The Boy Who Loved

  ‘You don’t have to lie. She has done nothing to deserve your love,’ I said.

  ‘No, I do, and she has done more than my parents did. I have no reason not to love her. I lost a home but I somewhat gained one in real terms. They did let go of their prejudices a little, didn’t they?’ she asked.

  ‘I thought we were supposed to talk about my plight, not yours,’ I said.

  ‘Such an attention-seeker,’ said Dada teasingly.

  ‘Look who’s talking. Everything has been about you these past months.’

  ‘Envy, thy name is Raghu Ganguly.’

  ‘Oh please, shut up. I didn’t want to come out. I was doing very well with my broken heart,’ I said.

  Going out did take my mind off but now darkness awaits . . .

  A while back, I called her office and she wasn’t at her desk again. I had called just twice when the receptionist advised me to not call on the board so often or she would have to put the number on the block list.

  9 January 2000

  I had always thought there were only a few things in the world more humiliating than your teachers berating you in front of the entire class and complaining to your parents in a PTA meeting. And today, I was proven right when three teachers stood in front of Maa–Baba with my half-yearly answer sheets, pointing out the silly mistakes that riddled the papers.

  ‘We didn’t expect this out of him,’ they echoed. ‘He’s dipped to the middle of the class from the top three.’

  Maa–Baba felt as I did sitting there, the nerves in the necks pulsating in perfect synchronized rhythm. When the humiliation ended, Maa–Baba walked in perfect silence to the parking lot, their faces red, Baba’s fist clenching–unclenching, Maa curling the end of her saree around her thumb till she cut off circulation.

  ‘I forgot my purse in the class, get it,’ said Maa.

  I ran to the class, searched high and low for the purse, and couldn’t find it. I ran back to the parking lot to find Maa–Baba and the car gone. I didn’t have money so I walked my way home. It took me an hour and by the time I was home, Maa–Baba were done with lunch.

  ‘You can go out and have some,’ said Baba.

  ‘I don’t have money,’ I said, pissed off at their cruel game.

  And that’s where I went wrong. They had me set up to say this exact line. They had planned their entire charade around this. Because at that very moment, they both turned to me and threw me volleys I had no intention to counter.

  ‘If you don’t clean up your act, you won’t ever have any money,’ said Baba.

  ‘How can you get a 78 in mathematics? Chhee! 78! Why are you punishing us?’ said Maa.

  ‘Did you see how the other parents were looking at us? Like our son’s an alcoholic or a drug addict!’ said Baba.

  ‘At least that would have been a better explanation. But a girl? A girl? Hey bhogowan! Oh god!’

  ‘We should have known what to expect seeing how Anirban behaved.’

  Then Maa added calmly, ‘If don’t want to study, just tell us. You can get a diploma and be a foreman at a construction site. I am asking you genuinely. As parents, we want to know what you want to do when you grow up. You can be a labourer, we don’t mind, but don’t make us spend unnecessarily.’

  Baba said, ‘Why didn’t you take humanities? We wouldn’t have said anything.’

  I zoned out for a bit. At that point I marvelled at how indifferent I was. Two years ago the very same comments would have reduced me to tears, multiple times.

  ‘Why are you now just looking at us and not saying anything?’ asked Maa.

  ‘Answer your Maa,’ said Baba.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I will do well in the finals. Can I go study?’

  As I was leaving the room, I heard Baba say, ‘One boy stuck to a bad job because of a girl, the other won’t even get to college because of one.’

  ‘That girl from his school is a petni,’ said Maa.

  I stopped.

  I couldn’t take it any more. I turned around and charged at Maa, all sense of love melting away. I raised my hand and only stopped a few inches from her face. Baba swung his hand at me and I blocked his blow. He cowered away when I threatened to swing. They muttered and stammered and couldn’t utter a straight word. I shouted at them to shut up once and for all. I told them that this was the last time they would say anything about Brahmi or Boudi or anyone, and that I, for one, will not tolerate any of their bullshit, and if they chose to continue this behaviour I will walk out of this house and never come back again . . .

  NO.

  I didn’t do any of the above.

  But standing there with my back towards them I thought it. It happened in my head. Then I walked to my room and now I am writing this.

  11 January 2000

  Everything that I wouldn’t have imagined would ever happen has already happened so what happened today shouldn’t have surprised me but it did. Maa had recruited Boudi to knock some sense into me.

  ‘You need to study, Raghu,’ she said in the taxi to the hospital for her doctor’s visit.

  ‘I have heard it all before, Boudi. I don’t need a pep talk.’

  ‘I believe you do,’ she said.

  ‘Not again. Two days—’

  ‘You need to talk about this, not with me but someone else,’ said Boudi.

  I believed it was going to be Dada who was probably waiting for us at the hospital.

  ‘We just crossed—’

  ‘We are not going to the hospital. I don’t have a doctor’s visit today.’

  ‘So where are we going?’

  ‘To see Brahmi,’ she said.

  ‘What? Why? Did you talk to her?’

  ‘No but we will. It will be nice if you tell me where she works so you can talk to her and figure this out,’ she said.

  At this point, I threw the biggest fit I can recall. The only thing I didn’t do was jump out of the moving vehicle. An hour later, tired from the ranting and the complaining and the arguing about how it was futile, we were outside Brahmi’s office in Gurgaon.

  ‘It’s going to be okay,’ Boudi told me. ‘Just talk to her. It’s better to be certain about a few things. If she still loves you, let her tell you that. If she doesn’t then you should start to move on. Either way, you have to talk to her about this.’

  Boudi asked the receptionist to call Brahmi. The receptionist made the call and it went unanswered.

  ‘Can you try again?’ she asked.

  The call was unanswered again.

  ‘Did she come in today?’ asked Boudi.

  When the receptionist checked the register she found that Brahmi hadn’t checked into office today. Boudi put on her brightest smile and asked her if she could tell her if Brahmi came the day before.

  ‘She missed office a couple of days last week as well,’ said the receptionist.

  Boudi thanked the receptionist, and asked her if she could ask Brahmi to call on a number—she gave the number to Dada’s office—and we left.

  ‘She must be sick,’ said Boudi on the way back home.

  ‘Of course, Boudi. It’s when you’re sick you take staggered holidays. Not when you probably have a new boyfriend.’

  ‘You can’t assume that—’

  ‘Brilliant plan though.’

  We didn’t talk for the rest of the drive home.

  As I’m writing this I feel guilty for snapping at Boudi. But there was no need of doing what she did.

  Up till an hour ago, there was no call on Dada’s landline.

  17 January 2000

  Three days ago, Boudi was rushed to the hospital. It was a close shave.

  I was kept away from most of the discussions but I heard the words ‘bleeding’ and ‘placenta’ and ‘danger’ and ‘risk’ and ‘miscarriage’.

  That’s the reason Boudi was brought home today. Dada was sent to get her clothes and other belongings while Maa–Baba set about dutifully shifting things around in the house to make it more pregnancy-conducive.
Dada seemed uncharacteristically happy about the whole thing, despite the sleepless nights he had spent in the hospital. Maa–Baba had stayed with him, running after doctors, pleading and praying. Despite my protestations that I wouldn’t leave Boudi alone in the hospital I was made to go to school on both days.

  ‘You’re a child. You shouldn’t be around here, shona,’ said Maa.

  While Boudi rested in Dada’s room, Baba got freshly cut chicken for Maa to cook biryani.

  ‘That’s a little presumptuous. Just because she’s Musal—’

  I was made to shut up and go clean my room before Boudi woke up.

  ‘What will she think about you? That we brought you up like this? And take a shower!’ said Maa.

  ‘Baba finished all the hot water,’ I complained.

  ‘He hadn’t bathed in two days, shona. Wait then, I will warm up some water on the stove,’ she said.

  A couple of hours later, the house smelt like the inside of Nizam’s, the legendary biryani outlet. Boudi had woken up. Dada was helping her to the living room when Maa saw them.

  ‘What are you doing out of bed? Stay there! I will serve there only!’ said Maa.

  We spread newspapers on the bed, dragged the TV trolley to Dada’s room and ate. Boudi couldn’t eat much but she lavished praise on Maa’s cooking. Maa blushed suitably. Dada and I joked quite uncomfortably about Maa’s decision to cook biryani. We laughed and jibed like everything was normal. For a few brief moments I even stopped obsessing over Brahmi’s absence, over her possible boyfriend.

  ‘Both of you have gone through a lot,’ said Maa. ‘Take rest now.’ Maa caressed Boudi’s face and told her, ‘Now that you are here I will take care of everything. If you need anything tell me.’

  Smiles were exchanged and we left Dada and Boudi alone.

  I helped Maa–Baba clear the plates. Dada had cheekily given me his Walkman and a list of sad songs to get over my Brahmi problem. I had been listening to them the entire day on loop, and doubting whether it was a good choice to do so. I couldn’t hear Maa–Baba over the music at first. But then, I ran through side A and heard a bit of their conversation.

  ‘Did Anirban tell you what had happened? How did the bleeding start?’ asked Maa.

  ‘Just that she was sleeping.’

  ‘She told me she was in the kitchen. But I know what she was doing. She was praying, I’m telling you, that’s what she was doing. She was reading the Quran, that’s what she was doing. Can you imagine? Risking the baby for that!’ Maa griped.

  ‘Why would you expect anything different? Didn’t you know what we were getting into?’

  ‘My son now lies to me every day.’

  ‘Is this why we brought him up?’

  ‘I see her office papers lying around, I see bills of places they go to without telling us. They lie through their teeth about everything,’ said Maa.

  Baba shook his head and his shoulders drooped, more disappointed than angry. As if he knew his anger now meant nothing. Not only had he lost to his son, he had lost his wife to hate too.

  ‘Did you notice those framed verses of the Quran she has put up everywhere?’ asked Maa.

  Baba said, ‘It’s your son’s fault too. When was the last time he prayed at the temple you set up for him? Does he even light an incense stick?’

  I stood there pretending I was to listening to my songs on the Walkman as Maa–Baba kept cursing their wretched luck.

  ‘Look at how sweet she is right now. She has cast a spell on my son. What do you think she would do to our grandchild?’ said Maa.

  ‘What about the prayers the child hears five times a day?’ asked Baba angrily. ‘What do you think she is trying to do?’

  ‘I won’t let her pray near my grandchild. You just see! This girl thinks too much of herself! Took our son away, turned him against us . . . How much more do you think I will suffer? No, enough, this girl will see what I can do. I will not be helpless. I will bring up the child, you see. She can do all her career stuff for all I care.’ Maa started to sob softly. ‘You just see what I do.’

  ‘Ei, hey,’ said Baba. ‘Talk softly and don’t do anything stupid. All that you have done for the past few months will go down the drain.’

  ‘I don’t know how much longer I can take this. How long can I pretend that everything is okay? That I love Anirban the same! I don’t! Which mother would? Why do you think Raghu is like this now? All because of that Anirban.’

  Baba sighed deeply. ‘Don’t you think I feel like slapping him every day? Strutting around his wife everywhere.’

  ‘How much long—’

  Maa started to weep softly. Baba held Maa and said, ‘Just wait till she delivers. Just a few more days. It’s either this or our son lets our grandchild grow up as a Musalman.’

  ‘Over my dead body. You see how I teach this girl a lesson once our grandchild is here,’ said Maa.

  ‘Hmmm . . .’ said Baba. ‘What about that other girl? Brahmi?’

  ‘She has left him,’ said Maa. ‘Thank god for that. She wasn’t even beautiful from what I hear, that shakchunni.’

  Back in the room, I curled into a little ball when the pain became physical.

  22 January 2000

  I saw Brahmi today. It sounds innocuous if I put it like that. I waited for three mornings outside her office. It wasn’t a decision based on reason. It was what my body, my heart and my mind yearned for. I struggle for words to describe what it was like. Maybe a little like burning, like everything was on fire, and only she could quell it. It sounds silly I know but that’s the closest to how I felt.

  Maa–Baba’s brilliant acting rankles me. Their sweet behaviour is a lie. They never had had a change of heart. If anything, their hearts had only rotted further. Their concern wasn’t how Dada will cope with a child, or how they’d lose their son if they didn’t accept him, they were driven by the fear that their grandchild might be a Nazia or an Abdul.

  Everything is a lie.

  I was outside her office to know if ‘Brahmi and I’ too were a lie. If she too had lied to me about how she felt about our love.

  ‘Raghu! What are you doing here?’

  ‘Why are you surprised to see me? I dropped in a message a few days ago. To call on a number.’

  ‘Oh yes, I have been meaning to call you but—’

  ‘But you’re too busy? Too much work? New friends? New boyfriend?’

  ‘Why are you being like that?’

  ‘If none of the things I just said are true then why haven’t you come to visit me?’

  ‘Do you want to have tea?’ she asked, her voice losing the fake happiness she had mustered to talk to me.

  My fury only multiplied on our walk to the nearby tea vendor.

  ‘I don’t drink tea,’ I said.

  ‘More for me?’

  ‘I can’t stay away from you.’

  ‘Raghu—’

  ‘Let me finish. It took me two hours to get here and I have been thinking a lot about what to say to you. I finally know what I have to do.’

  ‘What you have to do about what?’

  ‘About us,’ I said.

  ‘Raghu—’

  ‘Brahmi, our story has to end now. It’s the only way to go. I have thought about this long and hard. Clearly, you have a life here. You don’t need me. And I can’t keep waiting for you in school. You don’t even have a phone from where to call.’

  ‘Raghu—’

  ‘Even if you do I will have to wait for your calls. It’s not your fault. Don’t look that sad. It breaks my heart. I realize what I feel for you is stronger than what you feel for me. And that’s okay by me. You’re you, you know. Like only the best possible girl ever, and I am me. Even I wasn’t prepared for what I felt about you. I can’t do this to me. I have to stop thinking about you.’

  ‘So what do you suggest we do?’ asked Brahmi.

  ‘I want to stop waiting. I want to stop thinking of you. I want to stop being in love with you.’

  Her silen
ce was deafening.

  I could hear my heart thump. Lup-dup. Lup-dup. She stared at me and her eyes said a thousand things, all of which had I had to translate would say she was in love with me.

  ‘If that’s what you want,’ she said as if doing me a favour.

  She didn’t fight. She didn’t question my decision. She just sat there and said it like it was on her mind as well.

  She drank from both the cups. She cleared the bill. Even gave me some money. ‘Go back in a taxi,’ she said.

  We walked to the taxi stand. Just before leaving, she said, ‘You were wrong about one thing though.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I needed you here. More than ever.’

  I rode away in the taxi and came back home thinking of how else the conversation could have gone. But now all I am thinking about is the last words she said to me. There was something in her eyes, a sadness, and a cry for help that’s haunting me. Maybe it’s just my mind playing tricks on me, giving me pretexts to reach out to her again. ‘I am fine,’ she’d said as a consolation prize.

  Like everything around me, what I said to her was a lie as well. I didn’t want to stay away from her, I didn’t want to stop loving her, I didn’t want to stop thinking of her; it was not even close to what I wanted. All I wanted was for her to fight for me, stop me from going away, to love her and feel loved. That’s all I really wanted. But I needed to know what she felt for me. And now I know it’s not much.

  Had she told me a lie before?

  29 January 2000

  I told Maa–Baba, Dada and Boudi, all of whom insisted on a party, that I didn’t want to have one. They asked me if my friends weren’t asking me for a treat.

  ‘Of course, they are. But this time we aren’t doing treats for anyone. I told them what we did for Dada’s birthday, so now they want me to give away the money to a charity. I’m thinking Helpage India. What do you think?’

  If they can lie so can I, and as convincingly.

  Maa raised her hands in protestation. ‘It’s your first birthday after their marriage. You want it to be that boring? Okay fine, we will do whatever your Boudi picks. So Mamoni, tell us!’