the smell of the raat rani came pouring into the room that Arindam got up to leave. He shook your hand and said, ‘You don’t talk much?’ You just laughed. I knew that Arindam would take your silence to mean consent. Aai, wiping her hands on her sari, would look at you, sitting there with the curry leaves in your hand and think, ‘He’s so much better than my son. At least he doesn’t argue.’ Abbas would think whatever the problems he was confronted with, at least there was someone to listen, to smile, and he would be calmed.
As usual, the police handed over the city to the goons, for a period of ten days. Aseem was late returning from work. Baba was afraid that the crowds would swell and so he put the idol into its salver and carried it into every room of the house. Earlier, he would go into the tower room as well. This time he didn’t. Every year he went barefoot to the immersion; this time, he put on his slippers. I carried a dabba in which there were slices of banana meant for general distribution. Aai brought up the rear with a bag in which there were two faces of Gauri, a stone representing the virgin goddess Hartalika and the flowers that had been offered to the deity and then discarded. As we walked away, my father turned around thrice to show the idol our home.
The ghat had been lit with halogen lamps for the immersion. Little aartis were being performed on either side of the steps. Baba gave the idol to a couple of damp young men whose bodies smelled of moss. We watched as they bore him off.
As we were climbing the steps, Nadkarni Kaka was bringing his Ganpati down for immersion. With him was Nadkarni Kaku, their three daughters and sixteen girls from the hostel. They were singing filmi aartis. I left the parents with them and came home, picking my way through the dirt and the crowds.
The house was quiet. The previous days had turned it into a bazaar with women, aartis, noise, offerings, haldi-kunku, all competing for attention. Now that the immersion had happened, the house seemed to sigh with relief. I decided that it was the last time I would go to immerse the idol. Aai and Baba could do it themselves, if they wished.
As soon as I got back, Anuja fled on the bike. I began to climb the stairs to the tower room. It seemed still and quiet too. A golden light filtered through the windows and on to the terrace. A thumri by Iqbal Bano floated in the air. Everything seemed to be in its place. The rolls of canvas, the CDs in their racks, the photographs on the wall. In the middle of the room, there was an earthen bowl filled with kevda flowers. I heard the sound of the shower and then it was turned off. You came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around your hips, your hair wet. You smiled and your lips, still moist from the shower, seemed cold to me. I remained where I was, in a chair in the corner. You sat down on a mat and began to cut your toenails with great care. Then you anointed yourself with a sweet-smelling moisturizer. You took out an ironed shirt and a crisp pair of shorts and laid them out on the bed. You took off the towel and threw it in the direction of the bathroom, from which the last wisps of steam were still escaping.
You took a fresh canvas and placed it on the easel. You selected a brush. Then you turned to the bed and put on the clothes. Next, the curtains at the window facing the ladies’ hostel—you drew them back. Then you sat down quietly in front of me.
You had nowhere to go. No one was coming to see you. And I had watched this ritual sringara as if it had been a short film, made specially for me. I could not remember a time when I had paid such attention to my own body.
You got up and came to sit by me, bringing a bouquet of aromas with you. I wanted nothing more than to have you sit by me. After a while, you got up, picked up the brush and incised the canvas with a single blue streak. Then you came and laid your head in my lap and fell into a deep sleep.
Now that the
As usual, the police handed over the city to the goons, for a period of ten days. Aseem was late returning from work. Baba was afraid that the crowds would swell and so he put the idol into its salver and carried it into every room of the house. Earlier, he would go into the tower room as well. This time he didn’t. Every year he went barefoot to the immersion; this time, he put on his slippers. I carried a dabba in which there were slices of banana meant for general distribution. Aai brought up the rear with a bag in which there were two faces of Gauri, a stone representing the virgin goddess Hartalika and the flowers that had been offered to the deity and then discarded. As we walked away, my father turned around thrice to show the idol our home.
The ghat had been lit with halogen lamps for the immersion. Little aartis were being performed on either side of the steps. Baba gave the idol to a couple of damp young men whose bodies smelled of moss. We watched as they bore him off.
As we were climbing the steps, Nadkarni Kaka was bringing his Ganpati down for immersion. With him was Nadkarni Kaku, their three daughters and sixteen girls from the hostel. They were singing filmi aartis. I left the parents with them and came home, picking my way through the dirt and the crowds.
The house was quiet. The previous days had turned it into a bazaar with women, aartis, noise, offerings, haldi-kunku, all competing for attention. Now that the immersion had happened, the house seemed to sigh with relief. I decided that it was the last time I would go to immerse the idol. Aai and Baba could do it themselves, if they wished.
As soon as I got back, Anuja fled on the bike. I began to climb the stairs to the tower room. It seemed still and quiet too. A golden light filtered through the windows and on to the terrace. A thumri by Iqbal Bano floated in the air. Everything seemed to be in its place. The rolls of canvas, the CDs in their racks, the photographs on the wall. In the middle of the room, there was an earthen bowl filled with kevda flowers. I heard the sound of the shower and then it was turned off. You came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around your hips, your hair wet. You smiled and your lips, still moist from the shower, seemed cold to me. I remained where I was, in a chair in the corner. You sat down on a mat and began to cut your toenails with great care. Then you anointed yourself with a sweet-smelling moisturizer. You took out an ironed shirt and a crisp pair of shorts and laid them out on the bed. You took off the towel and threw it in the direction of the bathroom, from which the last wisps of steam were still escaping.
You took a fresh canvas and placed it on the easel. You selected a brush. Then you turned to the bed and put on the clothes. Next, the curtains at the window facing the ladies’ hostel—you drew them back. Then you sat down quietly in front of me.
You had nowhere to go. No one was coming to see you. And I had watched this ritual sringara as if it had been a short film, made specially for me. I could not remember a time when I had paid such attention to my own body.
You got up and came to sit by me, bringing a bouquet of aromas with you. I wanted nothing more than to have you sit by me. After a while, you got up, picked up the brush and incised the canvas with a single blue streak. Then you came and laid your head in my lap and fell into a deep sleep.
Now that the
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