campus—he found it all quite amusing.
There was always a kernel of truth in every legend. Her name was Iris, not Irene, she had gifted him a triangular pebble of granite when he was leaving. She said she had picked it up in Salisbury, near Stonehenge. A polished, swollen, triangular stone. Others gave him different sorts of gifts, but Iris gave him a pebble. When he asked her about it, smiling, she said, ‘Do you seriously mean you don’t recognize it?’
‘Seriously.’
‘It is my heart that I am giving unto you.’
‘And it is made of stone.’
‘Oh no. It is as long-lasting and heavy.’
About to burst into trademark laughter, Mahanam became quiet.
‘Look, Iris, I look upon you as my sister and friend.’
‘Do you people in India kiss your sisters the way you did on Christmas Eve?’
‘I beg your pardon. One never knows what one can do under the influence of strong liquor. One doesn’t even remember.’
‘You needn’t beg my pardon, Nam. We are used to being jilted ever since the goddamned war. Men have thousands to choose from.’
Iris gave him a gift of an entire heated heart, as heavy as granite. If there had to be an acid burn on the chin, it should have been on Iris’s, not Mahanam’s. His students had heard the opposite of what had happened. The truth was that they could not imagine spurning a white woman. And Mahanam hated the familiar tale of going to ‘Blighty’ and returning as a white man with a white woman in tow as wife. But coming as she did from the land of Annie Besant, Margaret Noble, and Maud Gonne, how could Iris have said so easily, we are used to being jilted? This was some sort of feminine complex. There was no basis to such ideas. Mahanam had always considered women equal in every respect. He knew nothing about having a sister, the sister whom he had invoked to fob Iris off. In his youth there must have been an excess of emotion in the hidden recesses of his mind over family relationships. But he did not know the taste of parents or siblings. Although his knowledge of governesses or friends was more than a hundred per cent.
Mahanam had a broad forehead. If not quite like Ishwarchandra Vidyasagar’s, nor hairless, it was expansive. The sharpness of his nose was evident. His chin was small in comparison. Every time he shaved his mirror would scold: divide the canvas into two. If you overload the upper half with so much colour, the balance will be destroyed. That was when Mahanam began to grow a beard. A nice, black, wavy beard, which he had to trim every day to match with his face when he was at Trinity College. When he returned, bearded, his friends couldn’t recognize him. Not just his appearance, they claimed his entire personality had changed because of the beard covering his face.
Sambaran would say, ‘What is this Oxo-Iranian personality you’ve created for yourself. I feel like I have to look at you through a telescope. Get rid of the beard.’
Mahanam would reply, ‘Why don’t you understand that even without the beard I’d be the same person. It’s the personality that’s changed, though not entirely—that’s a misconception on your part. It just seems that way at first, but everything will fall into place later.’ And Sandeep said, ‘Say what you will, I am a hundred per cent sure there’s a mystery behind it. Why else should you object so strongly to shave a mere beard? If it had at least been a moustache—a moustache maketh the man.’
‘It’s the same with the beard. If you are recognizable by your bushy moustache, you might as well spot me by my beard.’
The mystery surrounding Mahanam had probably begun with his beard. Sandeep’s use of the word mystery had led to speculation in different circles. Mahanam had never said, ‘I don’t care for the way my chin looks, so I grew a beard to conceal it.’ His laughter was eloquent. Mahanam was wont to play with an excess of words, which made it difficult to extract personal statements.
There was always a kernel of truth in every legend. Her name was Iris, not Irene, she had gifted him a triangular pebble of granite when he was leaving. She said she had picked it up in Salisbury, near Stonehenge. A polished, swollen, triangular stone. Others gave him different sorts of gifts, but Iris gave him a pebble. When he asked her about it, smiling, she said, ‘Do you seriously mean you don’t recognize it?’
‘Seriously.’
‘It is my heart that I am giving unto you.’
‘And it is made of stone.’
‘Oh no. It is as long-lasting and heavy.’
About to burst into trademark laughter, Mahanam became quiet.
‘Look, Iris, I look upon you as my sister and friend.’
‘Do you people in India kiss your sisters the way you did on Christmas Eve?’
‘I beg your pardon. One never knows what one can do under the influence of strong liquor. One doesn’t even remember.’
‘You needn’t beg my pardon, Nam. We are used to being jilted ever since the goddamned war. Men have thousands to choose from.’
Iris gave him a gift of an entire heated heart, as heavy as granite. If there had to be an acid burn on the chin, it should have been on Iris’s, not Mahanam’s. His students had heard the opposite of what had happened. The truth was that they could not imagine spurning a white woman. And Mahanam hated the familiar tale of going to ‘Blighty’ and returning as a white man with a white woman in tow as wife. But coming as she did from the land of Annie Besant, Margaret Noble, and Maud Gonne, how could Iris have said so easily, we are used to being jilted? This was some sort of feminine complex. There was no basis to such ideas. Mahanam had always considered women equal in every respect. He knew nothing about having a sister, the sister whom he had invoked to fob Iris off. In his youth there must have been an excess of emotion in the hidden recesses of his mind over family relationships. But he did not know the taste of parents or siblings. Although his knowledge of governesses or friends was more than a hundred per cent.
Mahanam had a broad forehead. If not quite like Ishwarchandra Vidyasagar’s, nor hairless, it was expansive. The sharpness of his nose was evident. His chin was small in comparison. Every time he shaved his mirror would scold: divide the canvas into two. If you overload the upper half with so much colour, the balance will be destroyed. That was when Mahanam began to grow a beard. A nice, black, wavy beard, which he had to trim every day to match with his face when he was at Trinity College. When he returned, bearded, his friends couldn’t recognize him. Not just his appearance, they claimed his entire personality had changed because of the beard covering his face.
Sambaran would say, ‘What is this Oxo-Iranian personality you’ve created for yourself. I feel like I have to look at you through a telescope. Get rid of the beard.’
Mahanam would reply, ‘Why don’t you understand that even without the beard I’d be the same person. It’s the personality that’s changed, though not entirely—that’s a misconception on your part. It just seems that way at first, but everything will fall into place later.’ And Sandeep said, ‘Say what you will, I am a hundred per cent sure there’s a mystery behind it. Why else should you object so strongly to shave a mere beard? If it had at least been a moustache—a moustache maketh the man.’
‘It’s the same with the beard. If you are recognizable by your bushy moustache, you might as well spot me by my beard.’
The mystery surrounding Mahanam had probably begun with his beard. Sandeep’s use of the word mystery had led to speculation in different circles. Mahanam had never said, ‘I don’t care for the way my chin looks, so I grew a beard to conceal it.’ His laughter was eloquent. Mahanam was wont to play with an excess of words, which made it difficult to extract personal statements.
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