by Durjoy Datta
He locked himself in the room. I wished I could call Brahmi but that option was thrown out of the window.
2 June 1999
It’s all coming to an end.
The Gangulys will never be the same.
Dada’s betrayal of the Gangulys will rank over Mir Jafar’s selling our beloved Bengal and, in consequence, India to the British, over Judas’ poison kiss to Jesus, over Brutus’ knife, and over the hunchback Ephialtes’ betrayal of the band of brothers at the battle of Thermopylae.
Years of unconditional love laid waste.
Zubeida Quaze was our Cyril Radcliffe, the man who fashioned two countries, India and Pakistan, out of one. And on hearing the news the Gangulys crumbled like pre-Partition India did—in disbelief, tears, disappointment and then violence. Zubeida Quaze, like a pebble flying at a high velocity, smashed against us, once a strong windshield with a clear future, leaving behind spiderweb-like cracks and a cloudy way ahead.
Only a few sentences had been exchanged when I was sent to my room. I had my ears pinned to the door and occasionally peeped through the doors. I could only hear little snippets of the conversation that fractured our family in a matter of minutes.
‘What’s the problem if I get married to her? I love her! There’s no other way,’ Dada was saying.
Maa was crying, her voice like a dying animal. She said, ‘We strictly told you. No Musalmans! Chhee chhee! I won’t let a Musalman girl step into this house! Over my dead body! Is she ready to convert? Will she be a Hindu like us?’
‘Why will she do that Maa? Maa, I will die without her, and she without me. We can’t live without each other. We can’t even imagine such a life. Why don’t you understand that, Maa?’
I saw Baba step forward through the space in the doors and it looked like he would hit Dada. ‘Look at him talk! Bloody roadside Romeo! Who are you? Govinda? Where did you learn to talk like this? And what about your Maa? Haan? Look at him. He’s already calling the girl and himself as us. And why would you die? Kill us instead! You would be happy with that, wouldn’t you? First a stupid rank in IIT, then this mindless job, and now this!’
Baba swung at Dada. Maybe. I’m not sure, I couldn’t see properly. But had he slapped Dada, Dada would have taken it boldly like an indignant satyagrahi. Always the pacifist, Dada, the Gandhian. But Baba is also Godse, and he would have slapped Dada again. Once. Twice. Thrice. Till the blows would have been dull and powerless, till the violence would have stopped making sense, till Baba would have realized you can’t hurt someone who’s inviting hurt, even embracing it and celebrating it. He would not have flinched. Tears would have sprung to Dada’s eyes but he would be standing tall, clutching on to his mast of love. Baba would have thrown something at him. Dada wouldn’t have ducked. Instead, he would have worn the oozing blood as a trophy. And then, Maa, the crying mother, always the one left behind in wars like these, would have begged for the violence to stop.
I remember wishing it to stop too. Dada was burning his bridges. That meant I would have to bear not only the sadness within me but also Maa–Baba’s share of it. I know I’m not strong enough to do that. I couldn’t possibly drag on much longer. I remember thinking that what happened with Sami had robbed me of being able to be happy but it had not stopped me from experiencing hurt. How unfair is that?
‘We are getting married, Baba. There’s no other option,’ said Dada.
‘Is she pregnant?’ screamed Maa.
Baba butted in, ‘What if she is? She can get an abortion. I will pay for it. That will solve the problem of commitment. You’re not getting married to her, and that’s final. You’re not going to Bangalore any more.’
‘I am, Baba. I was informing you, not asking for permission. I would really like it if you would happy with my decision,’ said Dada.
‘What did we do wrong to see this day?’ screamed Maa.
‘WHAT ABOUT HER PARENTS? HOW COULD THEY LET HER BE SUCH A LOOSE CHARACTER?’ screamed Baba.
‘Baba! Don’t—’
‘Don’t you dare raise your voice at me! I didn’t pay for your education for you to do this to us! What did we not do for you? We put every paisa we had into your education! We gave you everything you wanted, for this? So that you could get married to a Musalman? Why! What face will we show in the society!’
‘How does it matter?’
Maa ran to Dada and rained slaps on him. ‘It matters to us! I will talk to her parents! Are they putting pressure on you? I will tell them that this is not going to happen.’
‘Maa! Stop! Her parents don’t agree to this as well. They have thrown her out of the house. She has nowhere to go.’
‘See, shona! See, my love! Then why are you being so obstinate? We will give her money. You don’t have to get married to her. You’re only twenty-one! What is love? You know nothing about love! It’s all infatuation. You will get over it. I beg you, shona! I beg you! Don’t do this.’
‘Maa, I won’t—’
Maa slumped on to the ground. Dada went to help her but Baba shouted, ‘Don’t touch her!’
Maa muttered as Baba helped her to the sofa, ‘I hope she dies! I curse her! I hope she dies! I hope she rots!’
‘Maa . . .’
‘Don’t call me that! Your Maa is dead! She was dead the day you touched that woman.’
At this, Dada started to cry as well. About time, I would say.
‘Our decision is final. Either you have us in your life or that girl,’ said Baba.
There was a brief silence and then I heard the doors slam. Dada would have walked out of the house. I’m crying now. I am crying for Dada to come back. But I’m also crying for Maa–Baba who don’t deserve this, especially Maa. Baba has always had his prejudices against Muslims and Christians and Jews and anyone with a Holy Book but Maa had often made an earnest request to both of us. To let her choose our wives. Often she would call us to the living room and point to a Bengali actress on screen and say, ‘This is how your wives should look.’
We would both roll our eyes.
This is Maa–Baba’s worst nightmare come true. And mine.
All I can think about is going up the stairs of the tall building on Barakhamba Road, or even Ashiana Apartments, or Rajasthali, or any of the buildings I have scouted. How easy would it be to let it all end? Just one step and . . . poof.
Game over.
4 June 1999
It’s been two days since Dada stormed out and Maa hasn’t stopped crying. With every passing hour, her cries sound less human. I have been made to call all his friends and classmates, Zubeida Quaze’s house, his office, and there’s no news of him. Maa slapped Baba repeatedly, her hands barely reaching Baba’s face, and told him she wouldn’t forgive him if Baba had driven Dada to do something to himself.
She said she would throw herself in front of a train. Did this suicidal streak run in the family and I had not known of it before?
After Maa was done with Baba, she turned her attention towards me.
‘You knew about the Musalman girl.’
‘Maa.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you lie to me? Of the two I knew you would never lie to me about something like this. Did you not think about your Maa even once?’
Maa beat her fists on my back. I couldn’t answer. I could only cry.
‘Dada will come back. He wouldn’t do anything stupid, Maa,’ I said.
‘He won’t come back. I saw it in his eyes. He won’t come back, I know. My heart says he won’t.’
‘Maa.’
Maa’s voice softened a little as she said, ‘You won’t do anything like this na, shona? Hurt us like your Dada did? But how do I believe you? You will lie to me as well. You will do the same as what your brother did. Leave me to die alone.’
Maa left the room. Later tonight we watched the news silently at the dinner table. The news anchor reported the handing over of the prisoner of war, the pilot Nachiketa, tortured but alive. Unlike earlier, Baba didn’t exhort me to join the
armed forces.
In bed, I thought about Nachiketa and his wingman, Ajay Ahuja. From what I have seen in movies, wingmen are thicker than thieves, they are like brothers. When Nachiketa was shot down by Pakistani forces, his wingman, his brother-like friend, was sent out to look for him. He, too, was shot down but unlike Nachiketa he was killed, taking a bullet through the heart, martyred. As I saw Nachiketa’s images on the screen, I felt a deep sadness for him. How would he ever face the family of his wingman, Ajay? Ajay died heroically but it is Nachiketa, his brother, who would have to live with the consequences. What if Dada doesn’t come back? He would marry for love, for the girl Zubeida, he will be a hero, a martyr. But what about me?
I wonder if Nachiketa would ever wish that he hadn’t survived the ordeal. Even Mina’s sweet licks aren’t making things better. I miss Brahmi. I wonder how she is doing.
The phone just rang outside. It was Dada. He asked us not to try and contact him.
6 June 1999
The funereal silence that had been hanging over the Ganguly residence lifted early today morning. Dada returned. His beard grown, hair ruffled, and wearing the same shirt he had on the day he left us. He looked like a man. Mina jumped at his feet. She yelped in delight. I took her away and locked her in my room.
Maa rained blows on him, slapped him and hit him with her fists; the glass bangles on her wrists shattered like a new widow’s. But she also hugged him and cried and kissed him on his arms, while he stood unmoved.
Baba stood there stone-faced, looking at him as if he’d seen him for the first time, with happiness and bewilderment and distilled hatred.
Outside, Arundhati was staring at the tamasha.
Baba asked me to close the door. Maa asked me to go to my room, they needed to talk to Dada in private. Dada interrupted Maa.
‘Let him stay. He needs to hear this too.’
‘Yes, I do.’
Maa–Baba and I sat on one sofa. He sat on the one in front of us as if he were a guest. Baba spoke first, ‘Where had you gone?’
‘I was with a friend.’
‘Zubeida?’ asked Maa.
‘No. But she came yesterday. She’s staying there too now.’
‘What kind of a girl—’
‘I told you her parents won’t take her in. She had no place to go. I came to tell you that I’m getting married next week. We have taken a date from the registrar’s office. You can come if you want to.’
Shock coursed through Maa’s body like lightning. She shrieked and covered her mouth.
‘When you can decide everything on your own why do you need us?’ asked Baba.
‘Because I want you to be there. She will be a part of our family.’
Maa looked at Baba. ‘Look at what he’s saying.’
Dada’s words felt strange, as if out of a movie. How could he say things like these? Where did he get the courage?
‘No Musalman will ever be a part of my family,’ said Baba.
‘Tell him he can’t get married. Tell him I will kill myself if he does that,’ said Maa to Baba.
‘No, Maa, you won’t do that. Don’t talk like that. No one will do anything. I want to be married to her. I have to spend a life with her, not you. Maa, I have decided.’
‘Then, so have we,’ said Baba. ‘If you won’t listen to us, we don’t have anything to say to you. You can go get married to any whore you want to. But we will never talk to you. We will be dead to you.’
Maa started to cry.
Dada said, ‘Maa, Baba is over—’
Maa got up and ran to her room, crying. Dada got up too, running after her but Maa slammed the door on his face. She shouted, ‘GET OUT, ANIRBAN! GET OUT! I DON’T WANT TO SEE YOU! YOU’RE NOT MY SON!’
Dada turned to look at us. Baba said, ‘You heard your mother. Get out of this house. We don’t want to see you till you come to your senses and leave that Muslim girl. If you can’t respect all that we had done for you, there’s no meaning for this relationship to carry on.’
There’s a certain power in things that are said in a calm, impassioned voice.
Baba strode towards Dada, held him with the force of a much younger man, and led him outside the house. For the first time this morning, Dada looked weak. His body loosened as if betraying his mind, wanting to stay back. Baba shoved him out and locked the iron grill door we only locked at night while sleeping to keep the thieves out. Dada rang the bell for a good half an hour after which I was asked to take the batteries out. I don’t know for how much longer he stayed out there. I was asked not to peep through the eyehole.
Later I was instructed to fill two suitcases with all of Dada’s clothes and leave them outside the door. Maa protested feebly. Baba stood his ground. I filled the suitcases up. I realized how sparse or monotonous Dada’s clothes were—white shirts, blue denims, a few check shirts, and a few grey T-shirts. When I was dragging the suitcases out, Maa stopped me. In the side pockets, she stuffed two of Baba’s handkerchiefs filled with jewellery she had acquired over the last two decades for Dada’s future wife and her first daughter-in-law, the daughter-in-law she had often vowed to treat like her own daughter, whose nickname she had decided long ago—Mina, after the daughter she had lost.
Just before I took this journal out, I saw Maa staring at Dada’s empty cupboard.
Sahil called in the evening.
I am not proud of it but I told him everything. I had to or I would have exploded. What I hate even more is that Sahil’s charm worked on me as well. Those ten minutes were the calmest of the day.
14 June 1999
Maa–Baba, who had stopped talking to me for keeping Dada’s secret, thought it was best I started going to school again to divert my attention. I know they sent me so they could mourn in peace. The thin walls of our house can barely contain Maa’s wails.
Back in school, Brahmi and Sahil enthusiastically welcomed me. No one mentioned how Brahmi walked out on both of us a few days ago. Sahil must have told her about the situation at my home. She was being extra sweet, which was highly uncharacteristic and slightly irritating.
Sahil and Brahmi were much better friends now, a fact that I would have been envious of earlier. Brahmi was supposed to dissect the rat because it was she who caught it in a trap outside her house but Sahil ironically named the gigantic rat Chhotu, the little one, as soon as he saw it. Brahmi couldn’t kill it after that since it had been baptized.
‘Why would you name it!’ she complained.
‘Why wouldn’t I?’ he argued. ‘If you’re killing something the least you can do is give it a name.’
‘Do you name the mosquitoes before you burn a coil?’
‘Apple, and oranges. Might I introduce you to malaria and dengue?’ said Sahil.
‘And might I introduce you to the plague?’
‘Fine, you win,’ said Sahil.
While I pinned the drugged rat on the dissection table, Brahmi and Sahil argued about India’s position on the Kargil matter.
‘Bombing Pakistan out of existence is not the solution to get the US and other Western powers on our side in the future. A lot of people will die unnecessarily,’ asserted Brahmi.
‘But soldiers are dying anyway, aren’t they? Who cares if a few Pakistani civilians die? It’s the public who elected a fascist, authoritarian government. It’s not a great loss if they die instead of Indian soldiers.’
‘It’s not the same!’ said Brahmi. ‘Every person in the armed forces must know that this day could come. That he or she could possibly die, no? But civilians dying is just . . . collateral damage.’
‘So you would have more of our soldiers dying than a few civilians of theirs.’
‘Of course.’
‘You’re a traitor. I hope you know that,’ said Sahil.
The scalpel in my hand slipped and cut through the heart of the poor, furry bastard, Chhotu.
‘No!’ echoed Brahmi, seeing the blood spurt out as if from a little water gun.
‘I think Chhotu is
dead,’ said Sahil, chuckling.
The collateral damage of the three of us trying to make the best of our summer vacations was lying dead on the table. Ironic, considering Maa–Baba and I, we were all . . . collateral damage of Dada’s love story.
Coming back to the rat, Brahmi insisted we bury it instead of throwing it away like the unnamed frogs. Sahil played no part in it. We dug a ditch near Shahrazad’s grave.
‘How are you doing?’ asked Brahmi.
‘I have counted seventeen buildings in a three-kilometre radius which are perfect.’
‘So not so good?’
‘Then again Maa–Baba need me right now,’ I said. ‘Also I’m a coward.’
‘I would disagree.’
‘Hmm.’
‘You never told me why your Baba is so against, you know . . . ’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘We have time,’ she said.
‘It’s depressing.’
‘We are no strangers to that.’
‘Okay, so where should we start. Umm . . . would it surprise you if I tell you that Baba was not really born an Indian, he’s a Pakistani by birth?’
‘What?’
‘Well, Bangladesh, but it was Pakistan or East Pakistan to be specific in ’54, so yeah,’ I said. ‘I have heard the story in snippets over the years from everyone else but Baba. The adoption of his national identity is a story no one tells in the family. I’m not sure even the little stories I have heard are true or not—’
‘Tell them anyway.’
‘Okay but what’s true is that Baba was the second youngest of three siblings and that he came to India a couple of years before the East Pakistan genocide of 1971.’
‘Was he there?’
‘No but his entire family was. Technically my family too but you get it. So—’
‘So what happened? Did they all die?’
‘You’re a bad listener, aren’t you?’
‘Okay, sorry, go on.’
‘He was sent to study at the Bishop Cotton School in Shimla, away from the madness and the uncertainty in Dhaka. And in the middle of the madness of my grandfather, Shukumar Ganguly. I will show you a picture some day. He’s more handsome than any of the Ganguly men. He was a double doctorate in Bengali and Urdu, and it was for his love for Bengali that he died. East Pakistan was almost all Bengalis so my grandfather, along with others, fought for Bengali to be recognized as an official language.’
