Happy Birthday! And Other Stories Part 11

They moved on, catching a glimpse of a spotted deer, some wild pigs and another bison, when Tanya saw it: a 3000-kilo hulk of a rhino with a black horn curving backwards from its nose, as if in salute-a male, she would later learn on Google. Camouflaged by a rock, it stood still amid the elephant gra.s.s, and for a moment Tanya thought she must be mistaken. Then it blinked and she saw its bushy tail swing momentarily in the air, swis.h.i.+ng away horse flies. She didn't call out to Aditya or to the mahout whose sights were set fixedly ahead, but looked past the giant's thick greyish-brown skin-pink near the chunky skin folds-its wart-like b.u.mps, its body divided by clean-cut lines-as if it were wearing an armour-and gazed directly into its eyes. And though she'd heard that a rhino's eyesight was weak, it looked right back at her, not blinking, not moving, staring as though it were expecting her. They stayed like that for a while, orange rays reaching both of them, extending through the shreds of torn sky. Tanya was convinced that the rhino had a message to deliver, something that she could translate and convey to the world, but she never figured out what, since too soon Madhubala took a turn and the rhino was gone.

She's never told anyone about the rhino-not Aditya, not the mahout who tried to make them stay another night (*Sir, tomorrow pukka you will see the rhino'), not her new friends in America who wanted to know all about her little Indian adventure, not even her son whom she's promised never to lie to. This becomes the only part of her that she can keep to herself-her treasure to carry alone. For it was that morning, after seeing the rhino, that she'd realized that there should be, that there can be, has to be, a less worn-out way to live her life. All she had to do was find it. One day.

*Tanya?' Porus is saying. *There's no cold water. Do you want something else to drink?'

Tanya stops staring at the fridge's handle and turns to Porus. Since her afternoons follow the path of eat-lunch, clean-dishes, serve-mother-in-law, watch-TV, prepare-Maneesh's-snack, clean-Maneesh's-schoolbag, go-over-Maneesh's-homework, prepare-Aditya's-tea, she's seized by a sudden recklessness.

*I'll have a Breezer. Yes, why not?'

*That's the spirit.' Porus winks.

*And I'd love to try that liver. It looks great.'

Porus smiles at her for the first time since they've met. She blushes, as if she's Maneesh's age and has got a nod from the popular kid in cla.s.s.

Porus hands her the bowl containing the kaleji papeto. She takes a bite and says, *Delicious.'

*Next time I'll take you to Jimmy Boy for mind-blowing dhansak,' he says, pecking his forefinger. His eyes crinkle at the edges with the force of his smile.

Is he asking her out on a date?

If her life rewound eleven years when she'd been another person, she might have said yes. For then she was a pa.s.sionate student of journalism at JNU, staging protests against nuclear testing, investigating a recent corruption scandal, reporting mock live from the scene of a train accident. That's all she wanted from life then; to make some sort of difference. She graduated top of her cla.s.s and was hired as a junior correspondent by NDTV in Delhi. Her mind was prepared for the gruelling work, the fourteen-hour days and six-day weeks of a job in journalism, but soon after, her body gave way and she fell ill, not recovering for two months, by which time she'd been replaced, as had her dreams. Quickly, her mother found *Aditya from New York'-a *decent' NRI boy whose parents had a flat in Khar that-being almost in South Bombay-was three times more expensive than their Gurgaon flat. At twenty-three she moved to America, had Maneesh three years later, and gave up any ambition except to raise her son well.

Porus pa.s.ses her an open bottle of Bacardi Breezer-blueberry flavour.

What she's doing is childish: drinking alone with a strange man in a strange house in the middle of the day and eating meat, forbidden meat.

What will Maneesh say if he sees her? What will he tell his father, who he's trying to ape, or his grandmother, whose physical deterioration confuses him?

It's too late. She takes a long, thirsty sip.

A sharp shooting pain gathers in a tooth and rises straight to her brain.

Is she being punished for her misdemeanour?

Then, she remembers. This pain is from her filling that fell out nine weeks ago, which she hasn't got fixed because there are so many other things about herself that she has to fix first. Recently, she's noticed three to four, actually fourteen, white strands of hair on her scalp, and she's sure that there are more that she can't see. She needs to dye her hair. Then, she has to dump her drab kurti-jeans and buy fas.h.i.+onable new dresses and skirts and low-neck tops showing cleavage, to align herself with mothers like Dinaz and distance herself from the lumpy salwar-kameez-sari mothers. After that, she has to ditch the Dr Scholl's shoes she's been wearing for her post-pregnancy back pain and wear open-toed sandals with brightly painted nails. In the past, Tanya has made appointments at the parlour near her building to have her nails scrubbed, polished, and painted red, but then Sunday becomes Wednesday and she forgets her appointments till it is Friday. She will go tomorrow.

Porus is still smiling at her and she smiles back. He's got strong white teeth, not yellowing like hers; she must ask him what toothpaste he uses. She follows him back to the living room where he switches on a small TV with jumbled wires popping out of its set-top box. She sits on a sofa with the foam peeking out from under it, thanking her luck. Now she can talk comfortably, knowing that any gaps in conversation will be filled by the sound of the TV, which is showing a cricket match between a team in blue and one in black, though all the players look Indian. Why are Indian players playing against each other? She doesn't ask, not wanting Porus to know that she hasn't watched cricket in over a decade.

Still, she has to say something, so she enquires, *Why is everything in the dining room covered in cloth?'

Porus, who has spread his legs on a brown beanbag next to which is an ashtray filled with at least twenty cigarette stubs, lights another cigarette and says, *This is Dinu's bapavaji's flat. Her uncle let her live here after we ... split ... you know. Anyway, she hates this stuff: antique clock, antique chair, antique this, antique that. She's a modern girl, you know, but that nalayak uncle is not allowing her to renovate. So this is her compromise, keep all the furniture but don't look at it. Still, she has to listen to him, to all of them, being a single mother with a young son, faaltu musician father. Things get tight around here, you must have noticed.'

Tanya takes a sip while thinking of an appropriate reply, not sure whether she's supposed to notice. She nods, a half-half, not a yes, not a no, and says, *Families,' the way she's heard men at parties say *Women', as if no one understands them but has to suffer them anyway.

*Yeah,' he says flippantly. *Dinu told me you moved here after ten years in New York. Why the h.e.l.l would you move here?'

*My mother-in-law has not been well since my father-in-law died. So we moved to take care of her,' she replies, hoping her ensuing tired laugh doesn't betray her regret at this decision.

*The other woman, huh?' he says.

*The other woman? My husband has never cheated on me,' she says firmly, hoping it to be true.

*I'm talking about your mother-in-law,' he replies, and chuckles.

He is mocking her decision.

When she repeats their reason for moving to Aditya's relatives they too disapprove but for different reasons, saying that Aditya and she should have come immediately after Aditya's father died, not waited for five months till his mother developed health problems. Then they ask Tanya why she didn't have a second child while she still could have? Tanya doesn't explain the long frustrating years they've spent trying for a second child, but replies that she has two kids now-Maneesh and her mother-in-law-so why worry? Aditya allows her this one snide joke, accepting it as his punishment for uprooting her life. Then Aditya's relatives complain that Maneesh is too dark. Why didn't she apply besan on him when he was born?

*Look, I'm a typical bawa so don't mind my honesty, but it sounds like that husband of yours is more focused on his mother than on you. When you emotionally belong to someone other than your spouse, that's cheating, right? It's cheating of another kind, but still cheating, no?'

Though she's never seen it as cheating, Porus has a point. Aditya has been moping since his father died, claiming that his mother is the only reason he's not yet an orphan. And his mother is no less, vying for his attention-quiet through most of the day, and then, the minute Aditya comes home from work, zealously coughing, complaining of mysterious aches and pains. Tanya doesn't say a thing. Her parents are long gone and she has no siblings. Aditya and Maneesh are her only family, and being a good wife and mother are her only responsibilities. If she fails in that, what will she have to show for her unfulfilled life?

Suddenly Porus leans over and brushes her thighs. She starts and glares at him, but his eyes are fixed on the TV. She leans back as he absently fumbles around the sofa, quickly glances over and s.n.a.t.c.hes a tissue from a tissue box on the seat next to hers. There is a nonchalance about the whole act, but Tanya is no fool to believe it. She sits upright on her seat and takes a long hard sip of her drink.

There's a movement to her right; Maneesh is standing at the doorway.

Tanya stands up erect.

What has he seen? What has he understood? How can she explain it all away?

*Yes, beta?' she says evenly, trying to shake all guilt out of her voice.

Maneesh looks at her and says in his seven-year-old's innocent voice, *I have to go.'

Tanya murmurs a small prayer, thankful that her son is still blind to her mistakes. She glances at Porus, who is pretending to be wholly immersed in the match, and asks Maneesh, *Number one or number two?'

He holds up one finger.

She clears her throat and over the noise of the TV asks Porus where the washroom is. She follows his instructions, taking the first right, straight and then left, till she reaches two toilets-one Western style and one Indian style-separated by a single sink. She thrusts Maneesh onto the Indian one as there's no toilet paper in the other, and when he comes out she holds down the long flush chain till a trickle of water discharges.

Maneesh immediately runs back to Kaizad's room, wherever it is, and Tanya slowly walks towards the living room. There is an ad on TV, so Porus turns to her with his full attention, but doesn't say anything. Tanya knows that he is not going to play the host game, fill the s.p.a.ce between them with pleasantries, ask dutiful questions about her health and hobbies. She takes her place on the sofa, not quite sure what to say. But the drink has made her light-headed so she asks, *Why did Dinaz and you separate?' America has taught her to be politically correct, so she doesn't use the word *divorce'.

He takes a cigarette from the packet and lights it up. Taking a puff he laughs through clenched teeth. *I cheated on her.' He continues speaking as if from some deep thought, *Dinu told me-tells me-that I'm such a cliche, cheating on her with her best friend. But she's forgiven both of us, of course, she's understanding, that way. People move on. In fact, just last night we were out celebrating her best friend's birthday-yes, still her best friend.'

From Kaizad's room there is a thud.

Tanya gets up and shouts, *Are you boys okay?'

*Yes, Aunty,' says Kaizad.

*Maneesh? Are you okay?' she asks.

*Yes, Maa,' he says, and she remembers all the times that she's been afraid to let go of her son's hand in the fear that he'll step off the curb, fall off the bed, tumble down the stairs ... disappear one day. He never has. He's still here. Yet, once, when Tanya had looked away for just five seconds, he'd fallen off a spinning merry-go-round and she'd watched him fly, his hands helpless in the air, his feet in a surprise backward kick, and everything moving in slow motion as her heart rose into her mouth. She reached him just as his head hit the ground, and gathered him in her arms, feeling his head for b.u.mps, and running her fingers over his thin shoulders, his frail back, his hairless legs. *Are you okay? Are you okay? Are you okay?' she asked. He looked up at her, eyes unfocused, a weak smile. Still she asked, *Who am I?' and he, all of four, with utmost sincerity said, *Maa?'

Above the sound of the videogame from Kaizad's room comes the sound of laughter.

*Our sons seem to be getting along,' Porus says.

*Yes, they are,' she quickly agrees.

Maybe it's the alcohol, Porus's openness with her, Tanya's betrayed life, this modern couple's unfulfilled love, her child's laugh from the other room, this old house that smells of mothb.a.l.l.s and newspaper, but something that's been holding Tanya's life tightly in place, some sort of noose or rope, comes undone. She's breathing again.

*Can I tell you something?' Porus leans over and asks. His breath smells of tobacco mixed with the gra.s.sy sourness of beer. This bold, imperfect stranger with straight, white teeth and a hooked nose emboldens Tanya's imagination. If he tells her that he finds her attractive, wants to kiss her, sleep with her, hug her ... Tanya isn't sure that she'll say no. Just the thought of it is making her reckless-a feeling creeping out from behind all other feelings, scared to show itself after its prolonged dormancy. She's daydreamed about a similar scenario many times, in a different place with an unknown face, everything blurry save for her response-a righteous pious slap, loud enough to hide her soaring vanity. She doesn't know what she'll do now, but she knows that she will not slap Porus. If she yields, she warns herself not to feel guilty: it will be her prize for the armour of stoicism that she's built around herself for the sake of her marriage and her child.

*I probably shouldn't,' Porus adds and leans back. Now she really wants to know.

She looks at him coyly, chin slightly tilted, lips curved in an alluring smile, eyes soft, inviting intimacy-a look she used on so many admirers in college, earning her the nickname *flirt'. Her practice went to waste on Aditya after the first few months of marriage; it's coming back so easily now.

*Come on, Porus. I won't tell anyone.'

*I know you won't. You've lived in the great USA. Our silly lives must seem trivial to you.' If only he knew. *But you really can't tell anyone.'

*I won't,' she says, and knows she will not.

*Well, it's not really my secret, it's Dinu's too.' He plays nervously with his belt buckle. *You see, we are not married. I mean we were never married, everyone just a.s.sumes we were because of Kaizu. We were dating in college, and our parents tried to arrange a wedding, especially after she became pregnant, but somehow it didn't happen. So, obviously we are not divorced either, but we go around pretending we are because that's better than giving our relations.h.i.+p and our child no name. But you can't tell anyone. No one knows this, not even Kaizu.'

Tanya is disappointed: so Porus is not attracted to her and doesn't want to take advantage of this smoke-filled room where no one will know what transpired between two slightly tipsy adults. What's worse is how adult Dinaz and Porus's unconventional life seems-an unmarried couple parenting a child, moving past betrayal, and befriending each other's lovers, whereas she has pa.s.sed from her parents to a husband to a son to a mother-in-law. It has never belonged to her, this life she has, and no lapse, even momentarily, has been allowed to breach the wall of conformity that she's built around it.

It's not their life that is silly, as Porus believes, but hers.

For she hasn't even moved to India to be a good wife but to show Maneesh the sacrifices that a man must make for his mother. For one day he will be a man, she will be old, he will have another woman in his life, and if Tanya needs him-and she will need him-he will remember what she had done for his father, what a son does for his ailing mother, what a wife does for a husband, and he will come.

Tanya's life stands in front of her in a straight line: her mother-in-law will die, Aditya will be promoted, they will buy a bigger apartment in a building with a pool, Maneesh will go back to the USA for college, he will marry a girl of his choice, Tanya will become a grandmother, Aditya-seven years her senior-will die, Maneesh will come to take care of her, she will die, he will move to a bigger apartment in a building with a pool and a Jacuzzi.

This cannot be, Tanya thinks. This straight line standing c.o.c.kily before her needs to be smudged. She has to stop being a coward and make mistakes, openly. She leans forward, towards Porus. She will kiss him. He will be surprised, might push her away, but he's a man, unmarried, unmoored, free to be with anyone. He will yield, kiss her back and after that she will let him do what he wants to her. She doesn't care if anyone sees or knows any more.

She licks her lips, thrusts out her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and turns to face him.

There's a crash.

Her foot has. .h.i.t the Bacardi Breezer bottle and its fizzy liquid spills all over the cream tiles. A large, ugly blue blot spreads on the white rug underneath her feet.

What a klutz I am, she thinks, always doing this, always destroying things.

*I am so sorry. I didn't realize the bottle was near my foot,' she says frantically, reaching for the tissue box on the sofa. It's empty. She digs her hands into her purse for some Kleenex and finds three packets.

*It's okay,' Porus murmurs, standing up. *It's not your fault that this place doesn't have a coffee table.'

*I've ruined it, I've ruined it all,' she says, bending over the rug, dabbing furiously, filling up the tissues with her guilt.

Porus is beside her; their faces centimetres apart. He says, *Relax, dikra.'

She doesn't stop dabbing, reaching with her other hand for another packet of Kleenex.

*Relax!' Porus says sternly, as if talking to his son. He places one hand over her hand, stopping her from throwing away the tissues like unfulfilled promises. With his other hand he grabs her chin and turns her face towards his. She sees his lips moving, pink and lined with dark edges. *Baap re! Relax, Tanya! It's an old rug. Nothing to worry about. Dinu was going to throw it out anyway.'

He looks into her eyes with an intensity that makes Tanya understand why Dinaz stayed with him with or without marriage. She feels his pa.s.sion, his power, his longing. He is going to kiss her now. There isn't a better moment, a better opportunity. She shuts her eyes in antic.i.p.ation, squeezing all other thoughts out of her head so that she can savour the delight she's already feeling.

Nothing happens.

She flutters open her eyes, confused, and searches for him. He is on his feet, his drink in his hand, ice clinking in the gla.s.s, watching TV. The players in black are running towards each other, their hands in the air, clapping, victorious.

Without turning Porus says, *Tanya, I rigorously follow the saying-you probably know it-Don't eat from a used plate.'

Tanya starts. Is she nothing more than a used plate to Porus? Her appeal as a woman reduced because she's married and hence *used' by another man?

Porus bends down, carelessly rolls the rug and tosses it in a corner, discarded.

He is referring to the rug as the *used plate', Tanya realizes. Of course.

But she gets up and straightens herself. There are tears filling her eyes. She turns towards Kaizad's room and screams, *Manees.h.!.+ Manees.h.!.+ We are leaving. Come out. Now!'

*Now?' Maneesh shouts.

*No way,' she hears Kaizad say, his voice cracking as if on the verge of adolescence.

*Etlo badlai gayoch?' Porus says, turning towards her with a look of helpless confusion. *Why are you leaving? You just came. The boys are having fun. I thought we were too.'

Tanya looks at Porus, sweet lovable Porus, the breaker of hearts, the mark of her misplaced intentions, the sign of her dying youth. She pats her hair into place, picks up her big purse, and heads for the front door, where she waits for Maneesh, alone.

How early the sun had risen that day. How fast the elephant had walked. How quickly the rhino had gone out of sight and become a part of the yellowing day, the green foliage-its message forever lost, no sign that it had ever existed.

CLIP AND CANE.

Gyan hears the payal on Parvati's right ankle tinkle as she climbs the steps to the chawl's third floor, walks past his kholi and stops outside her door. A plastic bag rustles as she sets it down on the hard cement floor. The wooden chair creaks when she lifts it up.

After a long pause she enquires, *Who tried to fix my chair?'

Why is her voice not pleased?

There can be no one else in the veranda at this time of the hot day, so she's obviously asking Dhoopwali Mai, who must be sitting in her usual spot next to the clothesline, under the sun.

But Dhoopwali Mai doesn't reply. Gyan imagines her hand running through her hair, white and serpentine owing to her age, and drenched in coconut oil that the chawl women complain stains their drying clothes.

*Chaa!' Parvati continues. *It looks worse than before. Such shoddy work.'