Fear and Lovely

Chapter 3

Randhir: Just a normal guy

1975–1976

When he topped the university in his BA Honours second year, Randhir summoned up the courage to tell his parents he wanted to do his Masters, and his father had said, ‘That is alright, Beta, do your MA. You are brilliant student.’

He was awash with disbelief and relief.

‘I’ll work in the factory after that,’ he had said, overwhelmed with gratitude that he didn’t have to fight this one out.

His father smiled, full of love. ‘I know you will, Beta.’

His brother, Akhil, was coming home soon to join their father’s business, so it wouldn’t all be on him. He would still find time to write. His father would never understand what writing meant to him, but then his father didn’t understand what reading meant to him either. Yet he was generous to a fault about spending money on Randhir’s books and magazines. Randhir had persuaded his father to subscribe to Time, Life, The Illustrated Weekly of India, and Imprint. Randhir was the only member of the family who asked for books and magazines, something his father regarded with fascination. After Randhir read the magazines, they would make their regular rounds – first to Arnav, then to Mallika and her mother, then to Prabha and Gauri. Gauri, the last in line, had strict orders to return them to Randhir as soon as she was done.

Then the bombshell dropped. Akhil, who had been studying in Bombay, got himself a job there and eloped with a Muslim girl, Ameena. He broke the news to his parents in a brief letter, asking them if he could bring his wife home for their blessings.

As Mallika would say, as if!

Hindi films were no exaggeration. The scene at home was exactly like one. His father said Akhil was no longer his son, he could never step into the house, he was lost to them forever. This was accompanied by his mother’s histrionics. He and Mahima listened, aghast. Finally, his father said to his weeping mother, ‘Remember this – if you go to see them in Bombay behind my back, there is no need for you to return to this house.’ He turned to Mahima and Randhir. ‘The same goes for you both.’

The next day, he came to Randhir’s room and said, ‘Beta, in you I have faith. You do not let me down. I hope you will carry on the work that I have put my life into.’

‘Yes, Daddy, of course I will,’ Randhir replied, and felt the bars of the prison clamp down.

That afternoon, he wrote to Akhil, congratulating him, saying he wanted to meet his wife and that he hoped to do so one day. He told him what had happened at home, making it clear he wasn’t of his father’s mindset. He posted the letter immediately.

After that, he went to the bathroom cupboard to look at the bottle of pills. He did this periodically. The bottle was still nestled safely behind his Old Spice aftershave.

A boy from a ‘first-class’ family was coming to see Mahima. Mummy said, ‘No need to mention Akhil’s marriage to them. We will just say he is working in Bombay.’

‘Mummy, how can you hide such a thing?’

‘Oho, keep quiet.’

As usual, he had no say.

Mahima met Shekhar a couple of times, liked him, and said yes.

Why Mahima wanted to get married as soon as she finished her BA, he couldn’t understand. He’d asked her, and she’d said, in that tart way of hers, ‘I want marriage and children. How’s an MA going to help with that?’

His parents extolled the virtues of her fiancé, Shekhar – his family and his MBA and his fairness and his good looks and, of course, his wealth. As far as he, Randhir, was concerned, Shekhar was boring as hell, and the sister, Renu, was vulgarity personified.

Every time Arnav or Vineet saw Renu enter the house, they’d dive for cover. She dressed horribly, she called Arnav ‘Handsome-One’ and Vineet ‘Handsome-Two,’ cracked the most awful jokes with them, slapped their arms, chucked their chins, and laughed so coarsely that it made him cringe.

The weirdest thing was that Renu had taken to Mallika. She was constantly dropping in at Mallika’s place, lending her books and chatting with her. What on earth did they see in each other? What did Mallika see in Renu? Sometimes he didn’t understand how Mallika’s mind worked. Once, Mallika had told him that her Shantamama and grandmother had cursed Karan’s mother and sisters and, as a result of that curse, none of Karan’s sisters could have children. How could Mallika believe such a thing? But then she also believed that the so-called Phuknewalla actually rid her of migraines. He wanted to say, Mallika, have you ever heard of the placebo effect? But he didn’t. If there was one person in the world he didn’t ever want to hurt, it was Mallika. He had even kept quiet about that damn Charu affair.

OK, fine, he had liked Charu. But what was wrong with that? She was fun, she was vibrant, she made him laugh. She was the prettiest thing ever. Sure, they spent a lot of time together, but so what? Mummy loved his friends coming home and staying on for lunch or dinner. And as long as his bedroom door was open, Mummy was fine with girls hanging out in his room and listening to music. So, fine, he spent more time with Charu than with the others, and OK, they’d kissed and stuff when Mummy was out, but so what? It wasn’t as though he were sleeping with Charu; most girls drew the line at that anyway. Mummy sang her praises all the time. But as for Mallika – that she had believed he’d made Charu pregnant was the limit. She’d thought he was going to marry Charu! Didn’t she know by now how Mummy fibbed? And then Mallika had the gall to get on her moral high horse, asking him why he was being so harsh about Charu as though this b****y mess was his fault! And they’d had to tell Mummy and deal with her dramatics in front of her friends. What a f*****g nightmare.

When Mummy had come back home from Charu’s house that night, she insisted on giving him a blow-by-blow account of what had happened. Both fascinated and repelled, he had listened.

Mrs Kapoor’s reaction to his mother and her friends’ recital of the story had been a trill of laughter. She had said, ‘Uffho, my Charu, too much Imagination she has, that is the problem!’

They were all so confused by this reaction that they just didn’t know what to say, his mother told him.

‘Always I tell Charu, “Beta, Imagination is not for real life; it is for books only,”’ Mrs Kapoor continued. ‘But Charu, she likes to have fun by pretending that her Imagination-Stories are real!’

‘Mrs Kapoor,’ his mother had said. ‘My son, he swore on my name that nothing like that happened.’

‘I know, I know,’ Mrs Kapoor agreed. ‘So many times I have told Charu, “Beta, some things girls do not joke about.” What is there? I will tell her again. And it is my request… Please do not mention to anyone. People, they are not understanding Imagination except in books and films.’

Padma Aunty said, ‘The doctor said Charu needs help from a psychiatrist.’

At which Mrs Kapoor put her hands to her cheeks and exclaimed, ‘Arre baba, never – never! If I take her to one of those, then who will marry her?’

Which was true, his mother said to Randhir, who would?

Mrs Kapoor then said, ‘We will find good boy, we will get her married. Then Imagination and all will settle down. What you will have – tea or coffee or neembupani? Please have, no formality.’

Imagine offering them hospitality after all that! His mother snorted.

He couldn’t get over it. How had this gone so wrong? He was just being a normal guy. He was just doing what other guys were doing. And, unlike them, he wasn’t shady about it. He hadn’t hidden it from his parents; he’d brought Charu home, Mummy had said she loved Charu. And this was the result? He could barely hold his despair.

He knew he shouldn’t have spoken to Mummy like that in front of everyone. Most of the time he kept his mouth so closely shut that every angry word was swallowed like spit, and every unwanted thought was stamped and crushed into the rot of oblivion. But he hadn’t realized how his feelings left its trace on his face till he entered his room and caught his expression in that wretched birthday mirror. For a couple of seconds he almost didn’t recognize himself.

He had told Arnav the whole b****y story, and Arnav listened incredulously. He’d never discussed Mallika with Arnav, but this time he couldn’t help it. ‘Mallika knows me. She should have known better.’

But instead of agreeing with him, Arnav said, ‘How?’

‘You think I’m going to get a girl pregnant and ditch her?’

‘That’s not what Mallika said.’

‘Well, yeah, but… this thing with Charu, it was… I told you it was nothing.’

‘Oh, come on. Mallika wasn’t the only one. We all thought you were besotted with Charu. I never understood. I mean, I always thought Mallika was the one for you.’

He stared at Arnav.

‘I mean… isn’t she?’ Arnav asked.

Randhir muttered something.

‘Then why the f**k were you with Charu?’ Arnav exclaimed.

He was completely rattled.

The one for him? What did that mean? It meant marriage, that was what it meant.

Oh, god, he never wanted to marry. Not Mallika, not anybody. Did Mallika expect it of him? Please, please let her not expect it of me.

During the summer, winter, and Dussera holidays, when Arnav moved back home to his parents from the IIT hostel, he started landing up at Randhir’s house late at night.

Randhir would hear the motorcycle in the distance, and then the sound would disappear as Arnav switched off his bike, cruised down the street, and parked next to his house. He’d get up from his desk or emerge from a deep sleep to the sound of Arnav’s familiar knocking at his window. Then Arnav would go to the terrace for a smoke and crash on the divan.

Randhir knew that Arnav’s father was the source of all this. They had spent plenty of time in each other’s homes, and he had observed all the things that Arnav never spoke of. That his father was charming and vicious, loving and ill-tempered, full of understanding and completely empty of it, all in the same day, sometimes in the same hour. It was like walking on quicksand.

Arnav’s entire home life was centred around his dog, Mishti, whom he had had since he was twelve. Mishti was his life. Mishti slept on his bed; Mishti and he went for their walks thrice a day whenever he was home for the holidays; he took Mishti to the vet, took care of her when she was sick, bathed her, and checked her body for ticks. He had a sketchbook full of drawings of Mishti. Just once, after Mishti’s death, Arnav broke his silence about his father. That night, after Arnav had retched and vomited in Randhir’s bathroom, they went up to the terrace together, and Arnav, his eyes bloodshot, told him everything in three sentences: ‘My father kicked Mishti, and she ran away from home and got run over. Apparently it’s not the first time. So much for all those f*****g prayers.’

That was it. Arnav never spoke about Mishti or his father again. If Randhir hadn’t known him, he’d never have guessed how broken-hearted he was – he kept himself busy. One time he ran all the way from his house to Randhir’s. It took him three hours; he arrived at four a.m. and crashed for the next fourteen hours. Soon after this, Arnav went back to the IIT hostel, to his voluntary work with the Indian Conservation Fund, and to acting. He auditioned and got the main role in a comedy. The play was a huge success. Randhir took Mallika for it, and they were in fits. As the months passed, Arnav calmed down, and as Randhir wrote at his desk, Arnav would sketch on his drawing pad. He had been excellent at drawing, even in school, winning prizes in all the Shankar’s Weekly drawing competitions every year.

Randhir envied Arnav’s ability not to agonize about every damn thing. Arnav just ran and sketched and performed and – lucky guy – even if his thoughts were in hot pursuit, they could never catch up with him. Whereas Randhir’s thoughts were always ahead of him, and he was roped to them by the neck as they drove furiously forward, dragging him, arms and legs shackled, behind them.

Mahima’s wedding was upon them. He and Arnav were running around doing a hundred things; relatives were crawling out of every which c***k. He hadn’t a minute to himself. It was driving him nuts.

A day before the wedding, he managed to get away. He went to Mallika’s house and asked if she wanted to go to India Gate for an ice cream break. She nodded, looking grave. He knew why: she was worried about her Shantamama’s impending operation. Mallika told her mother she was going out with him and hopped onto his motorcycle, saree-clad but wearing a coat.

‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you,’ she said as he parked the bike beside the India Gate lawns.

He breathed in the winter air, resting his eyes on the beautiful jamun trees and the endless expanse of green grass. ‘Sorry, Mallika, I’ve just been busy with all the wedding stuff. I tell you – the relatives are driving me nuts. They’re everywhere. They don’t b****y stop yakking.’

They began walking down the lawns. At last, he was beginning to feel calm.

‘Oh, I forgot!’ He stopped. ‘Let’s go get some ice cream. What’ll you have – your favourite cassata?’

‘Later, Randhir.’ She was looking deadly serious.

He looked at her in surprise.

‘What?’ He tried to tease her out of her mood. ‘Has that Mrs Mittal descended on you with another policeman?’ He still hadn’t got over the story of Mallika stealing the puppy. That an oblivious Arnav had been her unwitting rescuer took the cake!

‘I have to tell you something. Randhir, please believe me.’

She was pale with apprehension.

‘Mallika? What’s the matter?’

‘Shekhar’s a p*****t. Mahima’s marriage must be stopped.’

The blood rushed to his head. ‘What the hell do you mean, “p*****t?”’

They had stopped walking. She was pale. Her throat was moving.

He could feel his entire body trembling.

‘A s****l p*****t,’ she whispered.

He stared at her. She was trembling too.

‘What’s wrong with you? What the b****y hell is wrong with you? Do you have no b****y sense in your head?’

She was hunched up, both arms around her body, as though he were hitting her. She tried to speak but no words came out.

‘Someone’s been talking s**t to you, and you’ve been taken in as usual, haven’t you? You listen to every damn Tom, d**k, and Harry and believe them. What’s wrong with you?’

Tears were streaming down her face. ‘The wedding has to be cancelled. Tell Madhu Aunty and Uncle that –’ She began to sob, unable to speak.

‘Yeah, sure. I’ll tell them you’ve been listening to gossip about Shekhar, and therefore we should cancel the wedding. Which is tomorrow. Sure.’

‘Listen to me, Randhir. Please. You haven’t listened to the whole thing. I –’

‘Pray, tell me: what is a s****l p*****t?’

‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘But –’

‘That’s fantastic. Perfect reason to cancel the wedding.’

‘You’re not listening to why I’m telling you this, just –’

‘I don’t want to listen to gossip.’

‘It’s Mahima’s whole life, Randhir, please just –’

‘I’m her brother. You think I don’t care?’

‘I know you care, that’s why I’m telling you. Randhir, if you come with me, I’ll tell Aunty and Uncle. Listen to me. I’ll tell them –’

‘You’re not going to tell them anything.’

A middle-aged couple had stopped in the middle of their walk to stare at them.

Suddenly, he realized he’d been shouting.

He turned away from her, walked almost blindly towards the nearest jamun tree, and leaned against it. He felt he was going to vomit. He felt the trunk against his back, strong and so comforting that he could have wept. He rested his head against the trunk and looked up at the canopy of leaves, at the glorious branches. The sun was setting, and the birds had set up a virtual chorus. It felt as though the tree was embracing him. He remembered Arnav talking passionately about the Chipko movement in Uttarakhand, where villagers, mostly women, had put their arms around trees and clung to them to prevent them from being logged, and about how this movement had spread to other parts of the country. He felt, in this moment, that he was capable of nothing – not even of saving a tree like those impassioned villagers – for he was the one who needed saving. If he could, he would have hugged this tree and begged it to give him succour. If anything could save him, it was this all-embracing, all-accepting tree; it was all there was for him.