Moreover, he laughed often, not always with joy or enjoyment. It was a mystery, therefore.
There was indeed a mystery about his origins. With no sign of his parents anywhere, he could easily have been called a bastard. At eighteen his Kasturi Mashi had said, ‘Don’t even ask. There’s no end to what people do and how far they can go. You were born without mishap, and the very next night your mother ran away. Her address turned out to be false. After some time in the hospital I brought you home. I didn’t adopt you or give you my name—how could you be Mahanam if you already had a name? For this reason alone I didn’t teach you to address me as Ma. One day there would be that dramatic moment when you’d learn I’m not your mother. Followed by a whole lot of melodrama and the torment of sentimentality and indigestion. Your parents are dead, Mahanam, and that is the truth. You’d better not become Karna or someone like that. Don’t spend the rest of your life like the hero of a novel in search of his mother. You were born on your own strength, not anyone else’s. The world sent you free of preliminary bonds. Such good fortune doesn’t come easily. Don’t ever let yourself be tied down easily. But whoever it was who gave birth to you, they had good genes, you know.’ Kasturi Mashi would laugh.
Mahanam was a precocious adolescent then. Perhaps it was because of this background, but he felt no relationship with anyone else—nor did he feel the urge to forge one. Whatever he got, he grasped with both hands. And distributed generously whatever he had. Still people called him a miser. Iris certainly had. All his friends used to complain. Beneath a torrent of words, eating and drinking, and joining discussions and arguments, he was a tortoise in its shell. Only those who tried to get very close realized that his heart was wrapped in an iron curtain. All arrows were stopped there—offensive arrows as well as arrows of love.
Mahanam often felt as though he were visiting this planet on a holiday. Or on work. Just like he had been to Oxford. Just like he had travelled across different European cities. Only the house in Duff Lane gave him the sense of an anchor. Was it because of his extensive travels? Or because he had no one to call his own? Or because of his nature? Chandrashekhar had laughed it off though. But this emptiness, which he experienced after his Mashi’s death, worried the forty-plus Mahanam at times. Even family men who carried the weight of many people, of many problems, were not happy. He had observed the laughable lengths to which people would go to escape from their parents or siblings or wife and children. Was Mahanam really rootless in this world? Should he have had some ties too—if only to experience a distaste for them? Was it not a matter of fortune, then, to secure a double-promotion in the university of life?
SIX
The phone buzzed like a cricket. The afternoon vigil had long ended. All the work was done, as were the meals. Digestion was done too. Listening to ghazals with drowsy eyes was done. Aritra was in his office. Pupu, in college. Like they were every day. Exactly like every day, three months ago. The house had returned to its rhythm. The beat had been missing, but now it was back in place. Such peace. Neelam was cutting fabric for a blouse. Scissors, a measuring tape, and a tailor’s chalk lay on the table. The blouse was dark brown. There would be scallops on the back and the arms. The iron was warm and ready. The scallops would not come out well otherwise. The phone was ringing.
‘It’s me. From Thane. Why the urgent summons?’
‘No particular reason, just spend a couple of days with us,’ said Neelam warily.
‘Where? At your house?’
‘As if we have space in our humble abode. It’s not like you don’t have your own house here.’
‘You needn’t have continued to live in your humble abode, Bhabi. I’ve been telling you for years to leave it to “Super Seal”.
There was indeed a mystery about his origins. With no sign of his parents anywhere, he could easily have been called a bastard. At eighteen his Kasturi Mashi had said, ‘Don’t even ask. There’s no end to what people do and how far they can go. You were born without mishap, and the very next night your mother ran away. Her address turned out to be false. After some time in the hospital I brought you home. I didn’t adopt you or give you my name—how could you be Mahanam if you already had a name? For this reason alone I didn’t teach you to address me as Ma. One day there would be that dramatic moment when you’d learn I’m not your mother. Followed by a whole lot of melodrama and the torment of sentimentality and indigestion. Your parents are dead, Mahanam, and that is the truth. You’d better not become Karna or someone like that. Don’t spend the rest of your life like the hero of a novel in search of his mother. You were born on your own strength, not anyone else’s. The world sent you free of preliminary bonds. Such good fortune doesn’t come easily. Don’t ever let yourself be tied down easily. But whoever it was who gave birth to you, they had good genes, you know.’ Kasturi Mashi would laugh.
Mahanam was a precocious adolescent then. Perhaps it was because of this background, but he felt no relationship with anyone else—nor did he feel the urge to forge one. Whatever he got, he grasped with both hands. And distributed generously whatever he had. Still people called him a miser. Iris certainly had. All his friends used to complain. Beneath a torrent of words, eating and drinking, and joining discussions and arguments, he was a tortoise in its shell. Only those who tried to get very close realized that his heart was wrapped in an iron curtain. All arrows were stopped there—offensive arrows as well as arrows of love.
Mahanam often felt as though he were visiting this planet on a holiday. Or on work. Just like he had been to Oxford. Just like he had travelled across different European cities. Only the house in Duff Lane gave him the sense of an anchor. Was it because of his extensive travels? Or because he had no one to call his own? Or because of his nature? Chandrashekhar had laughed it off though. But this emptiness, which he experienced after his Mashi’s death, worried the forty-plus Mahanam at times. Even family men who carried the weight of many people, of many problems, were not happy. He had observed the laughable lengths to which people would go to escape from their parents or siblings or wife and children. Was Mahanam really rootless in this world? Should he have had some ties too—if only to experience a distaste for them? Was it not a matter of fortune, then, to secure a double-promotion in the university of life?
SIX
The phone buzzed like a cricket. The afternoon vigil had long ended. All the work was done, as were the meals. Digestion was done too. Listening to ghazals with drowsy eyes was done. Aritra was in his office. Pupu, in college. Like they were every day. Exactly like every day, three months ago. The house had returned to its rhythm. The beat had been missing, but now it was back in place. Such peace. Neelam was cutting fabric for a blouse. Scissors, a measuring tape, and a tailor’s chalk lay on the table. The blouse was dark brown. There would be scallops on the back and the arms. The iron was warm and ready. The scallops would not come out well otherwise. The phone was ringing.
‘It’s me. From Thane. Why the urgent summons?’
‘No particular reason, just spend a couple of days with us,’ said Neelam warily.
‘Where? At your house?’
‘As if we have space in our humble abode. It’s not like you don’t have your own house here.’
‘You needn’t have continued to live in your humble abode, Bhabi. I’ve been telling you for years to leave it to “Super Seal”.
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