by S L Bhyrappa
‘I must go now, ayya, and pay my respects to Father,’ she said in a heavy voice.
He nodded. ‘Sure. You know the place. But all the same, take Kenchappa with you.’
By the time she reached home, she had made up her mind to go alone. She wanted nobody else there when she was meditating on the memory of her father. She took the keys to the farmhouse from Kenchappa. He volunteered to go with her but she declined. She quickly reached the outskirts of the village and entered a large field. It was the first field and it belonged to her father. The one next to it was owned by Mudigere Rangappa. Then the wetlands began. She walked on straight, crossed the canal-like stream and suddenly stopped and looked to her left. It was almost like an explosion of maize, which seemed to shoot up from below after breaking the earth, standing tall with parrot-green leaves shimmering and swinging in the late afternoon sun. Several steps later, she reached a fork. She stood there for a moment, unsure about which way to turn but then she remembered—I need to turn right. Two minutes later, she was at the gate of the farmhouse. She noticed that an iron gate had replaced the bamboo gate she had seen twenty-eight years ago. She unlocked it and stepped inside. The coconut trees inside the farm had grown taller over those twenty-eight years. She crossed the spacious well right at the centre of the farmhouse, turned left and after a few steps reached the mound at the far end on which stood the grove of bael trees. It wasn’t really a grove but a cluster of six trees. The mound was, in a way, a mini-graveyard where her ancestors were buried. Six graves. And then the seventh. It had a stone slab over it and it was still fresh.
She removed her footwear, walked to the grave and stood almost touching it. She looked down at it and closed her eyes, trying to summon memories of her father. She saw him as he was twenty-eight years ago. She stood still for a few minutes, opened her eyes, sat and touched her forehead to the stone and closed her eyes again. Then she stood up and looked at the other tombs. Her mother; her grandfather, Narase Gowda; then his father, Shinge Gowda; then his father, Venkate Gowda; then his father…she didn’t know his name. She stood there among her ancestors in silence for a long time.
When she returned, Kenchappa was not at home. His wife Lakshmamma asked her if she wanted tea.
‘Oh yes! Absolutely!’ she said, entering her father’s study. There she sat on his divan and pulled the study table towards her.
~
After spending long hours behind the wheel, she finally reached Bangalore. The maid, Amina Banu, opened the door and let her in. She plopped on the sofa and suddenly felt directionless. Amina Banu takes care of all the housework. She cooks and cleans the house and washes Amir’s and my clothes. The house runs anyway, whether I’m here or not. I’m wasting my time here. No. Wait. Actually, there’s nothing here. It’s all there at Narasapura. All those books. So much to read. Father…Suddenly she shot up from the sofa, then, equally suddenly, sat down and leaned back weakly into the soft cushion. She was exhausted from the driving. And the emotional strain of the past few hours were taking a toll. I must go. Or get those books here. No no no. Doesn’t make sense. She turned her head in the direction of her study where she wrote her screenplays and scripts. No. There’s no space left in this box of a study. Nazir’s room is ideal. But it’d inconvenience him when he comes here during his vacation. Besides, he’ll marry eventually… We could’ve planned to build another room but where was the money? I didn’t see Father at all till he… I should’ve told Sastri Ayya that I wanted to go to Sangama with Kenchappa to immerse Father’s ashes. Or even better, I should’ve told him I’ll take Father’s ashes in my car and that way Kenchappa and Sastri Ayya could travel with me.
And then she debated whether it was worth the effort: involving herself in these rituals of a faith she had abandoned. Then again, she wasn’t sure. Something had changed yesterday. Her visit to the village after twenty-eight years and what Sastri Ayya had told her about Father’s gradual change, that enormous pile of books he had read. His astonishing command over English. How he had striven to learn English in his quest for knowledge. The history lecturer who visited to pay his last respects out of genuine respect for her father’s self-earned scholarship. And then when she had touched her father’s grave with her forehead a sudden realization had struck her: have I really abandoned my previous faith?
‘Snacks ready, madam!’ Amina’s voice came from somewhere.
She ate a sandwich and an omelette and drank some tea. The phone rang two minutes later. Amir.
‘I reached about an hour ago.’
‘I’m very relieved to hear that. I expected you yesterday. You went there after so many years. I was worried that they’d done something to you.’
‘Nothing. They treated me like a daughter who visits her parents’ house after many years. Come home. I’ll tell you everything.’
‘Our cinematographer, Guru, spoke to me. His schedule is free for the next three months, starting from the tenth. He thinks it’s good to begin the Hampi project as soon as possible. But your introduction, explanations of the history of the place…nothing is ready! How do I do an outline for the shooting? We need your script now!’
‘Oh!’
‘I’ll try to be home as early as possible,’ he said and disconnected the phone.
The mention of Hampi brought in its wake the broken images of Ugra Narasimha and all those ruins. Together, they besieged her mind with a violence that surprised her. She recalled that she hadn’t seen the Narasimha temple when she went to Narasapura just yesterday. The thirty-feet-tall Narasimha idol inside the temple had been there even before the village grew around it. It was standing—still stood—on the hillock, an imposing creation made entirely of stone. For some reason, it reminded her of Ugra Narasimha in Hampi. She suspected this temple was not known beyond Narasapura and a few surrounding villages. And it was still surviving intact. Probably no nawab or sultan raided this village. She was mildly shocked at this almost involuntary explanation. And that made it even tougher to prepare the script for the Hampi documentary the way the Heritage Department wanted it to be made.
When Amir came home in the evening she explained everything she had observed in Narasapura and said, ‘I’m sorry, Amir, but I don’t think I can do the Hampi script. I don’t want to create needless controversies. Find someone else to do this. Please.’
‘But I haven’t done any movie without your script.’
‘Reject this one offer. Just this one.’
‘It’s not that easy. We’re dealing with the government. They won’t take it kindly. If I reject this, the Heritage Department will shut the door on me forever.’
That sounded plausible. She sat down at her desk, but the words would just not flow. Two days later, she was convinced it was impossible. I can’t do this. ‘I need to go to Narasapura and then drive to Sangama to immerse Father’s ashes in the river. I’ll take the car again. It might take me five days to return. Use the scooter,’ she said.
Amir didn’t respond but his expression was stern. She took his hand and caressed it
‘Angry because I refused to write the script?’
‘You call yourself a communist, a rationalist and a Progressive. I’m amused—the icon of Progressiveness taking refuge in crass symbolism of religion; immersing sacred ashes in Sangama…these are scenes we show in our films.’ The unexpected sarcasm stung her. She let his hand go and stared at him.
What about your trademark beard’s symbolism, which projects you as both an enlightened socialist intellectual and a modern Muslim at the same time? she was tempted to retort but she said nothing.
‘I can find another scriptwriter but our wavelengths match perfectly. You can’t abandon me at the last minute, Razia,’ he said.
She didn’t respond even to this.
But she remained in Bangalore. After three days she began feeling restless. The pull of her father’s still-incomplete last rites and the lure of all those books grew intense. She packed for a week in a lightweight suitcase, rolled tw
o large blankets, put this luggage in the boot and told Amir that she would be gone for a week. He was mum now, like he had been ever since they had had that conversation. She was tempted to mollify him but that meant she had to agree to write the script. And so she left. He didn’t come to the balcony to wave her off as usual.
~
This time she wore a bindi. She unpacked her luggage in her father’s study, told Lakshmamma that she was here for a week and asked her to prepare lunch for her every day. Then she set out for Sastri Ayya’s house.
‘Ooh! When did you come? Have some breakfast, daughter,’ Sastri Ayya’s wife offered warmly.
She smiled and politely declined.
‘Ayya, can I immerse my father’s ashes?’
‘Definitely! You’re his own daughter.’
‘But I’ve converted to Islam.’
‘There’s no conversion. The religion you were born into doesn’t go away because you choose to abandon it. What matters is whether you’ve committed any sin. Have you eaten beef?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you must atone.’
‘How? I don’t know the ritual…’
‘The ritual is not important, really…you’ll know as we go along. And your focus is not the ritual but its essence: your mind and consciousness must first realize, truthfully, that you’ve committed a sin, and then you must resolve that you will never commit it again. Let me warn you, it is not easy. Tell me if you are ready for this. I’ll personally help you with the atonement ritual. Once that’s done, you will be ready to immerse your father’s ashes.’
She was stunned. Was it really this easy?
‘I’m ready, ayya,’ she said firmly.
As the first step, she spent three days and three nights in the temple on a strict diet of milk and fruit. On the fourth day, Sastri Ayya initiated her into a purification fire ceremony. Through these days and during the ceremony, she reminded herself that she was doing this to cleanse herself of the sin of eating beef. The next morning, they were on their way to Sangama. Ayya sat in the backseat as she drove, the covered pot containing her father’s ashes securely placed on the front seat, tied with a cord that passed around the seat in two circles and knotted tightly. At the river in Paschima Vahini near Sangama, she took three dips in the water. Ayya began to chant the appropriate mantras as she began to immerse her father’s ashes.
She sat down on the long, spacious steps, water still dripping from her dress. Her father’s memory suddenly had a quality of intimacy she had never experienced before. She wasn’t fully convinced whether beef-eating was a sin, but she found a sense of comfort that she had really atoned for hurting her father. With it, her resolve of reading all the books he had laboured so hard to read became firmer. She really didn’t need to write screenplays to earn a living. The creative thrill she used to experience at the start of her film-making career was now replaced by routine. And she had enough money. Plus, she now had her father’s modest property. This was a welcome break.
She decided against moving her father’s library to Bangalore. She wanted to experience his solitude in the environment he had created. She would bring him back to life through her studies. More than anything, she sought emotional oneness with him. She estimated two or three years of undisturbed study. Amir… I’ll miss him… He’ll be angry. He’s upset already… Amina will take care of the house and his food. She decided to visit Bangalore once a month and stay with him.
3
Dearest Ammajaan,
Salaam Aleikum, Bismillah Rahmaan ur Rahim
I got your letter. I was surprised when I heard that you’re mostly in your village nowadays. I didn’t even know you had a native village. You never told me. I didn’t know I had a grandfather on my mother’s side. To tell you the truth, I hadn’t thought you had a father who was alive till recently. Now I understand. Your father was a stubborn man. He severed ties with you because you converted to Islam. And it makes sense. I recall what granny and grandpa used to tell me when I was small—Hindus are narrow-minded idol-worshippers and treat all other religions as inferior. I think you’re living there now because you’re suddenly attracted to your native faith. But I miss you, Ammajaan. And I can’t even call you. Your village has no phone. Writing is quite painful. After living in America for so long, I find it easier to call. But now I can’t even write freely because every letter that goes out of Saudi passes through the censor authorities. I can’t write without fear—the authorities interpret words the way they think is right and their judgment is final. It makes sense to call you. Come back to Bangalore, at least for the sake of your son. I have sent this letter through my friend, Janaab Shabbir Khan, who lives in Lucknow. He told me that he was visiting India for his vacation and agreed to post this letter to you.
Now I must tell you about Saudi. It’s the most orthodox among all Arab countries. No other Arab country practises Islam with such purity or rigour. This is the land where the Most Holy Prophet (sallallahu alaiyhi wassallam) was born! I must confess I felt suffocated when I first landed here and thought this was a society with no freedom whatsoever. I mean, after living in the university campus in Texas for more than three years, I had got used to a different way of life. But I came here because the money is really very good—I’m being paid double the salary compared to those who studied in Asia. Actually, the double salary offer was not only because I was a top-ranking masters in petrochemical engineering from a US university, but also because I’m a Muslim: I was given priority in the selection process. And you know what, Ammajaan, salary is tax-free. Saudi is a paradise. No other country, not even America, has this opulence. You have an incredible variety of everything. Plus, it’s all the best—only the freshest food, the finest diamonds, gold, jewellery, silver and all the latest electronic gadgets. They import everything and sell it at really cheap prices and they don’t have all those stupid taxes that the so-called advanced economies levy on hard-working people. Despite all this, crime—even petty crimes like cheating, fraud and adultery that are commonplace in the so-called independent countries—is almost nil. They display all those dazzling, expensive jewellery in the open and don’t even keep it in glass cases. They leave their shops open and rush to the mosque when the Adhaan calls are given for Zuhar, Assar and Mugrib namaz. When they return, everything remains intact. Does it not surprise you? The law is strict beyond imagination: a thief is caught within minutes. His hands are chopped off. There’s no question of mercy and there’s no delay. Shariyat works beautifully. There’s no nonsense of courts, appeals and counter-appeals, and benefit of doubt and burden of proof and all those delaying tactics here. The punishment is as severe as the crime, and justice is as swift. I think this system is very effective. I feel it just proves that such laws are necessary to maintain order in society.
Ammajaan, I know you don’t wear any jewellery except when you attend parties. But when I go to the malls—that’s pretty much all the entertainment I get here—and I see the piles of gold and jewellery, it makes me want to buy something for you. And the quality of gold here is amazing! You don’t get anything remotely close to this purity in India. When you write to me, tell me your wrist measurement (in centimetres). I’ll buy a pretty set of gold bangles for you. You must wear it—it’ll look really good on you. The only problem, though, is the extortionist duty they’ll levy when I get them to India. My Indian colleagues tell me I would need to bribe the customs fellows…but I think it’s worth it because even after the taxes are paid, it still works out cheaper.
Your loving son,
Nazir
Razia caught the gist of his letter and felt a twang of sadness.
After we moved out of Amir’s parents’ home, Nazir was under Amina Banu’s care for some time. I wasn’t ready to quit my blossoming career midway and stay at home as a full-time mother. The illiterate working-class maid used the only ways she knew to control young Nazir’s childish tantrums—she threatened him, pinched him and when these methods failed, she beat him. And
so we decided to leave Nazir at his grandparents’ house every day. Amir would drop him off in the morning and pick him up at night after work. The old couple was overjoyed and indulged him. He grew more attached to his grandparents than to us, his own parents, but he very quickly learned to switch his behaviour depending on who he was with at the time. When he was with us, he’d say and do things that he instinctively knew would please us and he would repeat the feat when he was with his grandparents. His grandparents had schooled him quite well in Islamic orthodoxy. And we didn’t realize…I didn’t realize this until Amir’s parents died. If Amir did notice, he didn’t tell me. Nazir says that he didn’t know he had a grandfather on his mother’s side and says nobody—not even Amir—had told him this…and he believes Hindus are small-minded idol worshippers, no doubt a lesson grilled into him by his grandparents.
But she was happy that he had written to her. Bless the boy!
4
A few days later, Razia saw a motorcycle parked at the porch as she returned from the morning’s visit to the fields. As she came closer, she saw the two men sitting on it stand up. She recognized Jaleel, one of Amir’s assistants. He greeted her with a ‘Salaam aleikum’ and introduced his partner as Raghu, the second assistant to the cinematographer. She smiled at both and accepted the envelope that Jaleel gave her with her name written on it in Amir’s handwriting.
She called out to Lakshmamma, asked her to make breakfast for three and went into her study. Her heart fluttered with delicious anticipation. Amir couldn’t write Kannada properly but he could read it. He was educated in Urdu. Razia had learned the language but found it impossible even now to read the script when it was handwritten. And so they always wrote to each other in English. She could reasonably expect the ever-romantic Amir to write her a love letter. Two entire months without her would have driven him crazy. She tore the envelope open and began to read.
