by Durjoy Datta
‘I have homework to do,’ I said as I opened the door.
‘You can come when you finish, can’t you? There’s leftover kadhi-chawal too if you like that?’
‘I am quite full.’
‘Don’t be a spoilsport now.’
‘I am not being anything,’ I said.
‘Just one game? Come, no? It’s not as if your IIT will run away if you don’t study today.’
And then it struck me. I stood there smiling stupidly at Arundhati, the gears in my mind clicking into position, the domino effect of what I would do from here visible clearly in quick cuts and montages in my head.
‘What? What are you thinking?’ she asked.
‘Nothing. I will come and play with you. Of course I will,’ I said.
She led me into her house and arranged the carrom table swiftly. There was a corner dedicated to it, complete with an extra set of coins and a lamp hanging overhead. I committed her house to memory just in case. If I had to have a pretend girlfriend, I had to make it sound as plausible as possible. Every detail should fall into place if I had to make Brahmi believe in the tragic, heartbreaking love story of Arundhati and me.
‘Why didn’t you go to school today? Are you not well?’
‘I had a little fever but I’m fine now. I’m playing after a really long time. I might be really bad at it.’
‘Should I break or should you?’
‘You break, it will give you a little advantage.’
Mindful of not cutting a sorry figure, I flicked the striker with all the might of my fingers. Not one coin found a pocket. The striker skipped the board and rolled under the sofa. She crouched and pulled it out with a broom.
‘You’re such easy pickings!’ she said and promptly cleared half the carrom table.
Four more turns and the game was over.
‘Don’t feel bad. I have not lost a single game in years and I’m talking about people who take this game seriously.’
‘Did you call me over so you could beat me?’
‘We can move to Scrabble if you want. Or ludo? Or snakes and ladders,’ she said.
‘We will play another game of carrom. But this time something should be on stake.’
‘I just wiped off the board, Raghu. How do you—’
‘Let’s play,’ I said and arranged the carrom coins. ‘If I win you will have to do something that I ask you to do and vice versa. Shouldn’t be a problem since you’re good at this, right?’
‘You have a deal,’ she said.
I spat on my hand, and thrust it out.
‘We need to shake hands?’ she asked.
‘That’s the way I have been taught. It’s tradition,’ I told her.
We shook on it.
I should admit I wasn’t sure of my victory. At best I would have given myself a 40 per cent chance.
Little did she know that three years ago, I had fractured two fingers on my right hand when Dada had inadvertently closed the door on them. After the fractures healed my physiotherapist suggested playing carrom to regain mobility in those fingers. For three months I had played day and night and night and day, trying to outdo myself. My obsession ground to a halt when Maa–Baba decided that Sami was a bad influence and his coming home every day for a game of carrom was slowing my academic progress.
Unbeknownst to me, the carrom board was kept out in the rain and sun for a week. The wood rotted and with it my flights of fancy of being the best carrom player humanity had ever seen.
‘That was amazing!’ she exclaimed as I cleaned up the board.
‘I didn’t know I still had it in me.’
‘You’re a liar. You led me to believe that you don’t play well. And that begs the question, what is it that you want from me?’
I told her what needed to be done. She didn’t think twice before agreeing. I had given myself a much slimmer chance on that. We got back to our carrom. The rest of the games were keenly contested. She won the overall tally, I think.
Even though Ganguly had earlier hit a sublime 183 against Sri Lanka, his highest score ever, neither Dada nor Baba showed any joy. Pakistan had shot down two Indian pilots, one dead, another captured. Baba looked like something had broken inside him.
‘One of you should have been in the army, killing these fanatics. What do you think they would do to the poor pilot, Nachiketa? Raghu, tomorrow I will find out what the process of going to the NDA is—’
‘Ei ki bolchho, what are you saying? No one is going to the army from my house,’ Maa snapped.
‘I don’t mind,’ I said.
Maa looked at me in horror and said, ‘If you even think about going to the army you will see my dead body. Touch me and swear you will not go.’
‘So what should we do?’
‘I should join the army,’ I said again.
‘No!’ squealed Maa.
‘So we should sit around and do nothing while these fundamentalists destroy our country? You can’t give one son for the country,’ scoffed Baba.
Give? I wasn’t his to give away like a paper cup or a torn blanket. Why should I be given away? But in those short moments I imagined joining a fast-track enlistment, a rapid-fire training, a quick cargo flight to the front lines, an oversized helmet on my head, an AK-47 assault rifle in my hands, and me charging into enemy barracks, shooting indiscriminately, and getting shot at twenty times before I drop dead with the name of the country and the girl I love. India. Brahmi. That should teach Brahmi a lesson. To ignore such a goddam war hero for Sahil Ahuja!
‘Even if I had a hundred sons I wouldn’t give up one,’ said Maa.
‘And look what happened to the hundred sons of Gandhari. You’re as blind as she is!’
‘Ish. Chup koro to, keep quiet. Nothing will happen to my sons,’ said Maa and kissed us both, pushing our faces into her bosom.
‘It’s all you Bengali mothers’ fault. Coddle your boys so much they turn into meek women!’ ridiculed Baba.
‘Ei Raghu, come to your room,’ she commanded. She led me to the room and locked the door behind us. Baba shouted like a madman at the door, ‘Go now and sleep soundly! Don’t regret it when Musharraf sweeps like a tide over our country, burns our temples, loots us and bathes our holy land with Hindu blood. Raghu? Are you listening?’
‘Go, sleep,’ Maa shouted.
Baba continued to shout. ‘Ask your Maa to tell you how Mahmud Ghazni raided our beloved Somnath temple. Raghu, are you listening? He raided and killed thousands of us, broke away pieces of the lingam we worship and embedded them in the steps of his mosque. Anirban, tell them!’
I heard Dada say, ‘I have to go to Bangalore tonight.’
Baba, with his exalted talks of sending me to the border to die, immediately softened and asked Dada if everything was okay. ‘This private sector will work you to death. It’s not too late. You will get another job,’ Baba said.
We all went to drop Dada at the airport.
Maa–Baba were worried about Dada losing hair and weight alarmingly under the strain of the job. It was only I who knew of Dada’s shocking betrayal.
I knew he was going to fight for Zubeida.
‘What are you going to do?’ I asked him.
‘I will get her home,’ he said.
The days of peace in our house are now numbered.
P.S. I didn’t spot any new buildings. All I am thinking of is the high diving board and an empty swimming pool.
28 May 1999
I was set for my suicide mission. Not like a real suicide mission but metaphorically. You can’t tell with me so I thought I will clear that out. Sahil Ahuja and Brahmi were fiddling with the new pendulum set when I walked into the physics lab. They stood up straight like thieves caught red-handed.
‘Finally. Where were you all these days?’ asked Brahmi.
‘Sahil Ahuja,’ said Sahil and shook my hand. His fledging beard looked even more bushy and rather warrior-like up close. I wanted to strap him to a chair and pluck the hairs out one by one.
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‘Something came up. I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Do you want to join us in the experiment?’ asked Sahil.
‘I came yesterday though and finished the pendulum experiment. It was a tricky one but I have the observations with me if you want to cross-check,’ I said and handed over the diary to them.
Neatly tucked in between the pages was the pretend-heartbreak-letter my pretend-ex-girlfriend had written to me. It was written on the backside of a picture of the two of us—get this—holding hands, smiling at the camera.
I continued nonchalantly, ‘I will go cut some frogs. Pendulums are boring.’
I waited outside, read reports of Indian helicopters being shot down by Pakistan, and waited for the photograph-cum-letter to drop out of the diary. And when it did, Brahmi and Sahil passed the piece of paper between each other, disbelief writ large on their face. The letter, I should reveal now, told of a passionate love story between Arundhati and me. It started with Arundhati and me being accidental pen pals, and then being lovers. We had kissed not once but multiple times. Our love transcended all boundaries. But now it was breaking down. I had shattered her heart because we were too young to be in love, too naive, there was a world left to explore, and because I felt we were limiting ourselves. The letter was her lament against me, her anger with herself for falling in love with a charming boy like me, and her failure to hate me. In the letter, I was the heartbreaker.
‘How could you do this to Arundhati?’ asked Brahmi in the canteen.
‘Do what? I didn’t get you.’
‘We found a letter in the diary. We know everything. Did you not think what Arundhati would go through?’
‘I seriously don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I said.
‘Please stop lying. How could you hold your brother responsible for anything when you’re like this? You’re a hypocrite, Raghu,’ said Brahmi.
‘Listen—’
‘No, you listen, Raghu. You kissed that girl and now you’re leaving her? Weren’t you the one who was all up in arms against your brother because he was behaving in a similar way?’
‘I know it seems wrong but you have to listen to me,’ I said.
‘What possible explanation can you have, Raghu?’
I leant back and affected a learned pose. I said, ‘I did this for her and not me. Was it easy? No, it wasn’t. But rather than it happening later, it happened now. We are both too young to take this decision of being together. I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone younger than twenty-two. I agree I made a mistake but I’m now correcting it. Sahil, you would know, right? I have heard a lot of things about you. You must have been in love with girls, right? Broken their hearts? Left them to cry as you left them behind?’
Brahmi looked at me with disappointment dripping from her eyes.
Sahil sighed. ‘Yeah, that happens sometimes.’
‘Yeah,’ I said, chewing the word lazily and spitting it out like I was cool.
Brahmi looked at both of us. ‘I thought both of you were better than this. If both of you can’t grasp the simple concept of love, there’s no point in us being friends.’ She then picked up her bag and left. I watched her leave the canteen. Now that my task of splintering their relationship was done, I got up too.
‘Where are you going now?’ asked Sahil.
‘I’m going home, genius.’
‘I have nothing to do back home. Would you fancy a game of basketball?’
‘Would you fancy a memory game with the periodic table?’ I scoffed and left the physics lab.
Later in the evening, I found Maa giggling on the phone for a good ten minutes before handing it over to me. ‘It’s a friend of yours from school. Sahil Ahuja. He’s a charming young boy, isn’t he?’ She smiled.
I took the receiver. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello, friend!’
‘Sahil?’
‘Yes, Sahil!’
‘Where did you get this number from?’
‘Telephone directory. Hey, listen, I’m sorry for the basketball thing. I just assumed you played the game too since Brahmi did. I didn’t mean to offend you.’
‘I wasn’t offended. I just think it’s a stupid game loaded in favour of taller people like Brahmi and you. It has nothing to do with skill.’
‘I never looked at it like that. But hey, there’s something I also wanted to talk to you about. I don’t know how to say it but I will just say it. I know you like Brahmi.’
‘What are you talking about? I don’t—’
‘I have seen you following us in school, Raghu. Unless there’s any other reason for why you were peeping in from the lab windows for the last couple of weeks. I know the letter was fake too. You’re not dating Arundhati, you never did.’
‘Of course I did!’
‘You played the entire charade to keep Brahmi away from me, didn’t you? Am I correct?’
I slammed the phone down. Blood rushed to my face. I closed my eyes, forced them shut, willed time to turn back. Having failed, I picked up the phone again. He hadn’t cut the call.
‘Hi again,’ he said. ‘I am not going to tell any of this to Brahmi.’
‘What do want in return?’
‘Nothing really,’ he said and laughed.
‘If you want I will never talk to Brahmi again.’
‘I don’t like Brahmi. I just want to be friends with you two. And if you want to know a secret of mine then I’ll tell you that I did orchestrate the chits in her desk to be friends with her. But you already know that, don’t you?’
‘Why would you want to be friends with us?’
‘Why wouldn’t I? I like both of you. Who else comes to school during holidays and finds joy in boring things? Now that’s admirable, isn’t it?’
‘Umm.’
‘But I don’t know how you will get Brahmi to talk to us again. She seemed pretty angry,’ he said. ‘Anyway, come to school next week, okay? I will see you then. And loosen up, I won’t tell her. I am a man of my word. You can trust me.’
Click.
‘Raghu?’ I turned to see Maa. There was that look on her face. When she digs a secret out and gives the secret-keeper a chance to confess.
She asked, ‘Is there something you want to tell me?’
‘Maa, what are you talking about?’
This was it. I thought I would have to tell her about Brahmi, about Sahil, about everything.
Maa sat near me, took my hand into hers, rubbed it gently, stared at me, and said, ‘You’re my shona baba, the apple of my eyes, and I know you will never lie to me. So tell me, is there something you’re hiding?’
‘Umm . . . n . . . no . . . Maa. Why would I hide anything?’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, Maa.’
‘Remember the first day of school?’
‘Yes, Maa.’
‘You were dragged away from me and put in a room with other children. Your teacher told me you kept asking every other kid in the class where I was, whether I had abandoned you. For Baba it was embarrassing but I found joy in you clinging to me, loving me unconditionally. But you have grown up now. You don’t love me like you used to. You don’t need me like you used to. Remember how you used to beat your fists at the door when I used to leave you with your brother? Where are you, mumma, where are you, mumma? You would cry for hours. Your Dada never did that. You always loved me more.’
‘I remember all that.’
‘So your Dada hasn’t told you anything?’
‘Dada?’
‘He looks so tense these days. I don’t know if it’s work or something else. He hasn’t been eating and has lost so much weight. You will tell me if something is bothering him, right?’
‘Of course, Maa.’
And then out of nowhere she asked me, ‘Does your Dada have a girlfriend? Like, does he love someone?’
‘What? No! Why are you asking?’
‘I just checked the telephone bill from the last month . . . there was a number he h
as called from the phone. It’s a Bangalore number.’
‘Oh, must be the office number, no?’ I said.
‘I checked the area code. It’s not around his office. I called the number too. It was someone’s house, a girl’s,’ she said.
‘Must be a colleague?’
‘Zubeida. Have you heard of that name? You will tell me if you know something?’ she asked, her face twisting as the Muslim name rolled off her tongue.
‘Of course.’
‘You kids are growing up so fast,’ she said wistfully. She let go to my hand and left.
I can’t sleep now. Things are going to change. They have already been set in motion and I fear the worst. I have already lost Brahmi who believes I think as shallowly about love as the others, I just lied to Maa about Dada, and Dada’s gone to get his to-be Musalman wife.
I feel like the mutineers of 1857 who were strapped to canons to be blown to pieces. What must have gone through their heads in their last moment? When they smelt the gunpowder and the match being struck. That. I feel exactly that.
P.S. 250 home owners got possession of an apartment building near my house. It’s nine-storeys high. Just saying.
1 June 1999
It has been three days since Maa sniffed out Dada’s secret and hasn’t left the house since then. I wanted to warn Dada before Maa caught him in his lie. Dada came back today afternoon looking worse. Before I could tell him, he stared dead straight at me and said, ‘I’m telling them about Zubeida.’
‘Maa knows,’ I said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Maa asked me if I knew about any girl named Zubeida in Bangalore. She saw the STD number on the bill. Why would you call from the house phone? You could have called from the market.’
‘That doesn’t matter any more. I’m telling Maa–Baba that I want to get married to her.’
‘What if they don’t agree?’
‘They will have to. I will tell them I love her and that I can’t live without her. I shouldn’t have to make this choice. And if I have to make one, I will pick Zubeida. As you said before, I held her hand, I told her I loved her. And what kind of a man would I be if I went back on that? I’m getting married to her. I am telling them tomorrow.’
