‘wicked’ grandmother.
Something trembled at the edge of my hallucination. Three Women , the painting, never fails to stir me. Three women, three ‘saviours’, enduring what comes from outside the frame, and the bigger pain woven or braided within. Big bird-like eyes averting the surveyors’ gaze, vividly coloured dresses, perfect locks of black hair. The longer one stares at those delicate faces, this one thought precipitates: those three must be out of their minds. Moving backwards or forwards or sideways offers little help. Whenever I encounter reproductions of the painting in art magazines and even in newsprint I get the feeling that perhaps I, too, must be out of my mind.
Nelly, it seemed, had not had a proper conversation for a while now. Her deep penetrating silence during our stroll spoke louder than a reptating bead of words. I was looking forward to difficult questions over dinner. In a different season, it is safe to say, she had been loquacious and had a tendency to ‘cultivate’. She questioned my all-male reading list. She would often disturb my equilibrium, make it meta-stable. She is the one who persuaded me to read ‘The Quilt’ by Ismat Chughtai. To this day I have not been able to forget the story and its marvellous discontinuities. Perhaps start our conversation in the restaurant with ‘The Quilt?’ Or start with something safe. Little did I know the new developments. During my absence the Peterhof had become abnormal – almost a citadel. The man at the reception desk said that he had been looking for me. ‘ Where were you, sa’ab?’ He was very apologetic. ‘ Sorry, sa’ab, we had to move your things out of the room, we made a mistake when we took the booking, sa’ab .’ Momentarily I lost my temper. I rarely lose my balance. Then I scanned the place more objectively. The statue of Buddha on the lawns looked as puzzled, disappointed and harassed as me. The Hindu Party had literally taken over; saffron flags were all around and men in sinister khaki shorts were doing sinister drills on the lawns, and it was so screechingly loud it hurt my ears. Within a few hours the so-called retreat had become pure movement and action and order. Suddenly the men lifted their arms in unison and delivered a fascist salute.
Nelly suggested we try Hotel Cecil. I settled the account and we rolled the suitcase towards the building. The roof had a distinctly green copper patina. She offered to carry the smaller laptop bag, but it was heavy and I slung it around my shoulder. In the lobby of the Cecil a pianist was playing the Doctor Zhivago theme song and there was a sentimental mood in the air. There, too, no space was available because the Hindu Party had booked all the rooms.
On that long, more familiar Mall Road we walked towards other hotels, and soon passed by a building completely ravaged by time. My sudden breathlessness did not go unnoticed. On Nelly’s suggestion we sat on a bench. Lots of horny honeymooning couples around us. Some, I thought, simply happy to have escaped the clutches of ‘family’. I noticed an ensemble of monkeys. Nelly helped me distinguish two types of Shimla monkeys. Langurs and lal-walay. Langurs stay away from humans. Lal-walay are more playful, and sometimes attack for a vested reason, for they are completely dependent on the residents of Shimla for food. It is an uneasy coexistence. The brains of these macaque bandars were studied in Western universities not so long ago, said Nelly, and without delving into details slipped into a prolonged silence. Not entirely unexpected, she stared at the moss on grey rocks and barks of deodars, and then gazed into empty space. One of Nelly’s earrings was missing, and very politely I decided to remark on asymmetry. She touched her ears in disbelief. The solitary earring gleamed with impatience. Perhaps it was not important, she said. ‘Twenty-five years,’ she said. Those two words lingered. ‘You have come back after
Something trembled at the edge of my hallucination. Three Women , the painting, never fails to stir me. Three women, three ‘saviours’, enduring what comes from outside the frame, and the bigger pain woven or braided within. Big bird-like eyes averting the surveyors’ gaze, vividly coloured dresses, perfect locks of black hair. The longer one stares at those delicate faces, this one thought precipitates: those three must be out of their minds. Moving backwards or forwards or sideways offers little help. Whenever I encounter reproductions of the painting in art magazines and even in newsprint I get the feeling that perhaps I, too, must be out of my mind.
Nelly, it seemed, had not had a proper conversation for a while now. Her deep penetrating silence during our stroll spoke louder than a reptating bead of words. I was looking forward to difficult questions over dinner. In a different season, it is safe to say, she had been loquacious and had a tendency to ‘cultivate’. She questioned my all-male reading list. She would often disturb my equilibrium, make it meta-stable. She is the one who persuaded me to read ‘The Quilt’ by Ismat Chughtai. To this day I have not been able to forget the story and its marvellous discontinuities. Perhaps start our conversation in the restaurant with ‘The Quilt?’ Or start with something safe. Little did I know the new developments. During my absence the Peterhof had become abnormal – almost a citadel. The man at the reception desk said that he had been looking for me. ‘ Where were you, sa’ab?’ He was very apologetic. ‘ Sorry, sa’ab, we had to move your things out of the room, we made a mistake when we took the booking, sa’ab .’ Momentarily I lost my temper. I rarely lose my balance. Then I scanned the place more objectively. The statue of Buddha on the lawns looked as puzzled, disappointed and harassed as me. The Hindu Party had literally taken over; saffron flags were all around and men in sinister khaki shorts were doing sinister drills on the lawns, and it was so screechingly loud it hurt my ears. Within a few hours the so-called retreat had become pure movement and action and order. Suddenly the men lifted their arms in unison and delivered a fascist salute.
Nelly suggested we try Hotel Cecil. I settled the account and we rolled the suitcase towards the building. The roof had a distinctly green copper patina. She offered to carry the smaller laptop bag, but it was heavy and I slung it around my shoulder. In the lobby of the Cecil a pianist was playing the Doctor Zhivago theme song and there was a sentimental mood in the air. There, too, no space was available because the Hindu Party had booked all the rooms.
On that long, more familiar Mall Road we walked towards other hotels, and soon passed by a building completely ravaged by time. My sudden breathlessness did not go unnoticed. On Nelly’s suggestion we sat on a bench. Lots of horny honeymooning couples around us. Some, I thought, simply happy to have escaped the clutches of ‘family’. I noticed an ensemble of monkeys. Nelly helped me distinguish two types of Shimla monkeys. Langurs and lal-walay. Langurs stay away from humans. Lal-walay are more playful, and sometimes attack for a vested reason, for they are completely dependent on the residents of Shimla for food. It is an uneasy coexistence. The brains of these macaque bandars were studied in Western universities not so long ago, said Nelly, and without delving into details slipped into a prolonged silence. Not entirely unexpected, she stared at the moss on grey rocks and barks of deodars, and then gazed into empty space. One of Nelly’s earrings was missing, and very politely I decided to remark on asymmetry. She touched her ears in disbelief. The solitary earring gleamed with impatience. Perhaps it was not important, she said. ‘Twenty-five years,’ she said. Those two words lingered. ‘You have come back after
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