Chandrakant took out a bottle of rum he had bought — Old Monk. He’d also bought a kilo of mutton he had chosen himself and had wrapped up from the Indian Halal Meat Shop: chops, thighs, rump, and legs, along with a container of fried-boiled spicy channa with green chilies, lemon juice, coriander, haripatti, covered with thinly sliced onion.
‘Tonight we’re making mutton Kohalpuri for you. If it’s too spicy you can wipe your face with a handkerchief,’ Shobha chirped from beside her little stove, where the spices were browning in the pressure cooker. ‘You’ll never forget that once in your life you ate food cooked by Shobha!’ She understood completely my darkness and despair. They wanted to share a little shining sliver of the good fortune and happiness they had found after so many years with me. And I was truly grateful.
‘Hey Chandu, don’t forget to pour a glass for me. As soon as I put the lid on this I’ll come over and sit with you two,’ Shobha said, then began to hum.
Giving birth to Amarkant, it was as if Shobha had sloughed off ten years off her body. Joy and hope had erased the lines on her face, the ones that years of struggle, deprivation, sorrow, poverty, and Suryakant’s imminent death had carved in her face. Her eyes shone with the brilliance of a whole, free woman, and she radiated with every step. In the light of the forty watt bulb and glow from the stove, Shobha looked in that cramped little half flat like a young girl who had come directly from bathing in a cheery mountain waterfall. Her radiance and beauty right then gave off an energy that pulled my heartache and despair out of me, while pulling me toward her at an extremely high velocity.
I don’t feel bashful and I’m not afraid to say that that night, I wanted to drown myself in Shobha’s beauty and elation. Maybe some dormant animal lay inside me that had been lying ill in a corner, drowsy, tired and defeated, and was now suddenly aroused from sleep, glaring with hungry, greedy eyes at humming Shobha, who stood next to the cooker browning the spices. The fifty-year-old was transformed into a blissful girl.
Shobha turned with a start and caught my gaze, which drew her in. Her eyes locked on me for a moment before a twinkle of a smile again appeared. There was no anger, no reproach. Just the look of a woman who knew quite well how to coddle and tame the beast inside a man. The bold eyes of a relaxed, self-confident woman.
I noticed her looking at Chandrakant. They communicated wordlessly. He was spreading newspaper out over the carpet and setting down the plates and glasses. Suri was leaning up against the wall, heavy head propped up by his tired shoulders, channel surfing with the remote. One-month-old Amarkant was sleeping deeply in his little bedding.
Chandrakant slowly began to sing. The colours today, the flowers today, O Ma the colours I see, my sweet one’s home, the colours! It was a colourful scene indeed inside that cramped little half flat that had for years mostly been under the dark shadow of want, disease, sorrow and anxiety. Technicolour bubbles, like the hues of Holi, coloured my mind and body, in and out, and ignited my desire. The three of us drank, the three of us sang. To the birth of Amarkant, to the life of Suryakant, to the joy of moving to a new house, and to the radiance and festivity of the new mother Shobha. Chandrakant, embracing the fun of his drunkenness, put his arm around my shoulders and sang and sang.
Just then, Shobha looked at me — I hadn’t moved my gaze from her — and then at Chandrakant. The two smiled from ear to ear, and then two things happened simultaneously: the steam valve on the pressure cooker gave out a long whistle, filling the room with a spicy aroma, and Shobha, taking a chiliful bite of the hot channa, leapt up. ‘Ooh, ooh, hot! How many peppers did they put in this?’ she said, puffing through the hot food in her mouth, before downing the glass of rum in one gulp. ‘Chandu, how can we eat it like this? We need something to munch on if we want to finish the bottle, no?’
Chandrakant emptied his glass in a flash and stood up. ‘I’ll get some pakoras from around the corner, fish pakoras.’ Looking at me, he said, ‘You keep Shobha company and keep on drinking, I’ll be right back.’
Then the TV channel changed and the volume got loud. It was a music video channel. I turned around to look and saw Suri propped up against the wall, remote in hand. He regarded me with a piercing gaze, and quietly stood as his x-ray-like stare penetrated my body, and I gave a little start. Suri took his father’s finger, and, wobbling, accompanied him out the door of the half flat, his disproportionally large and heavy head resting like a time bomb atop his weak little body: every moment counting down — tick, tick, tick — to the moment (it could happen anytime) when it might explode, smashing this boy’s life into smithereens. What hour and minute the timer is set for is anyone’s guess.
Suri stopped on the balcony and turned that big head around to look at me. It was as if he was laughing with that strange twinkle in his eyes, an animated look of his very own, peering from beyond his impending death. Suri looked at Shobha again, gave a little wave with his right hand, then again took his father’s hand before disappearing down the road and into the darkness.
***
Shobha was lost in her thoughts for a bit, then finished off her glass of rum in one big swig. It was her fourth glass. She wiped her mouth with her hands, took a bite of the spicy chili-lemon channa, and said between chews, ‘Don’t think of Suri as just a kid. He’s a real imp. Nothing gets by him.’ There was a devilish look in her eyes. I was a little rattled.
‘Does he also know what goes through my head?’ The buzz from the rum and magic carpet made my speech sparkle.
She came over beside me. ‘Both Suri and Chandu know exactly what’s on your mind and on my mind right at this very moment. Can you hide something like this? At this age?’ She poured herself another little shot, and again downed it. ‘What have we got in this life anyway? And if we do have something, someone else’ll take it away. But whatever we might have left over, we can give to anyone we like. Don’t you think so?’ It came out slowly, deliberately. She leaned her head against my shoulder. ‘Look how old I am, look how old Chandu is, and we just had a baby, we’ve just bought a house. A fifteen-year mortgage. Do you think we’ll even be around to see it paid off? I look behind me and I’m tired. I look behind and I’m scared. I’m exhausted. And Suri — how long can he keep gasping for breath? He was in bad shape again the other night. His head hurts like hell, but he never says anything, he just keeps fighting, all night, him versus death. Sometimes I think that the almighty should either just cure him once and for all, or he should…’
She began to shake. I consolingly stroked her hair as her tears streamed down onto my shoulders.
‘And now Amarkant! See the kinds of games he plays. You know how old I was when I gave birth to him? But how long will Chandu and I be able to live with him? It’s frightening. How will he manage after we’re gone? How will he pay off the rest of the mortgage?
We were sitting on the carpet that used to ignite the flames that Shobha and Chandu put out with their games spanning many years. That day, too, the flames grew more aroused, the light of the fire giving off sorrowful hues for a few moments in the darkness of that half flat. Then the flames caught and bloomed into resplendent colour; two of us were shocked and delighted. And then our fever grew even hotter, until the pressure cooker blew its whistle for the fourth or fifth time.