‘Stop being stubborn, Sudhanshu. I’ll look for a job too. Our neighbour Shukla Bhabhi says she’ll give me her new salwar kameez to wear to the interview. She says I look young only in a salwar kameez – otherwise I look like an old maushi bai.
‘You only talk about your childhood. Now, what will you do about the childhood of our kids, flying past our eyes at this very moment? In a blink, the blue of the sky, reflected in the boys’ eyes, shouldn’t melt away, no?’
Memories of their children being born. Celebrating the moment when they covered their school notebooks with brown paper and wrote their names on top. The house was full of their books and their soiled uniforms. Remembering when Putti had a stomach ache on the day of her final exam and had cried even as she prayed to the gods before leaving the house; and Putta, the boy, when he turned six, it was as though he knew everything now and stopped asking for birthday presents. To which daily soap did these episodes belong? And the old scars on the knees of the children as they slept, looking more vulnerable and sweet in slumber – were they real or unreal?
Paali, with her hands between her legs like a small girl, sleeping without a sheet or a pillow. Before dawn, how she gets up bravely, lights the stove, and starts cooking breakfast. When the water comes through the pipes at midnight, she fills up a drum and washes three days’ worth of clothes. What must be going through her mind then? She who came to my dwelling with just her nightdress? Paali, who made me stand outside while she pleated her synthetic sari with the gold border and got ready for the marriage registration? Have I pushed that sweet Paali from that moment of love into the pit of this daily domestic struggle? Where had her fearlessness come from? And at this same Gateway, we faced the ocean and life and everything. Now, eighteen years later, why does this same ocean look so different?
Getting ready to cross the road near Regal Cinema, Sudhanshu saw someone walking rapidly across the road just a little ahead of him. He stopped suddenly. Paali! Having come from the Oval Maidan side and walking through this crowd of strangers, she was now going along the lane next to Leopold Café, straight towards the Gateway. He meant to call out to her, but his voice was stuck in his throat. For the first time he was seeing her without her knowledge, inhabiting her own moment. His Paali of eighteen years ago. Here is where they had walked hand in hand. And she was now walking in this same place, all by herself. Who was she? Walking in that piteous solitude? When he left that morning, wasn’t she crouching down, stuffing their son’s books into his schoolbag and making sure his shirt was tucked in? ‘Don’t forget to phone Tiwari. We are the ones in need of a job. It’s not enough just to call him once,’ she had said. How she walks in helpless thrall to this midday sun!
That faded yellow sari which he had seen only at home now appeared in this unfamiliar environment and her movements brought a hint of something beyond … It makes some emotion well up in me … Paali, my sweet Paali … at this moment, how shall I reach you, how shall I console you…
With a dispassionate step, Sudhanshu walked well behind Paali. As she neared the Gateway, Sudhanshu could see nothing but her. She stood there under the arch like a schoolgirl on a tour. What was she looking at with her head raised? The curls on her forehead danced in the sea breeze.
Putti’s nose is like mine. Putta’s eyes are like yours. His right elbow has a sweet little curve that looks like your right hand. This time that grew from us, grew out of us, what do you search for beyond that, Paali?
This city, these buildings, the pigeons, the keychain man, the sea – don’t you see them like I do? Like the small drops of sweat on our Putti’s forehead. Like Putta standing naked in the bathroom waiting to be bathed. Like the fragrance on your synthetic wedding sari with its gold border sitting in the cupboard. Don’t all of these appear the same to both of us? Isn’t this world like our children? Won’t this entire world fit inside our little ten-by-ten-foot kholi? What is there to be seen beyond this? Give me your strength, Paali. Is there a door to this gateway? And aren’t our Putta and Putti moving about in their own space this very second? Isn’t every living creature doing the same thing? Is the Gateway showing us how to live with the rest of the world?
A colourful launch that took passengers on a one-hour tour of the harbour rocked on the waves near the steps. Couples and families were buying tickets and climbing into the cruise boat. Taking their tickets, the cleaner was stretching out a hand and pulling each passenger into the boat. Paali went slowly down the steps, bought a ticket, and approached the launch. Grasping the outstretched hand and jumping into the boat, laughing slightly at her fear, Paali sat down on the bright blue seat. She was the only person who was by herself. She sat looking into the distance.
The launch pushed away from the Gateway pier and began to move ahead, creating its own little waves. As he waited for its return, Sudhanshu began to look at the world with a child’s eyes as though it had been created anew.
‘Gateway’, 2003
CRESCENT MOON
The rows of empty double-decker buses and regular buses lined up in the Ghatkopar Depot were oblivious to the small ruckus taking place in the control room. Driver Pandurang Khot was pleading and arguing tearfully with Sawant, his shift in-charge, to give him leave for the Ganesh Utsav holidays. Sawant was shaking his head firmly and adding ghee by the spoonful to stoke the fire of Pandurang’s rage. For the last twenty years, Pandurang had gone, without fail, to his village near Ratnagiri to celebrate the festival. For Pandurang, the festival was the high point of the entire year: from bringing home the Ganesha idol, the daily worship, the offering of fruit, the aartis, the playing of ghumat drums, the singing of bhajans for five days, to the village play in which he acted a small role, and the immersion of the god in the river while getting wet in the occasional light shower. Besides, Desai Master had said this year he was going to get a big part in the play. For this, he had already bought a pair of white shoes, a leather belt and dark glasses. He had also been informed that this year they were going to invite a guest artiste, a tamasha actress from the city. Pandurang had been instructed to bring a set of false whiskers for the person playing Valmiki. Having acquired all this, and dreaming of playing host to the tamasha artiste in his own house, Pandurang had been waiting for a week to go home, but was now looking at Sawant who, like a mute but wicked god, simply stood there shaking his head, saying, ‘Nothing doing.’
Having finished their shifts, the drivers and conductors were washing their lunch boxes under the tap in the corner and getting ready to leave for the day. They watched Pandurang with some amusement. The joke was that Sawant had just the previous year worked with Pandurang as his conductor, and was now his boss and shift in-charge. Sawant was rubbing chuna and tobacco together in his palm, as if saying, ‘Are you the only one who wants leave? Doesn’t everyone want to celebrate the festival? All these years you got away with it, now I’ll see how you get your way.’
Pandurang, who had a reputation for being a little stupid, never blabbed the details of his personal life to anyone. If he did, the entire depot would be roaring with laughter at his discomfiture. Everyone used to tease him about his habit of looking at himself in the mirror constantly, and making faces, like an actor rehearsing a part. Noticing his peculiar habit of choosing to work only the night shift, his colleagues used to say, ‘And who does the shift in your house?’ And when his daughter was born, they mocked, ‘Arre, Pandu, how did this happen? While you were on the night shift?’ Pandurang did not listen to them, absorbed in his night duty, his bus, his lunch box, his thoughts.
When Sawant, who used to work by his side, got his promotion, Pandurang experienced his pain all alone. But he was sure of one thing – Sawant would give him leave whenever he asked for it. That same Sawant had shared with Pandurang the issue of his wife Sarojini’s greed for gold. Every month Sarojinibai would eat her husband’s head, asking for a new gold ornament. At that time every month, Sawant would reach for a quarter bottle, pour himself a drink, pass some peanuts to Pandu who
did not touch alcohol, and drawl, ‘Ladies’ problem, ladies’ problem.’ Pandurang listened to him for hours, his silence providing a sort of comfort to Sawant. The next morning Sawant would ring the bell ‘Trin, trin, trin’ as Pandu gritted his teeth and clutched the steering wheel as he manoeuvred the bus in reverse. For this same Sawant, Pandu used to bring a quarter kilo of cashewnuts from his village.
Knowing all this, their other colleagues watched Sawant shaking his head at Pandu and were vastly amused. Pandu had had enough. He banged the door of the control room as he rushed out. It was eleven at night. A powerful yellow light was shining down on the depot. Alone, Pandu walked towards the silent rows of buses. Suddenly, he screamed, and raised his hands to the skies under that yellow light as he danced in rage. He ran towards his beloved bus, MHE 4388, jumped in, started the engine, took the bus around the depot once and then went through the main gate. Seeing the bus with no headlights on, the sentry at the gate laughed and said, ‘Pandu,’ as he made an entry in his register. How quietly he went off on his shift with his tail between his legs, thought Sawant, yawning. In the distance, on the Western Express highway rows and rows of vehicles were moving. Sawant couldn’t see if Pandu’s double-decker bus had joined the stream.
As the night wore on, the bus left its familiar roads and went far beyond the suburbs and their twinkling lights. Turning towards the Western Ghats, the bus began to rush along. As it left behind the smells of petrol, diesel, smoke and factories and sped through green forests, a fresh breeze began to blow through the entire vehicle. Singing aloud the songs from Bal Gandharva plays, Pandurang Khot drove with concentration towards his home in Ratnagiri. Through this new world filled with night butterflies, jewel bugs, glow-worms, clouds which looked as though they were brushing against the waxing moon, glistening in the rain, the enormous double-decker bus without a conductor or passengers galloped happily. Vehicles bound for Mumbai stared in surprise and amusement at this bus which had run away from the city. Pandurang drove on in excitement and passion. Climbing down the Mahad ghat with some difficulty, Pandurang drove on resolutely without slackening his grip on the wheel and, by sunrise, he was in Ratnagiri. Shining in the rays of the morning sun, the red double-decker bus arrived at the little green village as though its inhabitants had dreamed it up. Pandu jumped down from his vehicle like a messenger of god.
The whole village reverberated with the news that Pandu had arrived. His friends came running to see him. But Pandurang’s wife, who had arrived a week earlier to help with the arrangements for the festival, felt afraid. Even as everyone was in high spirits, she asked her husband to come straight inside the house, and took him into an inner room. Pandu’s little daughter felt as though the Mumbai of her terrible school had suddenly appeared in front of the village house. But even while the others stood around looking at the bus, she climbed up the metal staircase, walked about inside, stuck a hand outside the window and began to call to her friends: ‘Shaloo, Neema…’
Coming out after his whispered conversation with his wife, Pandu saw that his bus had become a human mountain. As though they were off to a wedding, the villagers and their children had occupied the entire bus. ‘Pandu Maharaj ki jai!’ they cheered. Pandu’s feet did not remain on the ground. He climbed into the driver’s seat as though into the cockpit of an airplane, and with great style drove the bus around the maidan. As the cheers became louder, Pandu felt a momentary pang, which he soon ignored. As he got off the bus, in front of him stood Kuwalekar, the president of the village dramatic society. He came closer and whispered in Pandu’s ear, ‘We’ve brought an actress from Kolhapur. Jueebai. Hurry up and come to the rehearsal.’
‘Coming right away,’ said Pandu, dashing into his house to have a bath.
His wife ran after him. Pandurang’s father came out on his faltering feet, and with a strange hauteur made the people move away from the bus. Then he climbed into the bus with his granddaughter’s help and rang the bell once. Liking the sound, he rang it a few more times.
Hearing it in the bathroom, Pandu yelled, ‘Who’s making that noise?’
By this time, Pandu’s wife had prepared a story in which he had taken ‘special permission’ to bring the bus to help the village people during the Ganesh festival or Chauthi. Soon, she even began to believe her own story. The house was filled with a new enthusiasm for the festival. But Pandurang’s older brother was suspicious. He had worked in the transport office in the Mahad section, and had never heard of an incident like this one. This made him more than a little concerned. This enormous bus, sitting like an Airavata in their courtyard, should go. He warned his wife and children not to show so much enthusiasm, and they began to go around with pinched faces as though expecting a catastrophe to happen. This made Pandu’s wife rush around eagerly. ‘They’ve told him he can keep it for as long as he likes,’ she bragged.
Their daughter clapped her hands, laughing as she jumped up and down. Eating breakfast after his bath, Pandu walked to the front yard of the village temple where the rehearsals were being held. Before he left, he told all the members of his household to keep an eye on the bus. His father said, ‘Come home quickly. We have to bring the Ganesha idol home. Perhaps we can bring it on the bus.’ Pandu’s wife clucked her tongue disapprovingly.
The news of Pandu’s arrival had already reached the rehearsal. Desai Master came out to welcome him, saying that since there were only five days left before the performance, Pandu should come to the rehearsals regularly and learn the dialogues by heart. Pandu’s eyes searched for the actress. Kuwalekar understood his anxiety and whispered, ‘She’s in the next room. She’ll come out only when her role is required.’
In a few moments Jueebai appeared. Her pride in being an actress from a prestigious tamasha troupe from Kolhapur seemed to weigh heavily around her exposed waist as she walked in. Pandu was floored by her demeanour. She had a sharp nose. There were rings of sleeplessness around her eyes. But the way she walked or stood was striking. ‘And who are all of you artistes?’ she seemed to say dismissively. Once her two or three dialogues were over, she disappeared into her room. Kuwalekar went after her, signalling to Pandu to follow him. Not bothering to worry what Desai Master might think, Pandu went behind Kuwalekar shamelessly. In her room, Jueebai had taken off her sari pallu and was fanning herself with it, complaining of the heat. Even after the men came in, she continued to fan herself to Pandu’s titillated surprise. Kuwalekar introduced him, saying he had come especially from Mumbai for the play, and had even brought a double-decker bus with him.
‘Wah, wah,’ said the actress, moving to the window to spit out the betel nut in her mouth.
As she moved around rapidly, what made Pandu distraught were the globes in her blouse, perfectly outlined as though drawn with compasses. This marital life is a total waste, thought Pandu sadly. As though she knew that Pandu could not tear his eyes away from her blouse, Jueebai continued to fan herself artfully. When Kuwalekar got up to leave, Pandu said to Jueebai, ‘Please come to our house. We have a Ganesha installed. Please have dinner with us tonight.’
She said, ‘Certainly, certainly,’ looking into his eyes, and Pandu was rendered speechless.
By the time he came back home holding the script of his dialogues, the preparations to welcome Ganesha were in place. The children were sitting inside the bus, beating the dholak and sounding the cymbals. ‘The actress is coming to have dinner with us,’ Pandu said to everyone in his house. If she came around the time of the evening bhajan, he thought he could sing a song or two from an old play to impress her. He began to hum one under his breath.
After a late lunch, Pandu was trying to take a nap when his wife poked him gently in the ribs, saying, ‘Whatever got into you that you brought this bus here? I suppose you’ll lose your job now…’
‘Shut up!’ he shouted at her. ‘You should have been that Sawant’s wife. Would have served that bastard right.’
‘Then I would have got some jewellery every month, at least,’ s
he said huffily, and vanished.
Pandu couldn’t sleep after that. He went out, climbed into the bus, went up to the upper deck and stretched out on the long seat at the back. Within seconds, he was snoring. No one could see him from the outside. If anyone stood near the bus, they would be able to hear the snores. At teatime, everyone started looking for Pandu.
When he was nowhere to be found, Pandu’s elder brother started shouting, ‘Go look for him in the rehearsal room. Everyone in the town is slavering after that actress. He must have gone there too.’
Pandu’s daughter, who had climbed into the bus to play hide-and-seek with her friends started to cry out, ‘Baba, Baba!’
Pandu dragged himself out of his slumber and sat up suddenly, not knowing where he was. It was evening. It was getting dark inside the bus. Pandu felt afraid and cried out to his daughter, ‘Soni! Soni! Switch on the lights in the bus!’
‘How to do that?’ asked Soni.
Pandu sat in the driver’s seat, putting his daughter on the bonnet next to him. Seen from inside the bus, the houses, the village, the mango grove, the darkening skies, they all looked strange. Calling out to his daughter, he jumped off the bus. In the dimming light, the bus looked like a huge double-storied building that had suddenly raised its head in the village. A small nameless fear began to rear inside Pandu. ‘Jueebai,’ he said, rushing towards the rehearsal room.
In her room, the actress was wearing only her petticoat and blouse. She was fanning herself. ‘It is so hot in this town of yours! You should have brought some cool breezes and some rain in that bus.’
Pandu preened. ‘Dinner…’ he began to say.
‘Will you organize performances for my tamasha company in Mumbai? Only then will I come to your house,’ the actress said, laughing heartily.
‘Sure, sure,’ said Pandu, showing his teeth.
No Presents Please Page 9
