Babyji

by Abha Dawesar

  Maya sat down on the chair she had previously been sitting on. I took the one that Chakra Dev had used. The strong smell of him from earlier had dulled and was now a mere fragrance of suspended Old Spice particles. The entire evening diffused within me.

  Maya threw her head back and exhaled. It reminded me of India on the terrace in Kasauli. I followed the smoke from Maya’s cigarette and thought I could see it rise almost all the way to the moon. The Delhi sky was glittering with stars, the galaxies dancing in clusters. I felt relaxed for the first time that evening, in fact for the first time since all the tension in school had started with Chakra Dev.

  The greatest danger was not that I would have to resign or that I would fail to change Chakra Dev but that he would take me down with him heedlessly. Like the moon pulling at the ocean he pulled my feelings in low tide and high.

  I remembered what Maya had said about consequences and realized I agreed with her. “Life isn’t like a play or a movie, you can never map the consequences in advance,” I said, breaking the silence.

  “Yes, but it’s hard to live with uncertainty.”

  I thought of Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle. Just as one could never be certain of one’s exact position given one’s momentum at any instant, I could never be certain of the exact consequences given the impulses of my heart at any instant. And to know my heart with unfailing accuracy was crucial if I was going to be true to myself.

  “Isn’t uncertainty the price you pay for following your truth, for facing your darkness and fighting it?” I asked.

  “I remember thinking like you.”

  “And?” I prompted her. Had she tried and lost? India had not spoken to me about these things, nor had Adit.

  “Your darkness could get the better of you.”

  Maybe she was right. But I could not imagine losing either to myself or to Chakra Dev. I was sure of my strength. I admired Adit because he had stood in the battlefield and taken a bullet without running away. My battlefield was in my breast. Going to a new country like America where no one from my family had ever set foot seemed like child’s play compared to stepping into the vast landscape that had just opened up within me.

  I got up from my chair and reached out to kiss Maya’s forehead. “I’m glad I met you,” I said.

  “So am I. You’re somehow different than earlier in the evening.”

  “I feel lighter and clearer. Though Tripta would say I just had a surge of some new chemicals.”

  Maya chuckled. “I would say I’ve just managed to charm you.”

  “Should we go in? Everyone is probably getting ready to leave.”

  In the living room my father, Adit, and Mrs. Pillai’s husband were all shaking hands. Vidur had become comfortable with India over the course of the evening and said, “It was very nice to meet you, Aunty.”

  I gave India, Sheela, and Maya kisses on the cheek when I said good-bye. My parents and I saw Adit and the Pillais to their cars before we walked back to our house with Rani.

  “Your classmates are nice,” my father said on the way back.

  “Even the so-called goonda,” my mother added. Obviously Mrs. Pillai or Vidur or Sheela had told my mother quite a lot about Chakra Dev.

  xxvii

  Rolle’s Theorem

  I was fast asleep when I felt Rani get up. It seemed the phone had been ringing. I followed her into the drawing room, wondering who was calling.

  “Haloo,” she said. She turned to me and said, “Babyji, for you.”

  “Babyji, Babyji, Bitchyji,” he said. It was Chakra Dev. I couldn’t tell from his voice if he was joking or serious.

  “What do you want?” I said.

  “I paid her seventy rupees, and I had thought of you that time.” His voice was thick. I could tell that he had drunk a good deal more.

  I was silent.

  “Say something. I am confessing,” he said suddenly, as if we had actually been having a conversation.

  “Chutiya yadav,” I said, slamming down the phone. My hands were shaking.

  I felt Rani’s arm around my shoulder and realized that she had been standing beside me.

  “Are you okay, Babyji?” she asked.

  “Let’s go,” I said, holding her hand as we walked back to my room.

  Rani and I had been so tired after the party, we had got into bed without changing our clothes. When we were back in the room we took off our clothes.

  “It was Chakra Dev, wasn’t it?” she asked when we were finally in bed together.

  “Yes.”

  “All yadavs are not chutiyas, Babyji,” she said.

  “I know that,” I said.

  “Yadavs and my family are the same caste,” she whispered.

  My anger at Chakra Dev had made me lose my senses. I hadn’t even thought for one second that my comment would have hurt Rani.

  “I didn’t know. But my fight with him was really about something else,” I said.

  “I understand,” she said.

  “You believe me, don’t you? It’s just that he keeps calling me a brahmin chutiya. I just got angry with him this time,” I explained, feeling bad at having hurt her.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Yes. I just need you,” I said, hugging her tightly.

  “I am always here,” she said, the love of her “always” plugging the holes in my heart.

  I spent Sunday trying to study for the Monday tests in mathematics and physics and anxiously anticipating the meeting with the counselor at USEFI in the afternoon.

  Between my chapters and sums my mind would flash to Chakra Dev. It was impossible not to remain preoccupied with what he had said about the seventy-rupee woman. Had he really thought of me? The information filled me with distaste, but after all my affairs what right did I have to be sanctimonious about Chakra Dev’s personal life? The drink with Maya had probably given him the courage to approach me on India’s veranda. He had made the mistake of phoning and confessing in a weak moment in the middle of the night. He had made himself vulnerable to me in a way I had never done to my lovers.

  As I sat in my room thinking about him, Rani came to inform me that there was a phone call for me.

  “Hello,” I said into the receiver.

  “It’s Chakra,” he said.

  I remained silent. I wanted him to realize I was angry.

  “It’s me,” he repeated.

  “I knew you would call,” I finally said.

  “You did?”

  “I know you better than you think.”

  “Anamika, I have an urgent question. Did I call you last night?”

  “Yes.” As soon as I had spoken I wanted to kick myself for having replied so swiftly. He was like a wild animal. If I observed him long enough I would learn to communicate with him in a language that he understood.

  “I am so so sorry,” he said. He sounded as though he meant it.

  “Are you?” I asked.

  “Listen, please forget last night. Please forget whatever I said.”

  “Was it true?” I asked.

  He was silent.

  “Was it true?” I repeated. This time my tone was the same one I used in assembly.

  After a moment of silence he quietly said, “Yes.”

  “God damn you,” I said.

  “I’m going to fail the test tomorrow,” he said, changing the conversation.

  I was silent. I decided it best to let him steer the conversation for the moment.

  “Anamika?”

  “Just study Rolle’s theorem and you’ll get passing marks. Do you need me to explain it?”

  “Is this your brahmin idea?” he said, turning irritable. He had hesitated a second before brahmin as if he had stopped to eat the word chutiya that would have naturally followed.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “To stake your badge for me, invite me to the party, help me with the test?”

  “All my ideas are chutiya brahmin ideas by definition, aren’
t they?” I asked grimly.

  “Huh?”

  “Do you want me to explain Rolle’s theorem or not?” I asked, my impatience now obvious.

  He sighed. “Yes, wait, let me get my book.” Whenever I got irritated with Chakra Dev and was ready to walk away, he relented.

  I waited for Chakra Dev to bring his book. I explained whatever I could by looking at my notes from Mrs. Pillai’s class. At the end, it was like having explained something to Sheela—I didn’t know if Chakra Dev had really understood anything.

  “I am going to USEFI tomorrow. Do you want to come? If you want to go to the U.S., you will have to take some exams and apply to colleges months in advance,” I said.

  “I can’t come tomorrow,” he said.

  “Why? Are you busy with the seventy-rupee woman?” I asked, unable to help myself.

  “Anamika, I’m sorry about it. Please,” he said.

  “I’ll bring information for you,” I said, relenting. “Okay, bye,” I added, wanting to end the conversation before it took another turn for the worse.

  “Anamika,” he said, and then paused.

  “What?”

  “Thank you for inviting me to the party. I really enjoyed it. I’m sorry I drank.” I detected none of the derision I had come to expect from him.

  “I want to be able to trust you,” I found myself saying. Like in all of my conversations with him, we maintained an elliptical orbit around each other. Only time would tell if I was right or wrong about him. After all, life itself—its environment and reproducing mechanisms and all of mankind—had arisen from the complete disorder that followed the Big Bang, a moment when the universe was smaller than a nut and infinitely hot. Even I could emerge calmer, more functional, a better human being from the anarchy of Chakra Dev’s world.

  The next day in class, as I sat through the test, I cast a backward glance at Chakra Dev to see how he was doing. I had guessed correctly, and the main question for ten marks was on Rolle’s theorem. I saw him write for a while and then stop. It seemed like he didn’t know any other application of differential calculus.

  In the break, Vidur and Sheela and I went to the canteen. They said they had enjoyed the party. Vidur said he was trying to convince his mother to let him have a big party at home one night for the class. He said his father was all for it but his mother was afraid we would leave the house a mess. Vidur said he had almost been taken in by Deepak’s arguments for going abroad, which made me think my parents would eventually come around to the idea.

  “So, will you go to America, too?” I asked. I was sure we would become best friends again if we both went abroad.

  “No. But I’ll come with you today. I promised my dad,” he said.

  “Why don’t you come, too?” I asked Sheela.

  “You’re both traitors,” Sheela said. I could see guilt release its colors on Vidur’s face.

  “He’s not going to apply. He’s just coming along,” I said, defending him.

  “We should go to support Anamika,” Vidur said. “Deepak Bhaiyya is fun. We can get ice cream later,” he pleaded.

  In the afternoon, when Deepak came to pick us up from school, we all packed into his car. I asked Vidur to sit in the front seat so Sheela and I could sit in the back.

  “I have good news for you,” Deepak said.

  “What is it?”

  “Tripta Aunty just called my office. Jeet has been admitted into your school,” he said.

  “I’m happy,” I said. At least one positive thing had happened while I was Head Prefect. If Chakra Dev made me lose face in front of the entire school, then maybe in the future Jeet would make up for it.

  At USEFI I waited anxiously for the counselor to call me in while Vidur and Sheela played a word game, oblivious of my nervousness. I looked over Deepak’s shoulder as he flipped through assorted glossy material on various universities. The brochures each had a letter of introduction from the dean, a few pages on student life, information on courses, and colorful pictures. Everything was highly professional; even most Indian corporations didn’t have this kind of material.

  A bookshelf in the waiting room was filled with large folders arranged alphabetically. I walked up to the shelf and pulled out a folder marked “H.” There were hundreds of universities listed under H alone. The number of students, degrees granted, and other statistics appeared on each page. Harvey Mudd was known for its sciences, a true science university. How could a country with a quarter of India’s population have so many more institutions of higher learning? Deepak had warned me that there was too much choice and that I should apply only to the best. By their fact sheets and brochures, they all looked like the best. How would I choose?

  “Anamika,” a woman called, popping her head out from the counselor’s office. A boy walked out from her office carrying a folder. She saw him out and said, “Good luck.”

  I walked to her office.

  “Shut the door behind you,” she said. She was good-looking and very young. I was expecting someone like Mr. Garg, not someone wearing jeans and a red top and sporting short hair like mine. She smiled.

  “I’m Sim,” she said.

  “Hi,” I said nervously.

  “Your profile is very interesting. It’s very good,” she said.

  “Thank you,” I said, staring at her desk. It was neat and clean, free of clutter.

  “What do you want to study in college?” she asked.

  “I am not sure,” I said. I suddenly wanted to tell the truth. I didn’t want to end up going to a place like Harvey Mudd and doing only physics or mathematics. I wanted to keep my options open.

  “You should definitely go to a liberal arts school. You can try different things, then. I would suggest you apply to a few Ivy Leagues and then some second-tier schools.”

  I nodded. Deepak had told me about Ivy Leagues. The dictionary had yielded a definition about social prestige and scholastic achievements.

  “How many should I apply to?” I asked.

  “Six to be safe, I think. Three Ivies and three others.” She explained the application procedure to me and told me the tests I had to take.

  “I kept some college materials for you. I think you’re the best candidate from Delhi who has walked through the door this year,” she said, pointing to her office door.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “There are others with the same grades, but you have the best extracurriculars.”

  I smiled sheepishly. I could suddenly think of no extracurriculars except Sheela and India and Rani. I felt hot in the face.

  She had brought out a massive folder that was pleated like an accordion. She opened its big flap and pulled out a glossy brochure. She turned to the first page and pointed to the table of contents to show me how the information was organized and what was worth reading. I saw the back of the brochure. There was a crest in crimson, and below it “Veritas.”

  “Meritas,” I thought to myself.

  Acknowledgments

  For his support of this novel at a critical stage, I would like to remember the late Giles Gordon, unforgettable and sorely missed.

  For support in the form of grant money, I am grateful to the New York Foundation for the Arts. Many heartfelt thanks to Claudette Buelow and Robert Steward for immensely useful criticisms of multiple versions of this book. For their valuable comments on my first draft, I thank: Ashwini Sukthankar, Devika Daulat-Singh, Krzysztof Owerkowicz, and Plamen Russev. For their hospitality during my itinerant months spent working on this novel, I am indebted to Yasmin Boyce, Beti Cung, Margarita Michail and Raoul Kantouras, Sabita Uthaya and Trishul Mandana, Brent Isaacs, Freyan Panthaki, and Priti and Ravi Aisola.

  To everyone at Curtis Brown in London and Anchor Books in New York involved with this book at various stages, thank you for your dedication. I am, above all, grateful to my editor, John Siciliano, for his belief in Babyji and his painstaking thoroughness in getting it to its current form.

  The unflinching support and undiluted lo
ve of my mother, my father, and my aunt have sustained me. Without them, nothing would be possible.

  Abha Dawesar

  babyji

  Abha Dawesar was born in 1974 in New Delhi, India, and graduated with honors from Harvard University. She was awarded a New York Foundation for the Arts fiction fellowship and is the author of the novel Miniplanner. She lives in New York and can be reached on her Web site www.abhadawesar.com.

  Also by Abha Dawesar

  Miniplanner

  AN ANCHOR BOOKS ORIGINAL, FEBRUARY 2005

  Copyright © 2005 by Abha Dawesar

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright

  Conventions. Published in the United States by Anchor Books, a division

  of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random

  House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Anchor Books and colophon are registered trademarks of

  Random House, Inc.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organiza-

  tions, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s

  imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Dawesar, Abha.

  Babyji: a novel / Abha Dawesar.

  p. cm.

  1. Teenage girls—Fiction. 2. India—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3554.A9423B33 2004

  813’.6—dc22 2004048615

  www.anchorbooks.com

  www.randomhouse.com

  eISBN: 978-0-307-42489-1

  v3.0