Despite Rustom’s severe tone, despite the fact that he had banged his fist on the dining table, something in his tone told Tehmina that this was mock anger, that her husband was playing out a role in a time-honored ritual.
And since she understood her exact role in that ritual, Bikhumai pretended to tremble under the fury of her son’s anger and swore that she would resume eating all her favorite things, if only he would stop being angry with her. And then, continuing to play her part, she grew indignant and chided Rustom for accusing her of not loving her only grandson enough and swore that if even a hair on her beloved Sorab’s head were to get bent, why, she would be beside herself with grief. After fifteen minutes of such protestations and declarations of undying love for Sorab, Bikhumai was finally exhausted into silence. Glancing her way, Rustom gave Tehmina a quick wink. The rest of the dinner proceeded happily and Tehmina never again had to endure her mother-in-law’s home remedies.
Tehmina turned in her bed, which suddenly seemed narrow and bleak compared to that generous teak bed in which she and Rustom had slept every day of their married life. She remembered the feel of Rustom’s strong arm around her as he cradled her every night, her back against his hard chest, his brown hairy leg wrapped around hers. Just like early tonight, when he had visited her in this bedroom. No matter how tired or restless she had been, leaning against Rustom’s body never failed to bring her comfort, a feeling of homecoming, like a train entering a station. And that was what she missed most, she now realized, that feeling of protection. As long as Rustom was alive, he had stood like a wall between her and the world, protecting her from its demands and barbs and hurts. Even after Rustom had neutralized his mother’s interference into the child-bearing problem, he had further insulated Tehmina from all gossip and conjecture. Ever so subtly Rustom would drop hints that made it sound as if the lack of another child stemmed from his inability to impregnate his wife. Just some whispered hints about how the doctor wanted to run more tests on him but he had refused. And if that wasn’t enough to convince his listener, he would add that the whole thing had been so hard on poor Tehmina, but she had learned to hide her disappointment, God bless her. No other Parsi male whom Tehmina knew would’ve done that. No other. Tehmina knew of several men, who, despite a low sperm count, automatically blamed their wife’s barren womb and with a straight face lapped up all the sympathy and pity that inevitably came their way.
He had been this protective of her from the day she’d met him at a party at Nilu Sukharwala’s home. Tehmina had grown up in Calcutta, the only child of a doctor, but through a program at her school, she had started corresponding with Nilu, who lived in Bombay, since both girls were fifth graders. Now, for her twenty-fifth birthday, she had begged her father, Hoshang, to let her travel to Bombay to meet Nilu. Her pen pal had already visited her in Calcutta the previous year and had spun Tehmina’s head with stories of Bandra, where the movie stars lived, and Juhu Beach, where Bollywood movies were shot on location, and Colaba, where one could shop for just about anything. What sealed the deal was a letter from Nilu’s mother, promising Hoshang that they would take care of his daughter as if she were a member of the family. And Hoshang had finally given his consent, but even at the train station he looked nervous until he finally got hold of an elderly Gujarati couple traveling in the same compartment as Tehmina and made them promise to watch out for his daughter. Tehmina was embarrassed, but as soon as the train took off, the unexpected pleasure of freedom, of being away from home for the first time, overrode all other feelings.
It seemed to Tehmina that Nilu had invited all of Bombay to her party. It turned out that Nilu’s parents were a lot more relaxed than Mrs. Sukharwala’s note had indicated. They were attending a dinner party themselves, leaving the two girls at home with Nilu’s older brother, whom everybody called Smits, and Geeta, the servant girl who helped them set out the food.
The noise, the heat, the music, the loud laughter and conversation, the gaiety of the crowd, the easy, casual way in which the boys and girls spoke to one another, were all intoxicating to Tehmina. I’m in Bombay, she kept saying to herself. These are all Bombayites. Everything she’d ever heard about Bombayites seemed true—these people were more mature, more sophisticated, more urbane than her crowd in Calcutta. Her birth city suddenly seemed drab and mellow to her, compared with the pungent, thrilling sharpness with which these people spoke and acted. Although she knew this was far-fetched, she kept glancing at the front door, expecting a film star to walk in at any minute.
So that she was the first to notice Rustom when he walked into the room a little after eight. She spotted a thin, tall man in a blue, half-sleeved shirt, his eyes darting around the room, searching for his host. She saw him run his hand through his thick, dark hair in a gesture she recognized as nervous uncertainty. She saw him smile apologetically at the woman he had bumped into as he made his way into the crowded room. She could tell that like her, he had not expected to find so many people at the party, that he was a little out of his element. Now he was turning his head, trying to locate either Nilu or Smits. He must’ve felt her eyes on him because he looked at her, raised his eyebrows a bit in greeting, and then quickly looked away. But the next second he was looking at her again, this time holding her glance, so that she felt compelled to walk over to where he was standing.
“Hi,” she said, annoyed to hear the breathlessness in her voice. “I’m Tehmina. Are you looking for Smits or Nilu?”
“Aha. Tehmina. So you’re the famous friend from Calcutta?”
She blushed. “Not so famous.” Her voice trailed away as she found herself focusing on the small pimple at the left corner of his lips. It was the cutest pimple she’d ever seen.
The man cleared his throat. “Ahem. So, Tehmina. Tell me. How do you find Bombay?” Up close, he didn’t seem as uncomfortable as he’d looked a moment ago.
“You take the train from Calcutta and get off at VT station.”
He started. “Oh, no, what I meant was—” He caught the twinkle in her eye and broke into a wide grin. “I see. Well, I fell for that.”
Tehmina suddenly felt like life would only be sweet and worth living if she could make this man smile again. “Sorry. I’m just being silly.”
This time, the smile was slower, more calculating, and there was a gleam in his eye. “Well, hello, silly. Nice to meet you. I’m Rustom Sethna.”
“And I’m—but I already told you. You know who I am.” Get hold of yourself, Tehmina said to herself. You’re acting like a fool.
Rakesh, one of Smits’s friends, staggered up to her. “Ae, Tehmi, sure I still can’t get you something to drink? Not even a Coke?” The boy had been making a pest of himself all evening long and she had tolerated him, but now Tehmina hated his intrusive, drunken presence. She wanted to shut her eyes and have Rakesh gone when she opened them again. Actually, she wanted every person in the room to have vanished when she opened her eyes. Everyone except this handsome, smiling man standing next to her.
She threw Rustom a glance that was equal parts apology and distress. And as if he had read her mind, Rustom took her by the elbow and led her away. “Hey, thanks for offering, yaar,” he tossed back at Rakesh. “But I’ve already gotten my cousin’s drink order.”
“Your cousin? Oh, okay. Sorry, boss.” Rakesh looked so despondent and confused that Tehmina had to bite down on her lip to stop from laughing out loud.
“Well, now that we’re relatives, I may as well know your taste in drink.” Rustom smiled as they walked a few feet away.
“I’ll have whatever you’re drinking,” she said impulsively.
“Okay, good. Listen, I have to go find Smits for a minute to say hello. And then I’ll be straight back with your glass. Where will you be?”
“I’ll wait right here,” Tehmina said. “Just like the Boy Who Stood on the Burning Deck.” She knew she was being reckless, flirting so shamelessly with a stranger. But she didn’t care. She would be back in Calcutta in a fortnight and s
he would never see this beautiful young man again. Her heart contracted at the thought.
“You know that story? My mom used to read it to me at least once a week when I was a boy. I loved that story.”
“Me, too. Though I cried every time I read it.”
There was something in Rustom’s eyes that she couldn’t quite figure out. “So you believe in that kind of loyalty and faithfulness?”
“Absolutely, yes.”
“My friends used to think that boy was foolish.” He was looking at her so hard, it made her feel translucent.
She shrugged, partly to hide her embarrassment. “I believe in keeping my word.”
He smiled again, as if they had settled something. “Good. So stay here, okay? I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
Her knees were so weak she couldn’t have moved even if she had wanted to. She watched as Rustom found Smits and both men hugged each other and Smits thumped Rustom on the back. She watched as Smits went off to find Nilu and noticed the look of deep pleasure with which Nilu greeted Rustom. Instinctively, Rustom turned around to find her and threw her a wink. She blushed and looked away. And then there he was a few minutes later, holding two beer glasses and making his way toward her.
“The food smells heavenly,” he said.
“Hope so. Nilu and I were in the kitchen all day today.”
“And what dishes did you make? I want to taste them all.”
“We just cooked together. I made the pallov and the daar, though.”
He groaned. “Oh God. That’s my favorite. I’ll tell you what, though. Bet your pallov-daar isn’t as good as my mom’s.”
“What’s the bet?”
“The bet is…” He thought for a minute. “Okay. The bet is if your cooking is as good as my mom’s, I take you out to the Sea Lounge for tea. If it is not as good, you treat me to the Sea Lounge.”
“What’s the Sea Lounge?” she asked.
“The Sea Lounge? Oh yes, I forget you’re not from Bombay. It’s a restaurant at the Taj. They have the best grilled chicken sandwiches.” Even she knew that the Taj was the best five-star hotel in Bombay.
The thought of seeing this man again made Tehmina forget any doubts about spending too much of the money her father had given her. She would just have to forgo some of her shopping.
“Okay. It’s a bet. As long as Mrs. Sukharwala allows me to go out.”
Rustom laughed. “Smits’s mother? Don’t worry about her. She’s a very modern woman.”
The easiness of his laugh bothered her. “My father…in Calcutta I don’t usually go out with—that is, my father doesn’t allow me to go out with—strangers.”
Something flickered in his eyes again. “I understand that, Tehmina. Honest. I didn’t mean to imply anything.” He smiled. “But we’re cousins, remember? So you’re not going out with a stranger. And my intentions are honorable, I promise.”
“Okay,” she said. “Now come try the food.”
In later years, they would try to remember who had won the bet. Rustom claimed that she had, whereas Tehmina recalled Rustom saying that her pallov-daar was good, exceptional even, but not as great as his mother’s. In any case, they met at the Sea Lounge two days later and ordered a grilled chicken sandwich, a chicken roll, and two teas. “This is an amazing restaurant,” Tehmina said as they sat near the large picture windows overlooking the Gateway of India.
“It’s my favorite place to relax,” Rustom said. “I love coming here after a day of work and just having a beer or something.”
Tehmina realized how little she knew about this man in front of her. She had tried to pry information out of Smits, but Smits was only interested in talking about their high school days and all the pranks that he and Rustom had played on their teachers. And all that Nilu knew about Rustom was that he was one of the most eligible bachelors in town and bore a strong resemblance to the actor Shashi Kapoor and didn’t Tehmina think so?
“What do you do for work?” she asked.
“I’ve just started my own business. I used to work for a builder. Now I have a small factory. I manufacture door hinges and knobs and other metal fittings.”
“I see.” It sounded dreadfully boring. Tehmina tried but failed to imagine this intense young man in front of her caring much about metal fittings. He looked like he should work in clay or wood, she thought, something that was fresh and warm and came from the earth and smelled good.
“God, Tehmi,” Rustom said. “You have an amazing face—it’s like it’s made of glass. I feel I can read your thoughts and see every emotion behind your skin.”
Strangely, she believed him. “What was I just thinking?”
“You were thinking of how utterly boring my job is.”
She was flustered. “No, not really.”
“Come on now, Tehmi.” He laughed. “Tell the truth.” He grew serious. “But listen, actually I love what I’m doing. And making parts for doors—I think it’s the most important job a man can have.”
She started to laugh but he raised a hand to stop her. “I’m not joking. Think about it. What would any civilization be without a door? Think of what a closed door can hide—tears, intimate relations, scandals, murders, mysteries, family secrets, national secrets. Countries spend millions trying to get behind each other’s closed doors, no? So do lovers. Conversely, think of what an open door symbolizes—an invitation into someone’s home, someone’s heart, an entry into a kitchen, a dining room, a bank vault, even”—here his voice dropped a notch—“a bedroom. And what is it that makes it possible to have all those doors opening and shutting?” He paused, looking at her expectantly.
Tehmina felt dizzy under the spell of Rustom’s words. “What?” she said stupidly.
“Hinges,” he yelled triumphantly. “It’s the humble hinge that lets one decide whether to lock the world out to let it in. See why what I do is so important?”
He went on like this for another ten minutes, his face flushed with excitement, the words tumbling out. Tehmina barely understood most of what he was saying but she didn’t care. Mostly she enjoyed just looking at that sweet face, gazing upon it as if it was the face of a movie star in a magazine that she’d stare at for hours in bed.
Rustom cut himself off by slamming his right fist into his left palm. “Look at me,” he said. “What a bloody idiot I am. I have a pretty girl in front of me and I’m putting her off to sleep by talking about my stupid job.”
She didn’t know whether to react to the compliment or assure him that she was interested. He saved her from deciding by signaling to the waiter for the check. “Come on,” he said. “Let me show you the Gateway of India. It’s a beautiful structure.” He looked at her full in the face. “And there’s a legend that says that if you stand under the arch and make a wish, it comes true.” His voice fell to a whisper. “I know what I’m going to wish for. Do you?”
The day she left to go back to Calcutta, Rustom saw her off at the station. He even boarded the train to make sure she and her suitcase were properly situated. Much to her amusement, he searched the compartment until he found a couple he liked and asked them to take care of Tehmina, much as her father had done. She promised to write the first letter and started it minutes after the train had left the station. He promised to write back and to come see her in Calcutta very soon.
Two months after her return home, Rustom knocked on their door one evening. Tehmina had known he was coming but had been too scared and embarrassed to say anything to her parents. A curious Hoshang let in the nervous young man who said he had just come in from Bombay on a very urgent matter. After Tehmina’s mother had fussed around him and made him a cup of tea, Rustom got to the purpose of his visit. He had come to ask for Tehmina’s hand in marriage.
Hoshang Vakil refused the proposal on the spot. He would never agree to marry off his only child without meeting her prospective in-laws. You should’ve brought your mummy-daddy along to make the proposal, deekra, he admonished a chastised Rustom. After all, a marriage
is between families, not just between the couple, is it not?
It took another month before the two families could meet. Four months after that meeting, the wedding was held in Calcutta. There was a second reception in Bombay. Because of the two receptions, Rustom and Tehmina always celebrated their wedding anniversary twice.
After the wedding, they moved into a small second-floor flat in a building in Nana Chowk. Their first major, extravagant purchase was the bed that Rustom had delivered one afternoon. It was on that bed that Sorab was conceived.
On Sorab’s twenty-first birthday, they took their son to the Sea Lounge. They had long ago given up their small Nana Chowk apartment for a spacious three-bedroom flat in Colaba from where it was an easy walk to the Taj.
Over high tea at the Sea Lounge, they argued over who had won the bet that had led to their second meeting. If Sorab looked totally uninterested, they didn’t care. “Hey, all I want to know is, who paid for the tea,” the bored birthday boy finally asked.
In this, their memories were in agreement. “She did.” Rustom grinned with great satisfaction. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter who won, yaar. Your mummy was so lattoo-fattoo about me that she would’ve bought me the Qutub Minar, if I’d asked.”
Tehmina fell into a restless sleep. In her dream, Persis was sitting across from her at the Sea Lounge, sipping on a cup of tea. Glancing out of the large picture windows of the restaurant, Tehmina saw the blue-gray waters of the Arabian Sea. The warm afternoon sun danced upon the water, along with hundreds of anchored boats. It was a sight Tehmina had seen a dozen times before. But now there was a new object on the water and the incongruity of it made Tehmina sit up with such a jolt that she spilled some of the tea on her arm. For, sailing among the boats, bobbing on the water, was a bed. A large, ornate teakwood bed. Tehmina turned to Persis but found to her terror that she could not speak. She turned her head again toward the large glass windows and saw that Persis was gazing at the same spot in the distance as she was. But her companion did not seem to have noticed anything strange. Instead, Persis was talking about house keys and telephone bills and other incongruous subjects. And then Tehmina noticed another strange thing—Persis was speaking in Rustom’s voice. Or rather, Persis’s high voice was tinged with some texture of Rustom’s baritone. Like raw cashews rolled and roasted in salt. Tehmina wanted to speak, wanted to point out to Persis the bizarre things that were occurring around them, but she had lost her ability to speak. This is what it must be like to be blind, she thought, and immediately chastised herself for the inaccuracy of her analogy.
If Today Be Sweet Page 11
