Your mother?’
‘She just cries.’
‘Hmm …’
‘You know, my father was using a cycle to go to work.’
‘Hmm …’
‘Well, guess we should talk later. Bye?’
‘Bye. Take care.’
At dusk, only some close family members remained in the house. This included her mother’s two brothers and their wives, her bua, and Jagvir Chacha. The other two paternal uncles had left.
Gunjan learnt that a pundit had already been consulted and it had been decided that her father’s terahvi would also happen on the fourth of January, along with her grandfather’s. The reasons behind this decision were unknown to Gunjan, but she welcomed it nevertheless, for it meant that formal mourning would not exceed three days. Several times through the evening, Gunjan heard one or another family member moan about ‘god’s strange ways’, or about the ‘intense love between father and son’, or how ‘Ranbir-ji was called to heaven by his father’, and so on. She did not r
esonate with any of these emotions, for she believed that even if an almighty god existed, he or she could not possibly care about these things. That her grandfather and father had died inside ten days of each other was just harsh coincidence.
A similar set of people had assembled the previous week as well, when her grandfather had died. Her bua had decided, not very unhappily, to stay back till the terahvi. Gunjan presumed there wasn’t this much sadness in the air then. Her father and her uncles would have struck light conversations. Had she been present, they would have asked her about her life in Delhi, and would have advised her to make peace with the idea of marriage, and so on. She knew from her mother that they had even opened a bottle late in the night. Her father had gotten his eyes moist a couple of times. Her uncles had responded each time by refilling his glass.
Her mother was in charge of the kitchen then. Now, with her being incapacitated by grief, the two maamis were managing the cooking. Around dinner time, there was an electricity cut. Everyone, save her mother, assembled in the living room. Gunjan realized that her mother was alone in the main bedroom and, as if goaded on by the darkness, she went there. Finding her mother on the bed, she lay next to her.
‘How are you, Mummy?’ she whispered.
‘I’m okay.’
She touched her mother’s forehead and swept back the hair that had fallen on her face.
‘You haven’t shed a tear, my child,’ her mother said.
Gunjan didn’t know the right response to that. She had been dreading this being pointed out by her.
‘Your father was a good man.’
‘Yes, Mummy.’
‘His brothers always took advantage of him. But he remained good to them till the end.’
Diwali in Muzaffarnagar Page 15
