NO PRESENTS
PLEASE
Mumbai Stories
JAYANT KAIKINI
Translated from the Kannada by
Tejaswini Niranjana
NEW YORK • LON DON • TORON TO • SYDNEY • NEW DELHI
CONTENTS
City Without Mirrors
Interval
Unframed
Opera House
A Spare Pair of Legs
Inside the Inner Room
Dagadu Parab’s Wedding Horse
Gateway
Crescent Moon
Toofan Mail
Water
Partner
Mogri’s World
A Truckful of Chrysanthemums
Tick Tick Friend
No Presents Please
P.S. Section
About the Book
About the Author
Copyright
To all those orphaned and undelivered letters
lying in post offices, addresses unknown,
unable to return
CITY WITHOUT MIRRORS
Satyajit was still single. He was getting older by the day. There didn’t seem to be anyone close to him bothered enough to persuade or pressurize him to get married. For nearly twenty years, he had changed many jobs and flats in this city. There was probably no Mumbai suburb he hadn’t lived in and no streetside food cart he had not eaten from. For some time he had shared rooms with other bachelors who were not really his friends, but as he grew older, he got tired of living with strangers and took up quarters on his own. He used to wonder why he needed an entire room to himself when all he used it for was for a bath in the morning and six hours of sleep at night. But when he realized that even with people he had known for years he could not share the sort of easy camaraderie that bus drivers had when they met momentarily at the station, he had given up that kind of living, and now for the last four years, he had occupied a small room by himself on the terrace of an old building. The room had a small square window. On the days that Satyajit did not go to work, he would observe the sunbeam coming through the window to make the room sparkle. It seemed to him like a broom of light that swept his mind too. When clouds gathered, the rays disappeared. He always left the window open, even when he went out. On its inner ledge, his shaving set, toothpaste, brush and comb shone in the golden light.
He often went to his colleagues’ weddings, funerals and other ceremonies. When someone tried to pull his leg about not being married, he would say, ‘I’m married to this city. Where’s the space for another relationship?’
Since he lived on top of a three-storey building, he felt as though below him lay an entire society. On the terrace was a silence quite alien to the people below, or to the noise of the road. It was as though he filled himself with this silence as he would secure his little room with a little lock and climb down the steps to go to work. When he returned in the evening and unlocked the door, standing in that same silence, it was as though the room had been waiting for him. In this room that no one else ever entered, only the sun’s rays had come and gone, warming the space. A deep twilight pervaded the terrace, quite different from the darkness split by the lights from the bazaar below.
Today, like always, Satyajit woke late and rushed to get ready. As he was locking the door, he saw an old man climbing up the stairs. Thinking he had made a mistake, Satyajit said, ‘There are no more floors here. This is the terrace and there’s no one here,’ making a sign to him to stop. The old man tried to catch his breath, and, hesitantly pulling out a piece of paper from his pocket, said, ‘It’s this very address. Satyajit Datta…’ Satyajit was irritated. He was already late for work. But he felt bad about being impolite to this elderly man who had clearly come looking for him from afar. ‘Come in, come in,’ he said, unlocking his door, and unfolding a metal chair for him to sit on. Satyajit had never had a guest in this house; the old man was the first. Looking around at the small room, the man stammered again, ‘Satyajit Datta…’
‘Yes, that’s me, Satyajit. I was just leaving for office. Two more minutes and you would have missed me. And all your effort would have been in vain. Tell me, how can I help you?’ he asked, pouring out a glass of water from an earthen pot.
Drinking the water quickly, and wiping his mouth with his sleeve, the old man said, ‘Perhaps if you’re getting late, I should come another time.’
‘No, no, do tell me what you want,’ replied Satyajit, folding his shod feet in order to sit down on his unmade bed on the floor.
‘My name is Sanjeev Sen. Retired from the Railways ten years ago. I live in Borivli. I heard about you from a friend who lives far away. I’ve come with a request. I’ve brought a marriage proposal on behalf of my daughter. Her horoscope and other details are here,’ the old man said, proffering a brown envelope.
Satyajit was dumbstruck. It was like getting a gallantry award without going into battle. He pulled the sheet out of the envelope and glanced at it. Shalini Sen … education … date of birth, etc. The details had been typed on an old typewriter, and corrections had been made with a coloured refill.
‘She’s working part-time in a travel agency. She’s thirty-nine. Our bad luck that everything got delayed. We are willing to conduct the marriage at any time and place of your choice. If you want to meet her, we can arrange a meeting at a convenient place. Please give me your phone number. I will call you myself. I don’t want you spending on the phone call.’ Looking around carefully at the small room, Sanjeev Sen stood up. ‘The address, phone number, are all there…’ he said as he went down the stairs.
‘Look here, I stopped thinking about marriage years ago. And I still haven’t settled down properly. Perhaps I’m not the type to ever settle down. I’m a sort of wanderer. Look at this room. Marriage is not for me…’ These words began to occur to Satyajit only later. This meeting with the old man had happened in a flash, and had already begun to seem like an illusion. Satyajit locked his door and slowly went to his office.
It was as though a new blank page had suddenly appeared in his crowded diary, or a new pocket on the shirt he had flung on. It gave him a strange pleasure to think that the father of a ‘girl’ had come looking for him – he who was past forty, greying, and leading an aimless life.
Satyajit did not have any friends with whom he could discuss this. What upset him was also the fact that this gentleman looking for a bridegroom had not asked him any questions. What did he do for a living, how did he live, what kind of thoughts did he have? How could the old man commit his daughter to a man he showed no curiosity about? Or was this family in such a terrible predicament that they were not interested in knowing such things? It began to distress Satyajit that the man had given him the daughter’s horoscope as naturally as leaving a load of laundry to be ironed. Since the old man had been walking around under the fierce sun, the letters of the horoscope seemed to have evaporated in the heat.
Shalini, Shalini Sen, the name had some sparkle to it. She had been living on this earth the past thirty-nine years, and suddenly her existence and Satyajit’s had come close to one another. Perhaps, he thought, she was the child of a migrant family which had come here seeking a livelihood, perhaps the family had never quite settled down. She would have learned to walk somewhere in this city, and grown up seeing lakhs of faces other than his. Speaking Bambaiyya Hindi, painting her nails in a girlfriend’s house, dancing the garba during Navratri, going to the sea for the Ganesh immersion, shouting ‘Morya’ and returning home soaking wet and swaying in the truck … This city had kept telling her ‘Everything will be all right’ and then suddenly let go of her hand. She would have shuddered at that.
Left alone in the chawl, she continues to apply Vicco Turmeric cream on her face. She i
s despairing, angry, gets up in the middle of a meal and puts her slippers on to go outside. Avoiding her friends, telling them lies, she hides in a secret mirror. ‘You’re so lovely, why aren’t you married?’ the loudspeakers from the marriage halls blare. Her face has suddenly aged, the hair at her parting turned grey. She has lost the right to sulk like a child. She daydreams about Pakya who sells paper lanterns or Kekoo who runs the cassette shop. Slowly, like a book on the corner of the lower shelf, a book no one reaches out for, she has acquired her mother’s posture and her mother’s silence.
The loom of Satyajit’s mind had silently woven its picture of Shalini. He felt a little weak at the thought that he had imagined her face to be dusky and beautiful. All his colleagues had taken loans and bought rooms of their own; acquired fridges, TVs and mixers through instalments; had wives who were in service, and whom they dropped to the bus stop on their scooter, nodding at them slightly in lieu of saying goodbye – his colleagues who were diminishing slowly like a piece of fragrant soap in the dish in their bathrooms. But Satyajit alone had slipped to the corner of the world’s eye like a sliver of bar soap drying in the sun, this fact was clear and uncontestable like a bank account with minimum balance. If someone asked him whether time stood still or was moving, he was capable of telling them clearly that he did not know. But now that the membership of respectable society was opening up for him in the shape of Shalini Sen who was somewhere, breathing the same air as him, Satyajit found a new enthusiasm within himself. During his lunch break, he dialled the Sens’ care-of number.
‘Who do you want?’ asked a gruff voice. ‘No, can’t call them now. I’ll tell them to phone you. Is there a message?’
Before he could say anything, the person had disconnected. Perhaps he had become a little too enthusiastic, thought Satyajit, and buried himself in work. His mind quietened down as though an aeroplane’s sound had receded into the distance.
That evening he decided to walk home from the station. On the way, he bought a tender coconut from the cart outside Johnson Park and stood there, sipping. The pick-up point for the all-night luxury buses going to distant towns was close by. The buses started coming, swaying like wild elephants, to pick up passengers. The cleaners stood by the doors, calling out the name of the bus service and its destination. Satyajit saw a dirty little street boy, about ten or eleven years old, coming along the footpath, kicking an empty Pepsi can. He was making the can skim along without touching the ground. As he approached the bus stop, his can disappeared under a bus that had just pulled in. He stood waiting for the bus to move.
‘Goa, Goa,’ bellowed the cleaner.
The little boy suddenly piped up and asked, ‘Cuddapah jaata hai kya?’
‘No,’ laughed the cleaner. The bus moved off.
The boy picked up his can, but stood there as if he had discovered a new game. Another bus came by, with the cleaner shouting ‘Mangalore, Mangalore’.
‘Do you go to Cuddapah?’ asked the boy.
Instead of saying no, the cleaner laughed mockingly and said, ‘Yes, we go to Cuddapah. Do you have money for your ticket?’
‘No…’ said the boy, looking away.
Then another bus came, and again the boy repeated his question. But this time it was the bus driver who replied, mocking him, ‘Here you’re eating mud to survive, bachchoo. But what’s there in your Cuddapah? A golden palace? Haan? In that Cuddapah of yours?’
Now all the passengers on the left side of the bus and all the people standing on the footpath began to stare at the boy.
Guilelessly he shouted, ‘Mera baap hai wahaan, my father’s there,’ and walked away kicking his can. ‘So what if I’m a street child? Like you all, I too have a town, a father,’ he hollered. A shiver ran down Satyajit’s back. Even if it was a lie, it aroused your pity. It seemed as if the boy had released his father from his obligations a long time ago. That can he was kicking along the street, his town which was somewhere on the map, his father who might be in that town, the moving crowds, the buses, the sex workers who got him to buy tea and bread for them and also fed him … all of these were part of the same universe.
In the dimming light, Satyajit climbed the stairs to his room and was unlocking the door when he looked around at the terrace and was startled. Leaning with his elbows against the parapet was Sanjeev Sen, who seemed to be looking down at the vehicles on the road below. Hurriedly opening his door, Satyajit went up to the old man, and found that he was drowsing. When Satyajit said ‘Namaste’, Sanjeev Sen woke, saying, ‘Sorry, sorry.’
‘It’s hot inside,’ said Satyajit. ‘Let’s sit out here.’ He brought out a dhurrie and spread it on the terrace floor. Then he brought some water for his guest. The sun that had left the suburbs was still lingering at the edge of the distant hills.
‘I heard you had phoned. That’s why I came immediately. I would have come even if you hadn’t phoned. There’s been an uproar in my house ever since I met you. I told you everything, but I didn’t mention an important fact about my daughter. I didn’t tell you on purpose. Because if you weren’t interested in this alliance then I would be spoiling her prospects by letting everything out. But there was a big fuss in my house about my not having told you. Shalini stopped eating to punish me. That’s why I’ve come. To tell you that she was married once, for two days. Shalini didn’t like the boy or his family and came home on the third day. What kind of marriage is a two-day marriage? And besides, it was fifteen years ago. It has no meaning now. We live in a different world today. But Shalini insisted that we would be cheating you if we hid this fact. So I came.’
Not knowing what to say, Satyajit tried to mumble that Sen should have not taken the trouble. ‘But don’t close the matter now that you know about her past. Do meet her once. Then you can decide. Please take as much time as you’d like. But please agree to meet her.’
Satyajit was beginning to get annoyed by the old man’s abjectness, but kept quiet for fear that he might end up saying something offensive.
Taking out a small packet, Sanjeev Sen held it out to Satyajit. ‘Please take this. It’s homemade chutney powder. Since you live by yourself…’
Satyajit did not know what to do, because to accept would be one kind of problem and not to accept, another. It seemed natural to take the packet, even as he said, ‘I don’t cook for myself. I eat out all the time, but let me keep this.’
Somehow emboldened by this, Sanjeev Sen said, ‘Tomorrow I’ll bring her to Satkar Hotel outside Churchgate station. It should be convenient for you also. I didn’t bring any photos. Anyway, you’ll see her for yourself.’ He stood up and leaned over the parapet again to look at the vehicles below.
Satyajit climbed down the stairs with him, intending to give him a cup of tea at the Irani restaurant and then send him on his way.
‘You’ve just come back from work. Do eat something,’ said Sanjeev Sen, as though he was the host and not the guest.
Satyajit refused. In the long mirrors lining the walls of the restaurant, half a dozen Satyajits and Sanjeev Sens loomed. Outside, the traffic sped past.
Putting on a reassuring look, Sanjeev Sen said, ‘Only two days. In no way was it a marriage. What I mean is…’
Suspecting what the old man would say, Satyajit tried to look elsewhere.
‘We have a medical certificate,’ said Sanjeev Sen. ‘It clearly says that her virginity is intact,’ these last words came in English. However much Satyajit tried to evade the man’s gaze, there was no escaping that sentence. In all the mirrors, Sen was wiping his lips with his sleeve.
After Sen had gone towards the station, Satyajit did not return home, but walked around furiously in the narrow lanes of the suburb. He was aghast at the cruelty of a situation in which an old man had to speak to a complete stranger about the proof of virginity of his nearly forty-year-old daughter. Sen’s trusting helplessness, the wrinkles under his white eyebrows appeared in front of Satyajit’s eyes. Was it possible for Sanjeev Sen to utter that phrase only in Eng
lish? It didn’t seem to be the first time he had spoken those words. Having uttered them in front of many strangers, he seemed to have lost any sense of pain or humiliation and become quite impassive. It was as though this old creature was flinging the certificate in the face of those who asked for proof, calling them sons of bitches. The little Telugu boy kicking the Pepsi can and shouting in Hindi, ‘My father is in Cuddapah’ and Sanjeev Sen establishing his daughter’s virginity in English seemed alike in Satyajit’s eyes.
This life in the marketplace – perhaps its nondescript familiarity compelled people to share private matters only with strangers. Or was it that this city did not treat anyone as a stranger? True. The lakhs of faces one saw everyday seemed familiar even when seen for the first time. As though one knew the story behind each face.
Satyajit stood by the traffic signal. The neighbourhood park was now dark. The Pepsi boy’s footpath lay empty. A few women, wearing make-up and flashing nose rings, lingered by the signal, strolling towards the cars that stopped at the red light. When the cars sped off without noticing them, the women shouted, ‘Jao, jao! Go to your biwi,’ and laughed, falling into each other’s arms. The word ‘wife’ sounded so different coming from them.
One of them came towards Satyajit, saying in Hindi, ‘Why are you running? Arre, at least tell me the time before you go.’ She caught his wrist and looked at the watch under the streetlight. ‘Oh, it’s eight already,’ she said. Turning to the film posters on the nearby wall, and pointing to the face of Kajol, she asked Satyajit, laughing, ‘And is that your biwi?’ before moving off to join her friends. They moved away to another set of traffic signals.
As Satyajit walked towards his home, Shalini Sen now seemed to merge with the word wife. Worn out working women walking from the station were smoothing their ruffled hair, stopping to buy vegetables and biscuits, striding past Satyajit to get home on time. They seemed like hundreds of sets of clothes animated by one life. Each one of them walked as though under a spell. All those eyebrows, noses, sweating necks, tired backs, arms, the faded flowers – they appeared like different images of Shalini Sen. Like a river flowing unseen in a forest, Shalini seemed to be there that evening. These heroic mothers knitted sweaters for their children as they gazed at the abortion clinic posters in the train. Their images multiplied in the roadside shops selling cupboards with mirrors. In another suburb, in another set of shop mirrors, amidst another throng like this, Sanjeev Sen – holding his daughter’s virginity certificate – must also be walking along. Satyajit went to the nearby cinema and watched a late night show.
No Presents Please Page 1
