by Farahad Zama
Dilawar shook his head. “I am sorry, partner. Nothing will change. That case has been going on for seven years and will probably go on for another seventy. And anyway, attitudes will not change. I cannot shove my views down my parents’ throats. They will be humiliated by everybody around them.”
“Do you think they are unaware of your attraction?” said Shaan, softly.
“They may be, they may not be. But as long as I keep it ambiguous, they can fool themselves and hold their heads high in society. Ignorance is bliss, as they say.”
“That’s a ridiculous attitude to take,” said Shaan. “You are saying that it is better to be hypocritical than to be honest.”
“Do you know what happened the other day? As I was coming back from the office, the watchman downstairs told me that it was good that you were not coming here any more. I was surprised and asked him why.”
Shaan looked at him intently.
Dilawar continued, “The watchman said that a couple of other residents in the building had told him to warn me that this was a family-friendly place. They would not tolerate misbehaviour and said that you should be banned from coming here. If not, my case would be discussed at the next residents’ meeting and they would boycott me and get me kicked out.”
“How can they do that? You own this flat and you have as much right as they have to live in it.”
“It’s not just about rights, Shaan. I don’t want to live in a place where everybody’s face is turned against me and where people refuse to talk to me. I cannot lead that kind of life.”
“What did you say when the watchman told you that I would be banned from entering the building?” Shaan looked at Dilawar’s face for a moment and shook his head. “You didn’t protest against that, did you?” Shaan’s eyes widened as another thought struck him. “That’s why you came to airport to pick me up. Yes! You didn’t come there to meet me at all. You only came because you didn’t want to be embarrassed by my turning up at the gates of your precious flats.”
Shaan went back into the living room, took out the DVD and started packing it away.
“What are you doing?” asked Dilawar.
“What do you think? I am leaving you here with your family-friendly neighbours so you can say hi to them when you bump into them by the lifts. I don’t want to disturb your tranquil haven, after all.”
Dilawar made an ineffectual gesture with his hand but said nothing.
Shaan turned at the door and said, “To love is to be brave. You obviously don’t know the meaning of either word. I have a word of advice for you. Don’t fall in love. Be promiscuous. Get a new boy every week. That way nobody will suspect you.”
Dilawar stayed rooted to the spot for a long time after Shaan left. I love you, Shaan, he thought. But I am also a coward. I don’t deserve somebody like you. A fat tear rolled slowly down each cheek, but Shaan did not come back.
Ten
“The porcelain cups and saucers need to be washed today,” the second-floor madam said.
“All right, amma,” said Leela, sighing.
The extra money from serving one more household was welcome for the servant maid, but she was getting older and did not have the same energy that she had ten or even five years ago. What can’t be changed must be borne, she thought. It was just her karma that her grandson’s treatment had sucked away all their savings and that she had an alcoholic husband who didn’t bring a penny into the household.
The second-floor madam – her name was Swaroop – came out with a teapot and a plastic tray and added them to the pile of dirty dishes already waiting.
“Haven’t you started yet?” she said to Leela. “I don’t have all day to wait for you. My guests will be coming soon.”
Leela picked up a mixture of sand and detergent with a piece of coconut coir and started scrubbing the cups.
“Does the widow live with the old couple and their son?” Swaroop asked.
“Who?” said Leela, looking up. “Oh, Pari-amma. She comes over a lot, but she lives with her son in the upstairs room in the ticket inspector’s wife’s house.”
“Yes, I have seen her with that boy. He can’t be her son, surely. He is so dark and scrawny, like an undernourished crow. Also, I heard that he came to town with the neighbour’s son, the one who keeps going off to villages for weeks at a time – who knows what he gets up to? Maybe he had a relationship with some village woman and that boy is the result. And why should the widow look after his child? Do you think there’s something going on between them?” Swaroop obviously did not expect an answer from the servant maid, because she continued, “It’s dangerous for an unmarried man and a woman to spend so much time together. I would have thought that a respectable lady like Mrs Ali would realise it.”
Leela bridled at the woman’s comments. She had been working in Mrs Ali’s house for a long time, while she had only started here a few months ago. Also, Mrs Ali had always been fair with her and had even helped her when her grandson had been diagnosed with a brain tumour that needed to be operated on. In fact, the doctor who had cured her grandson was the husband of that nice Brahmin girl who worked on the verandah of their house.
“Nothing like that, amma. Both the youngsters are very sensible people. I am sure that there is nothing wrong. Muslims are even more strict about these matters than we are. And as for that boy, he is an orphan who doesn’t have anybody else, so Babu brought him home. But how can a man look after a child? That’s why Pari-amma adopted him. The boy will be company for her as well.”
The doorbell rang soon after Leela left.
“Hello, Sonia. Muaah! Come in, what a lovely sari…Where did you buy it?”
Soon, all the guests had arrived and snacks like samosas and spring rolls were circulating.
“You won’t believe what I saw the other day,” Swaroop said.
“What?” chorused four women. The other three raised their eyebrows.
Swaroop leaned over confidentially and said in a dramatic whisper, “I saw the Alis’ son and that widow woman from the opposite house hugging each other.”
“Ooh!” said some of the women, craning forward.
“Are you sure?” said Manju, one of the guests, who lived in the same building as Swaroop but on the other side. “They are a good family and their son is always involved in some social movement. Pari is a relative of theirs.”
Swaroop straightened her back and looked haughtily at the woman who had dared question her. “I know what I saw with my own eyes, Manju. They had sneaked up on to the terrace but forgot that our windows overlook their roof. He was reciting some romantic poetry to her and they were immersed in each other. As soon as they noticed me, they sprang apart like guilty teenagers.”
“Pari wants to rent my neighbour’s flat when they move out. They were a bit dubious about renting to a widow but Mrs Ali spoke to them and they didn’t want to refuse a respectable lady like her,” said Manju.
Swaroop said, “I will warn your neighbours. After all, we don’t want our building to become the centre of some illicit activities, do we?”
“When is your mother-in-law coming?” asked Sonia, after some time.
Swaroop scowled. Her father-in-law had died recently of a heart attack. As a consequence, her husband and his brother had decided that their mother should now live with them rather than on her own. Swaroop had fought long and hard with her husband to prevent her mother-in-law coming to stay with them, but to no avail. Usually so compliant, her husband had become adamant and insisted that he had a duty to look after his mother. As if he would. She knew that all the real work would fall to her. Her mother-in-law was still active, however, so she would get her to take over the kitchen, decided Swaroop. After all, who better than a mother to cook for a son, she thought, temporarily ignoring the fact that she too had a ten-year-old son. She had managed to convince her husband that her mother-in-law would shuttle between her sons every six months rather than every year. More than six months with that old biddy in the small flat w
ould surely drive her mad.
She looked up to see Sonia smiling sweetly at her. Swaroop’s lips tightened.
♦
“What’s the latest in the Dilawar-Pari love kahani?” said Nadira.
“Hardly a story. Go on, have one more doodh-peda,” Mrs Bilqis said to her friend, pointing to a small china plate with round white coins made of milk and sugar, covered with finely beaten silver foil.
“I will,” said Nadira. “They are lovely, almost melting in the mouth. So what’s happening?”
“Pari wants to see Dilawar before making up her mind. She would like to talk to him face to face, so I’ve asked Dilawar to come down to Vizag.”
Nadira raised her eyebrows. “Oh, so the young lady is becoming quite modern, isn’t she? Did she see her first husband before marrying him?”
“That was different. She says she has a son now and wants to make sure that Dilawar is all right about it. I can sympathise with that.”
Nadira shook her head. “I don’t understand you, darling. Where is my old friend who would stand no nonsense from anybody – especially a little slip of a girl who is puffed up with her own importance? Let’s look at her negative points, shall we? She is pretty, I grant you, but she is a widow, not a fresh-faced maiden. She has a son and doesn’t want to give him up, yet she expects Dilawar to raise a boy who is not his own child. She has no family who will pay a dowry. She – ”
“Stop it, Nadira,” said Mrs Bilqis. “I am aware of all these things, but you know Dilawar’s condition. That’s why I have to go along with whatever Pari says for the time being.”
“So what about Dilawar’s condition? Nobody knows about it and nobody can even guess it. He is a handsome boy who can attract any girl. In fact, the other day Ashraf’s cousin came to our house. He talked in a very roundabout way, but basically he wanted to know whether you would consider his daughter for Dilawar, now that your original deadline has passed without any wedding. I told him the match hadn’t fallen through – just delayed. But if you want, I can go back to him and settle the matter.”
“It’s not that easy, Nadira. I am sure that Dilawar will not want to marry any girl by deceiving her. He’s a genuinely good boy. You know he won’t do it. And anyway, let’s say he somehow did agree. What then? Can you imagine the scandal? The girl will go back and tell her parents and they will be extremely angry that we tricked them – and rightfully so, don’t you think? That’s why Pari, without a family, is ideal.”
“But what about Dilawar? Won’t he tell all to Pari and will she then agree to marry him?”
“No, he won’t. I have a plan. I will talk to him and convince him not to say anything. And I am also confident that once he starts living with a beautiful girl like Pari, he will be cured and everything will be fine. I hope that in time they will have their own children too.”
“What about this boy of hers then?”
“Any child of Pari and Dilawar will definitely be more beautiful than that mongrel kid she has adopted and I expect that the attraction between Pari and the boy will then naturally reduce. But I am not a cruel woman – he can grow up with Pari and Dilawar and help around the house. I am sure they will educate him and find him some sort of adequate living, as a clerk or something. After that, what happens to him is whatever is written in his book.”
Nadira said, “I always said that you were the most intelligent woman I’ve ever known, darling.” She popped another peda into her mouth. “You didn’t tell me where you got these sweets.”
Half an hour later, Nadira left. The maid came in and cleared the table but Mrs Bilqis continued sitting on the sofa, staring at nothing. Was she really intelligent? She didn’t know. She heard a noise like a wild animal grunting from one of the inner rooms and she was tempted to ignore it, but got up slowly. Duty first; always, duty first.
The ornate, hand-carved bed had been part of the trousseau that she had brought with her as a young bride from her father’s house. It was now her prison – no, that was not correct. It was the stake in the ground to which she was tied with ropes of duty and tradition. Her husband lay on the bed, immobile except for his eyes, which tracked her.
She bent under the bed and, taking out a chamberpot, she helped him relieve himself, then adjusted his clothes. In the en suite bathroom, she emptied the pot before returning it to its place. Seated on the chair next to the bed, she mused on the withered body of the once-handsome man. His eyes never left her. Was he afraid that she would come in one day and smother him? Who knows what he thought any more. He had been confined to that bed, unable to speak or move any part of his body, for the last twenty years. When she had found out that Pari had done a similar service to her father, she had realised that she had been right in her choice. Any woman who had looked after a bedridden man would have all disgust of bodily functions squeezed out of her. When Pari learned Dilawar’s true inclinations, she might be unhappy, but she wouldn’t find it repugnant. Mrs Bilqis was sure about this.
Dilawar had been kind and sensitive even as a child. She remembered how he used to bring home stray puppies from the street. He had always been a mummy’s boy but he also adored his father.
She recalled the terrible weekend that had destroyed her happy life. Dilawar had been less than ten years old. Her husband had gone out hunting. They had an ancestral estate several miles out of town, bordered by a forest and with a lodge in the middle of it. Those were the days when the forest department was much more lax about rich people killing a black buck or a wild boar, though even then the animals were becoming scarcer and it was common for her husband to return empty-handed. She had just put the children to bed and was telling the cook what to prepare for breakfast the next day when a frantic voice had called on the phone: “The Nawab-saab has fallen off a horse. He is not able to move.”
Her husband had been bedridden ever since, but that wasn’t the most terrible thing. Her husband had not actually gone hunting. In fact, he had never left town. He had spent the day at the house of a friend whose husband was away on business. The friend’s husband had returned unexpectedly and it was Mrs Bilqis’ husband who had jumped out of the bedroom on to a ledge, wearing almost nothing. He had tripped while trying to pull up his trousers and fallen to the ground twenty feet below.
How many times before had her husband been with his mistress when he had supposedly gone hunting? What about when he was away on business? The four of them – Mrs Bilqis, her friend and the two men – had spent many happy days together. Her friend had become particularly close, visiting her very often. Were her friend’s smiles in those days just happiness at seeing her? Or was there another meaning behind them? That is the terrible thing about infidelity: it brings into doubt all that has gone before, so that even the happy memories are cast in a more sinister light – stealing not only the future, but the past too.
A few months after her husband had been settled permanently in the bedroom, her patience had finally run out. She had screamed at him as he lay staring at her, “This is what happens when you go chasing after girls, you idiot. I hope that strumpet was worth spending the rest of your life in bed, lying in your own waste. We had a golden life and you’ve destroyed it with your lust for women. You foolish, foolish man.”
A noise at the door had disturbed her and she had turned back to see the boy Dilawar, his eyes round and wide. She had shut up immediately and taken him back to bed.
Had that outburst had a long-lasting impact on her son? She didn’t know. All she cared about was finding a solution to the problem.
She sighed and left the room, switching off the light behind her. The bedridden man’s eyes tracked her all the way out.
♦
Ramanujam upturned the Pages Bookshop bag on to the bed. Aruna stared in surprise at the books.
Lonely Planet, Rough Guide, Goa Tourism Department, Museums of Mumbai, she read, running her hand over the glossy covers. “Why did you get so many books?” she asked. “The holiday hasn’t even started and you are
already spending money on it.”
Ramanujam shrugged. “We don’t go on holidays very often. In fact, this is our first! We might as well do it properly. Babur was telling me that he is taking his family on a ten-day tour of Thailand, Malaysia and Singapore. We should do that too.”
“Go to a foreign country? No, baba,” said Aruna. “There is so much we haven’t seen in our own country. What’s the point of going elsewhere?”
“Don’t fret,” said Ramanujam. “That’s for next time. Let’s talk about this holiday first.”
“What clothes should I pack?” said Aruna.
“Jeans for Mumbai and a bikini for Goa,” said Ramanujam.
“Back to that same old mantra again? Are you sure you want me to come with you? You might enjoy ogling the girls more if I stayed at home.” Aruna was frowning.
“What’s the fun of looking at the girls if you are not next to me?”
“Why? Do you want me to protect you from the slaps and sandals that will come your way when you drool over them?”
“No, darling. It’s to remind me that you are the most beautiful woman around and nobody else can match up,” he said.
“Hmm…” said Aruna, mollified. “You are good with words anyway.”
She started taking off her sari, unrolling the long cloth from around her waist and legs, ready to change into a nightdress.
Ramanujam picked up one of the guidebooks and started leafing through it. “Did you know that Bombay was originally part of the dowry of the Portuguese princess Catherine de Braganza when she married Charles II of England?”
“Part of a dowry? How ridiculous!” said Aruna.
“Mumbai wasn’t a big city at that time. It was actually seven separate islands inhabited by a few fishermen.”
There was a knock on the door and Aruna, half undressed, looked at her husband in panic. He pointed to the en suite bathroom and Aruna staggered into it, hobbled by the loose sari enveloping her feet.
