family? Your parents, that lawyer Mr Dixit who was in charge of your inheritance, your Seema Maushi who took you into her home for her own selfish motives, her perverted husband who made a plaything of your body when you were too innocent to know what was going on.
Then it occurs to me, you got no letters. If there were phone calls, they were from friends you’d made after coming to the city. No question about email, you didn’t like email.
What happened to everyone else? College friends? Distant relatives? School buddies? A schoolteacher, even? An old family retainer? No one? What did you do with them?
What did you think you’d do to me?
You listened with empathy, with attentiveness. In the night, you’d help Abbas down the shutter and upend the chairs. You’d listen to him rant about the rising price of potatoes, the changes in customer behaviour, the difficulties his nephew was facing in America after September 11. You’d give Abbas your undivided attention, listening with your eyes, smiling, encouraging him to speak.
And no doubt, he would feel that it was all worthwhile, because there was someone at the end of the day, someone to listen and to smile.
I can’t remember you ever sitting down to talk to Baba or Aseem like that. But from time to time, you’d chat with Aai. One day, I came home from college to find the door ajar and no one inside the house. I followed the sound of voices into the backyard. Through the kitchen window, I could see Aai weeding with a trowel and you holding a bunch of curry leaves. Aai was talking away, words running on, ideas flowing into each other.
That night, I asked you, Were you really paying attention? Or was that your listening face?’ You did not answer. Instead, you recounted how Malti Aatya had been cured of rheumatism thanks to a godman’s prasad; how Anuja and I had no religion left in us; of the two young women Aseem had checked out as prospective brides. You told me how coriander and chillies had to be planted separately, how oddly Tulsi was behaving in the night-time soap, and then you added, ‘It’s not just my ears but my mind that is engaged as well. In a couple of years, your name will be added to the list in the marriage bureau. So be ready.’
I had no idea how to get ready. I was sure that your parents would have told you about such matters. Mine would rather die.
I had often wanted to say to Arindam: you can’t just go back into history to collect proof. You have to find evidence from ancient times that we’re normal. If you can’t find references to our kind in the Ramayana, the Mahabharata or the Bible, who’s going to listen to us? At least, we could ask why Lakshmana had felt the need to leave his wife and children behind and follow Rama into the wilderness.
One rainy night, you were listening to me and Arindam talking. Your back was wet with the rain coming through the open window. A few drops fell into the beer mugs too. The drumming of the rain on the roof was loud enough for me to have to tell Arindam to speak up a bit.
‘Every important political change has happened because of a movement. That’s the critical element, Tanay. We have to organize. We have to fight injustice constitutionally,’ he said with the fervour of a revolutionary.
‘But what would this movement’s agenda be? Our own independent newspapers, our pubs, our theatre, our this, our that? We can’t make a break from the rest of the world and demand equality on our own terms. We don’t seem different in any way from the Establishment.’
I was weighing my words as I spoke but it was clear that Arindam wasn’t getting it. He kept trying to interrupt but I kept raising my voice and pressing on with what I was saying. I looked at you, you raised your eyebrows, quietly amused. But your face also showed pride in my stance. And I thought, at least I’m getting through to somebody. I came and sat by you. The rain wet my back too.
It was only when the rain stopped and
Then it occurs to me, you got no letters. If there were phone calls, they were from friends you’d made after coming to the city. No question about email, you didn’t like email.
What happened to everyone else? College friends? Distant relatives? School buddies? A schoolteacher, even? An old family retainer? No one? What did you do with them?
What did you think you’d do to me?
You listened with empathy, with attentiveness. In the night, you’d help Abbas down the shutter and upend the chairs. You’d listen to him rant about the rising price of potatoes, the changes in customer behaviour, the difficulties his nephew was facing in America after September 11. You’d give Abbas your undivided attention, listening with your eyes, smiling, encouraging him to speak.
And no doubt, he would feel that it was all worthwhile, because there was someone at the end of the day, someone to listen and to smile.
I can’t remember you ever sitting down to talk to Baba or Aseem like that. But from time to time, you’d chat with Aai. One day, I came home from college to find the door ajar and no one inside the house. I followed the sound of voices into the backyard. Through the kitchen window, I could see Aai weeding with a trowel and you holding a bunch of curry leaves. Aai was talking away, words running on, ideas flowing into each other.
That night, I asked you, Were you really paying attention? Or was that your listening face?’ You did not answer. Instead, you recounted how Malti Aatya had been cured of rheumatism thanks to a godman’s prasad; how Anuja and I had no religion left in us; of the two young women Aseem had checked out as prospective brides. You told me how coriander and chillies had to be planted separately, how oddly Tulsi was behaving in the night-time soap, and then you added, ‘It’s not just my ears but my mind that is engaged as well. In a couple of years, your name will be added to the list in the marriage bureau. So be ready.’
I had no idea how to get ready. I was sure that your parents would have told you about such matters. Mine would rather die.
I had often wanted to say to Arindam: you can’t just go back into history to collect proof. You have to find evidence from ancient times that we’re normal. If you can’t find references to our kind in the Ramayana, the Mahabharata or the Bible, who’s going to listen to us? At least, we could ask why Lakshmana had felt the need to leave his wife and children behind and follow Rama into the wilderness.
One rainy night, you were listening to me and Arindam talking. Your back was wet with the rain coming through the open window. A few drops fell into the beer mugs too. The drumming of the rain on the roof was loud enough for me to have to tell Arindam to speak up a bit.
‘Every important political change has happened because of a movement. That’s the critical element, Tanay. We have to organize. We have to fight injustice constitutionally,’ he said with the fervour of a revolutionary.
‘But what would this movement’s agenda be? Our own independent newspapers, our pubs, our theatre, our this, our that? We can’t make a break from the rest of the world and demand equality on our own terms. We don’t seem different in any way from the Establishment.’
I was weighing my words as I spoke but it was clear that Arindam wasn’t getting it. He kept trying to interrupt but I kept raising my voice and pressing on with what I was saying. I looked at you, you raised your eyebrows, quietly amused. But your face also showed pride in my stance. And I thought, at least I’m getting through to somebody. I came and sat by you. The rain wet my back too.
It was only when the rain stopped and
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