Room in our Hearts and Other Stories

by K L Chowdhury

  ‘There used to be Kashmir Motor Driver’s Association bus stand at Budshah Chowk in Srinagar, if that is what you speak of.’

  ‘My grandfather started it with a fleet of his six buses. KMD became a large organisation of the major transporters of Kashmir. After grandfather’s death, father and his younger brother took over the business. When all was going well, uncle, who father trusted with all the transactions, swindled the company, siphoned away money from the banks and mortgaged the buses to other transporters, leaving the company broke. Father lapsed into acute depression, renounced his office, sat home, smoked away and ate little. That was in 1986.’

  ‘Did he go mute then as now?’ I was impatient to know.

  ‘Not exactly. He spoke little and so low that he was barely audible, but did not go completely mute. He recovered completely in a few weeks.’

  ‘Any other time?’

  ‘Yes, four years later, when terrorism engulfed Kashmir and we were forced to flee. It was the rudest shock for our family. From the airy second-floor balcony of our house at Rainawari on the backwaters of Dal Lake, overlooking the Hariparbat and Shankaracharya hills, it was a precipitous fall into the vast wasteland of Jeddi at Jammu where we found ourselves in a tent provided by the relief organisation. He felt deeply claustrophobic inside that tent. He would sit for hours on the roadside, smoking bidis, brooding. That is when he relapsed into the same state as when he had lost his business. You said smoking has caused that barrel chest, but I feel it is more the dust during Jammu summers that has found its way into his lungs. Somehow, we survived. We were moved from the tent to a room in Nagrota refugee camp where we grew up and married. He has recouped a lot since we were shifted to the one-room apartments in Jagti. We have more space now. I have been allotted a separate apartment and so has my brother, for we both have families of our own. But I visit my parents almost every day.’

  ‘And your brother?’

  ‘He parted ways after he married. Hardly comes to see them.’

  ‘Did it make him sad? Did he stop speaking at that time?’

  ‘Not really. My brother is hot-headed. He would run into frequent arguments with father, often accusing him of frittering away his gains and ruining our prospects like the currency notes he would light his cigarettes with. That label stuck to father like a trademark that people often alluded to in social conversations.’

  ‘Is there anyone else in your family?’

  ‘My second sister.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She lives in Delhi. She, too, parted ways with us way back in 2000 when she married outside the community against father’s wishes. That was his biggest shock, worse than the loss of business and our home. That is when he stopped speaking for a full week. But it was expected.’

  ‘From what you say, there was a precipitating factor every time he stopped speaking. What can it be this time?’

  ‘I can’t think of any reason now when the worst is over. I feel he may be in dread of a serious disease.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Cancer. Last month when his breathing turned really bad, the chest physician casually alluded to it. Told him he had no oxygen in his system and if he continued to smoke he might get cancer. It made him sad, even angry, but he did not go mute.’

  ‘And did not stop smoking, either?’

  He blushed as if he were at fault and not his father. ‘He smokes very little, hardly once or twice a day.’

  ‘In any case, I don’t see any evidence of cancer anywhere, either in his lungs or vocal cords. We have to find the trigger for his present episode of silence. Did anything unsavoury happen on the day he stopped speaking?’

  ‘Nothing that I know of.’

  ‘Any tiff between your mother and him?’

  ‘She is very devoted to him; I don’t remember her ever raising her voice at him.’

  ‘Did anyone phone or pay a visit?’

  ‘We phoned my brother and the Delhi-based sister just to keep them informed about father’s poor condition so they may not accuse us of keeping them in the dark. You know the charade of love and loyalty people put up in such situations even when they may be totally estranged?’

  ‘I understand what you say.’

  ‘We heard nothing from sister, but my brother did pay a visit. He came in the evening. I had already left for my own apartment after spending time with father. Mother was in the kitchen. She saw him coming; told him she would fetch him a cup of tea while he sat with his father. But he stayed only a few minutes and hurried out of the room just when mother was ready with the tea. She was puzzled but he said he was reminded of an important appointment.’

  ‘And your father stopped talking after that?’

  ‘It seems so, because mother asked him to dinner soon after brother left and that is when he couldn’t speak.’

  ‘Does your mother recall overhearing any argument between the two while she was making that cup of tea?’

  ‘I don’t think so; she would have told me.’

  ‘I would like to see your father tomorrow. Alone.’

  ‘Sure, sir.’

  Moti Lal was ushered into my chamber—shining face, sharp eyes, inscrutable expression. Sanjay waited outside.

  ‘Well, sir, how are you feeling this morning?’ I addressed him deferentially, playfully.

  He gestured to say he was fine.

  ‘It seems the tonic helped you to some extent?’

  He nodded his head to say yes.

  ‘You should regain your full voice soon enough.’

  He gestured in the affirmative.

  ‘You live with your wife and Sanjay visits you often? He is a devoted son?’

  He repeated the affirmative nod.

  ‘I hear your second son paid you a visit some time back?’

  He blinked his eyes uncomprehendingly.

  ‘What transpired while he was with you?’

  He gestured rather uncertainly.

  ‘Was there an altercation?’

  He looked intently at me.

  ‘Was he nasty?’

  The smile faded, the pink face turned pale, the eyes lost their sparkle and he froze like a statue.

  I held his hand, pressing it gently. ‘Come on, Moti Lal, speak. Consider me your own. It will help you share your feelings.’ His eyes dimmed. A tear trickled down along his right cheek.

  ‘Did he hit you?’

  He started sobbing, his hands trembled, his eyes blinked repeatedly to stem the incoming tide. And then the dam burst, tears rolled down in streams as he grunted and sobbed and coughed and cried like a child, his body convulsing with grief.

  I held his hands firmer. ‘Speak; it will set you free,’ I said endearingly.

  ‘Doctor Sahib, you are an angel;’ he uttered in staccato voice, ‘Only you understand my state of mind. I felt it when I met you the first time. I am sorry for behaving like a child. Yes, I have gone through hell in my life, but I never felt as bad as when my son humiliated, cursed and threatened me…’

  He was speaking fluently now, ‘Yes, I am at fault. I called him a henpecked nincompoop. “Did you seek your ladyship’s permission before coming here?” I asked him as soon as he came to see me. It infuriated him. He called me a demented old man with a loose tongue that he would chop off before I spoke another word. My tongue froze the same instant, as if it was cursed. It was like a spell...’ He clutched my hand tight, lowered his head on my arms and continued to sob and shudder.

  ‘Well, the spell is broken. And for good, I hope. Don’t you agree?’

  He nodded in the affirmative and spoke aloud, ‘Yes, yes, it is over.’

  ‘You made your wife and son pine for your voice,’ I said in a conciliatory tone.

  ‘Sir, do you think I did it on purpose?’ he asked like an innocent child, still sobbing uncontrollably.

  ‘On the contrary, you strove hard, like the great fighter you have been all your life. I am sure you have enough resolve left in you to not let it happen again.’ />
  ‘Never.’ His face beamed with a wide smile and the sparkle in his eyes grew into a flame, one of gratitude, as if in recognition of my awareness about his inner conflicts.

  I called Sanjay into my office to take delivery of his smiling father.

  NAGRAJ’S WISH

  Dr Mohan Lal Sharma retired from the Medical College Jammu after putting in 31 years of dedicated service as a clinical pathologist. A decade before his superannuation, he established a private clinical laboratory at Trikuta Nagar across the Tawi river where he worked in the evenings after office hours. The additional income enabled him to buy a plot of land in Roop Nagar, a housing colony laid out on the rolling hills northeast of Jammu. He built a house that stands at the far end of a ridge with a commanding view of the city below. The Trikuta mountain range that cradles goddess Vaishnav Devi in its bosom provides a striking backdrop, and the Pir Panjal range to the north is a stunning spectacle when its snowy peaks shimmer in the afternoon sun. On the southeast, a deep gorge separates his house from another densely forested ridge.

  The Sharmas took an instant liking to their new abode, free from the noise and din of their old downtown neighbourhood. They settled down fairly well, falling in love with the ambience, the parks and wide streets, and the gentle breeze wafting sweet fragrances from the wooded hills. Mrs Sharma took instant fascination to Aaap Shambu, an ancient temple which houses a unique lingam, just a walking distance from her house. Invested with tremendous faith, she was drawn to the temple every morning for a quiet and exclusive darshan, much before the arrival of other devotees. She made regular donations and gave generously in alms.

  Dr Sharma retired from service four years after moving to Roop Nagar. Now that he had more time at his disposal, he went the whole hog in modernising his lab and enlarging its scope. He ordered a state-of-the-art automated analyser and other equipment, hired a couple of technicians and started attending his lab in the morning hours as well. Within a year, his workload increased substantially and he started feeling more tired than when he worked full-time at the medical college.

  Was he ageing, he wondered? But he wouldn’t believe it, for he was still bristling with life and his professional zeal grew stronger than before. Like an astronomer looking at the stars, he spent hours peeping into the microscope, fascinated with the myriad pathological processes in the cells and tissues in different disease states. The only thing that explained his fatigue was the difficult commute to his lab across the Tawi that sapped his energy. It took him nearly 30 minutes each way through congested roads and chaotic traffic. That accounted for two hours of precious time in the two shifts.

  He discussed the options with his wife. There was strong logic in starting a new practice at Roop Nagar. He would set up a lab there for the morning shift, build it up as quickly as he could and wean away completely from the Trikuta Nagar lab in a couple of years. Accordingly, he leased a set of rooms and started the morning shift in earnest. But it proved a tough bargain. He didn’t know that besides a few labs already operating in the area, several high profile labs grabbed a major chunk of the business through sample collection centres. While he failed to garner much practice at Roop Nagar, his established practice at Trikuta Nagar also began to suffer, now that he worked there only for the evening shift.

  After trying it out for a year, the Sharmas sat down to discuss alternatives. They concluded that the best option would be to close down the new lab, sell off their house and buy one at Trikuta Nagar in the vicinity of their old lab and work full-time there. It was a hard decision, for they had come to love their new house and neighbourhood. But the lab across at Trikuta Nagar was still the golden goose; it was proving futile to swap it for a wild goose chase at Roop Nagar.

  After a hectic search, the Sharmas spotted a house in Trikuta Nagar, barely a seven-minute driving distance from their lab—a newly constructed two-bedroom house with a porch, a study and a prayer room. The owner, Shyam Lal Raina, a Kashmiri Pandit refugee, had built it with great fervour. Alas, his wife had passed away under tragic circumstances just when they planned to move in. He was disposing it of to join his son in the USA, a move he was fiercely opposed to when his wife was alive.

  Although the house suited their requirements well, the Sharmas were woebegone to be parting with their idyllic house at Roop Nagar that they had grown attached to. It was with mixed feelings that they paid Shyam Lal Raina an advance of ₹40,000 and signed an agreement to pay the balance and complete the formalities of transfer and registration within four months.

  Evening was approaching as they drove in a pensive mood up the straight road to their house on the ridge. By the time they reached home, they seemed reconciled to the deal and focussed on their next task, that of looking for a buyer for their own house. Dr Sharma brought the car to a halt; his wife got out and opened the gate, but recoiled as the headlights threw into sharp relief a snake sitting in the middle of the driveway. A cry escaped her lips and she hurriedly got back inside the car, shaking with fear.

  Dr Sharma was puzzled. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Snake,’ she barely managed to utter, pointing at the driveway.

  ‘A cobra,’ he blurted as he peered at the reptile with its body coiled on the floor, neck straight and up and the hood spread out. He grabbed his wife’s hand, asked her not to panic and honked gently. The cobra didn’t move. He honked again a couple of times, but it sat there in full majesty, unperturbed, unmoving.

  ‘Come on, dear Nagraj, please move and let us in,’ he pleaded playfully while his wife joined her palms in a namaste in the direction of the unexpected visitor, chanting ‘Om namaha shivaya’, invoking Lord Shiva’s divine intervention. After a little while, the snake lowered its hood and slithered away and out of the gate onto the street into a vacant lot of land adjacent to their house. They drove in and scampered inside their house.

  Although spotting snakes was not unusual, especially in the summer and during the monsoon season, this was the first time during their four-year residence at Roop Nagar that the Sharmas saw one face-to-face in such close proximity to their own house. It seemed as if the snake was waiting for them.

  Dr Sharma had a shower, his wife laid out the table and they sat to an unusually quiet dinner.

  ‘Why did the snake block our way?’ Mrs Sharma asked after they had finished. She was shaken by the experience and couldn’t get it off her mind.

  ‘I don’t think it wanted to block our way; it just happened to be there.’

  But this simple explanation didn’t ease her nerves. ‘Why did the snake materialise just on the day we decided to purchase a new house and paid an advance? Could it be a sign?’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘A disapproval of our decision?’

  ‘Look, my dear, this whole place was wild before the housing colony was carved out it. It was home to snakes, scorpions, rabbits, mongoose and other creatures of the jungle. We have taken up their space, displaced them from their natural habitat and turned them into wanderers. Our decision to move is for our own good. It is a practical choice that has nothing to do with the sighting of a snake. If anything, now it seems it is for our own good to move, for who knows there might be a snake pit in the neighbourhood.’

  Mrs Sharma was unconvinced. She had come to love the place. She enjoyed her daily visits to the temple that provided a unique tranquillity to her mind. ‘Do we really have to move?’

  ‘We have to; we already gave it a lot of thought. Our grand plan of starting practice in this area proved a non-starter. All that we need to do now is to put an advertisement in the newspapers for the sale of this house. Let’s consider the matter closed,’ Dr Sharma said brusquely.

  That was very unusual for a person of his mild temperament. Was he under some strain to have reacted in that manner?

  Dr Sharma had already spent most of his gratuity and other savings on this house. He was banking on selling it at a higher price than the price of the house at Trikuta Nagar. Several prospective buyers poured i
n over the next eight weeks, but there was no agreement on the modalities of payment. Finally, one Mr Raj Chopra offered a reasonable price and a down payment. A date was fixed for the transfer deed and the registration. Dr Sharma was happy that the process of selling and buying would be over in the next few days, and he would again settle down to a life of relative ease and tranquillity.

  Driving home that evening from his lab, he called on his friend residing two streets below his house to inform him about his decision to move. His friend did not feel happy about it but desisted from discouraging him at a stage when the deals had already been settled both for the selling and the buying. Coming out after a while, as he started the car and turned on the headlights, he was startled by what he saw. There, right in front of his car, sat a snake—coiled body, raised neck, expanded hood. Was it the same cobra that had met him in his driveway the other day? He got the feeling that it had been waiting for him. He let the engine idle and watched the snake, waiting for it to move out of the way. The cobra seemed unconcerned. He blinked the headlights repeatedly without any effect. He honked, once, a second time and a third, but the snake was unperturbed. It seemed a long time. Back home, his wife would be waiting. Of late, she had turned rather superstitious and nervy. He reversed the car, swerved away from the curb to bypass the snake, and sped away.

  Reaching home, he related the incident to his wife.

  ‘Was it the same snake?’ she asked.

  ‘I can’t say; all cobras look the same to me.’

  ‘I mean the colour, size, looks …’

  ‘Looks? Well, I must say it looked majestic; like the last one,’ he said in a fit of laughter.

  ‘Please don’t make light of these incidents. It seems to me that it wants to say something to us.’

  ‘Do you mean the snake we sighted on the previous occasion crawled down two streets to confront me again with a specific purpose?’

  ‘Seems like it. The Nagraj wants to convey a message.’

  ‘I have not heard of snakes communicating with humans. If they could, what else would they say except wanting to be left alone?’