Babyji Page 14

  “Is this for a class? Vidur hasn’t asked me this yet.”

  I had not spoken very respectfully to Colonel Mathur. I hadn’t said, “How are you, uncle?” or addressed him with a formal term of respect. The word “uncle” sat in my throat like a clot of badly cooked karela.

  “Sir, it’s not for a class. But is a binary way of looking at things a Western construct?”

  “What sort of things?” he asked.

  “Life in general,” I said vaguely.

  “Yes, but specifically what aspect of life?” he pursued.

  “Just everything.”

  “You’re the one who asked Vidur that other question,” he said, changing the subject.

  “Yes, sir.” I only called Mr. Garg and some of the PT teachers “sir.”

  “Vidur talks a lot about you, Anamika. He thinks you’re the smartest kid in the class.”

  “Hardly.” That word “kid” again. But it was better than Mrs. Pillai’s “child.”

  “Well, my son usually doesn’t have a very high opinion of people, so you must be pretty special,” he said. I felt like worms were wiggling in my stomach. I didn’t want him to think I was involved with Vidur in any way.

  I heard the distant ring of a doorbell on his end of the line.

  “Can you hang on a second? There’s someone at the door,” he said.

  I wiped my hands on my pants because my palms were sweating from gripping the phone.

  “Looks like he’s here. Should I pass him on?” he said, coming back.

  “Yes. Thank you, sir,” I said.

  “Anamika,” he said, and then paused dramatically.

  “Yes,” I said, feeling nervous.

  “I feel very old when you call me ‘sir,’ ” he said and laughed a little. His laugh had a rich, resonant quality just like his voice. I let my reserve drop and asked, “Is that good or bad?”

  “Vidur was right. You are pretty different for your age,” he said. My heart thumped.

  “Here he is,” he announced. Without a parting word I was switched from father to son.

  “Yes?” Vidur said, suddenly filling the earpiece with a warm kind of friendship.

  “I already asked your father. But I couldn’t be specific,” I said.

  “He told me when he opened the door. Tell me the specifics.”

  “My friend said that sexuality is a spectrum. That binary sexuality—that is, being either gay or not—is a purely Western construct. Vidur, please don’t repeat this to your father. Please think of some other example.”

  “Which friend?” Vidur asked.

  “India,” I said without thinking.

  “Who?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I muttered.

  “Who is India?” he asked loudly.

  “Shhh! I’ll tell you later, Vidur. Please.”

  “Okay, I’ll find out the answer and tell you tomorrow,” he said, suddenly whispering.

  I went back to my room wondering what Colonel Mathur thought of me. He had not answered the question of whether it was good or bad to feel old. He’d deftly sidestepped. I had talked on the phone to a grown-up man in his house when he was alone. It felt as if it were in flagrant violation of the constructs of Indian society. Was Indian society also constructed, or was construction simply a Western thing? Was my current state of multiple affairs something I had constructed for myself, or was it Indian style—inevitable and fated? Divorced woman, servant woman, underage woman, I was pursuing them all. An honest word or two over the phone with a man was hardly worth attention. I shrugged. It was time to pick out some clothes for dinner. Something India had not seen before.

  I put on a cotton madras shirt and khaki pants. Once when my father’s sister had seen me in those pants she had said, “You have a good figure.”

  Soon my mother arrived. Rani had already prepared four dishes, rice, and parathas for dinner. My mother changed from her sari to a deep rust-colored salwar kameez and let her hair fall on her shoulders. She rarely let her hair down. When she went to work she tied it in a severe bun, and on the weekends she oiled and braided it. It was nice to see her relaxed, but I remained nervous. If India and my mother became good friends, where would I stand? I felt guilty for thinking so jealously about them. By the time India arrived at seven I had a pounding headache behind my right eye and had popped two aspirins.

  “Ms. Adhikari, welcome,” my mother said formally.

  “Please, call me Tripta, Mrs. Sharma.”

  “And you call me Narayani,” my mother said warmly. They were already comfortable with each other.

  They had greeted each other with a namaste but then grabbed each other’s hand and were still holding each other. When they let go, India came closer to me and said, “Hi, Anamika.”

  “Hi,” I said and stepped closer to give her a hug. I didn’t hug a lot of people. Mom would notice. India held my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek. It could pass for a maternal gesture, but her lips were soft and her breath warm. I felt myself go red. I led her to the couch with a hand on her back. Her sari blouse was cut very low around the neckline, exposing a large area of her back and the curves of her side.

  “What can I get you to drink?” I asked.

  “Anything,” she said, looking at my mother.

  “Get us Cokes,” my mother said, looking at me.

  “You look so young, Narayani,” India said. I was walking out of the living room, and the sound of the fan muffled their words entirely. I didn’t want to leave them alone with each other, but I had no choice. I sprang to the kitchen, opened three Coke bottles on the counter as swiftly as I could, and poured them into tall glasses.

  “What’s the hurry, Babyji,” Rani asked.

  “Nothing,” I said, putting the three glasses on the tray and walking out of the kitchen.

  “Come here one second, little prince,” she said flirtatiously.

  “Not now,” I replied without turning back. I walked softly as I reached the living room, hoping to catch a few words without them knowing I was there.

  “Well, you don’t look a day older than thirty,” I heard India say.

  “You look in your twenties yourself,” my mother said.

  I strained to listen some more.

  “Oh! I remember that night your hair was tied up. Leaving it loose like this takes off a good ten years,” India said.

  I walked into the room with the drinks. They both looked at me and smiled. I placed a glass on the coffee table in front of my mother and one in front of India. My mother was sitting on the single sofa, and India was sitting in the middle of the large couch. As I placed the Coke in front of India I looked into her eyes. For a second we were in our private world.

  I sat on the couch next to India with my glass in my hand. I kicked off my slippers and crossed my legs on the couch. Usually my mother would not let me sit like that in front of guests, but she was in a good mood and seemed not to notice.

  After a few seconds my mother excused herself to check on things in the kitchen. I turned to watch her leave the room. After she was gone I placed a hand on India’s knee.

  “You’re really sexy,” I whispered into her ear.

  “Your lab register is here,” she said, pointing to the large purse at her feet.

  I reached down and pulled it out. I heard my mother’s footsteps dangerously close, so I shoved the register under the sofa. The distinct sound of cardboard sliding against the stone floor could be heard as my mother walked back into the room. She didn’t seem to hear it because of the whirring of the fan.

  “I worry about my son’s admission to Anamika’s school,” India said with a sigh.

  “I am sure they will take him. After all, it’s a really special case,” my mother replied. They must have already spoken about Jeet for a few minutes while I was getting Cokes because my mother seemed up-to-date on the situation.

  “At least you don’t have to worry about the Mandal Commission. When Anamika applies for college next year they will p
robably have the new reservation policy in full effect.”

  My mother had never before expressed doubt about my ability to get into a college of my choice. It made me wonder what would happen when the number of seats under open competition shrank to a tenth of their present number.

  “There is a boy called Chakra Dev Yadav in our class. What caste is he?” I asked.

  “Yadavs are jaats, no?” India said.

  “They are on the Mandal list and qualify for reservations even though they have by far been the most dominant caste in Uttar Pradesh economically and politically,” my mother said, getting up from her seat.

  She had walked to the phone and picked up the newspaper from under the phone stand. Walking back to us she opened the paper to the editorial page and handed it to India and me, saying, “See, they are deemed backward castes.”

  “I hope my son gets into your school before this policy comes into effect,” India said. I imagined a junior Chakra Dev gaining admission over Jeet. There was no doubt in my mind right then that Chakra Dev had been born a complete hoodlum with an antisocial gene just as I had been born with a gene that preferred Sheela’s smoothness to Vidur’s hairiness.

  “Merit is obsolete. Only the sons and daughters of politicians and rich people get anywhere,” India said, closing the paper she had been reading.

  “Memsahib, everything is ready. Should I set the table?” Rani asked, coming into the room.

  My mother nodded. Rani inclined her head and left. India looked at my mom and said, “She’s one of the most dignified servants I’ve ever seen.”

  “Isn’t she beautiful?” my mother said.

  My mind strayed to the different responses Rani’s beauty evoked in people. I already knew that Dr. Iyer was moved by her suffering. I wondered what would move Vidur’s father. I wanted to know more about him and about the books he read.

  “Yes. I liked that one, too,” my mother said. I had no idea what they were talking about.

  “His last collection of stories was my favorite,” India said.

  How could they be talking about books at the very moment I had been thinking about them? Could it be that thoughts were composed of electrons that flew in and out of people’s heads? One of mine had jumped from my brain to my mother’s or India’s so that they had started talking about books just when I started thinking about them. What if they picked up on my other thoughts? I wanted to protect my mental processes, lock my ideas in a steel vault lest they escape without permission.

  “What do you like to read, Anamika?” India asked, turning to me.

  “I try to avoid best sellers,” I said. I realized it sounded snotty as soon as I had said it.

  “Why?” she asked pleasantly.

  “Well, I still need to cover my bases in literature. I read most of Dostoevsky last summer.”

  She raised an eyebrow and said, “Heavy.”

  “She seems to like heavy things,” my mother said.

  When I was in seventh grade my mom monitored what I read and stocked my shelf with Jane Austen and George Eliot. In the past year I had borrowed as I pleased from the school library (usually from the special section marked For Staff Only). The library teacher, Mrs. Catalog, turned a blind eye to what I carried out under my arm. People made fun of her, her bespectacled seriousness and yen for order. Till I had become Head Prefect my friends had called me “Catalog Junior.”

  “I just read a Kundera novel about a doctor who had to become a window washer,” I said.

  “According to my friend Deepak who returned from the States, it’s the only meritocracy,” India said.

  “He came back to live in India? That’s rare,” my mother said.

  “I’ll introduce him and his wife, Arni, to you. They’re a young couple. They can bridge the generation gap between Anamika and us,” India said to my mother, reaching out to clasp her hand.

  Hearing that she felt there was a generation gap between us was like having a bucket of cold water thrown on my head. My worst fear was coming true. India had more in common with my mother than with me.

  Rani walked into the room carrying our plates and glasses. I walked over to the dining table and helped her. Then we all washed our hands and sat down to dinner. My mother and I usually ate with our hands. But my mother had asked Rani to bring a spoon for India.

  “No need. I eat with my hands, too,” India said to Rani.

  “Why don’t you bring your food and join us,” my mother said to Rani in Hindi. It was a big gesture. But Rani sat on the floor.

  “How is your man these days?” India asked.

  Rani looked at me for a split second and then replied, “Men are men. They never change.”

  “My man also used to hit me,” India said to Rani in Hindi. When she had admitted this to us at the dhabawalla she had spoken in English.

  Rani looked shocked.

  “It’s because of the way they are raised by their mothers. I won’t spoil my son,” India said.

  “I’m glad I have a daughter,” my mother said.

  “I wish I were a son,” I said.

  India and Rani laughed. My mother frowned.

  “Boys take longer to grow up,” India said.

  “Has it been hard to raise your son alone?” my mother asked.

  “He comes to my house when there is no school or if his father can pick him up. It’ll be much easier once he can transfer to Anamika’s school and live with me.”

  “Divorce must have been difficult,” my mother said.

  “It was harder trying to live under the same roof,” India said.

  My mother nodded.

  “The food is delicious,” India said, looking at my mother.

  My mother looked at Rani and said, “Did you hear that? I told you it was good.”

  Few people ever complimented or thanked their servants for anything. My mother was different. I appreciated her for that. Even though she was never fully able to overcome the divisions between masters and servants, she was intrinsically fair.

  “I think Babyji will do better than any man,” Rani said suddenly.

  “Yes, Babyji will,” India said. It was strange to hear her call me Babyji.

  They were doting on me like a child. But maybe this was how women treated their men as well, bolstering their egos. After impatiently waiting to grow up, maybe I would discover that there was no such thing as growing up, that adulthood was a myth and that men were boys. I had always had a sneaking suspicion that being a grown-up was only a matter of biological age. At the sagai I had felt more intelligent than my father’s colleagues, and I routinely felt I was more advanced than most of the people around me. While Vidur was intelligent, I knew from the way he spoke that he didn’t feel like a grown-up. Sheela still saw herself as her father’s daughter. Chakra Dev was the only other person my age who was also grown-up. He carried himself like an adult. A bad adult, but an adult nonetheless.

  “Please don’t patronize me,” I said in English as lightly as I could.

  “We’re not patronizing you. We’re just saying what we think,” India said defensively.

  “What did you say, Babyji?” Rani asked. It was the first time she had asked me to translate something I had said to someone else in English.

  “She thinks we treated her like a child,” India said in Hindi. I felt as if a new link had just formed between India and Rani, something independent of me. Rani nodded and smiled at her.

  We finished eating and went to wash our hands. When we got back to the living room my mother asked Rani to bring out dessert. I switched on the TV so that we could all watch the news. As I walked back to sit in the center between India and my mother, I hoped that after this evening the bond between them would not prove stronger than what they had with me.

  My mother and India were staring intently at the screen. I turned to see what they were seeing. They were showing a fire and smoke and young people running around. The newscaster said that a seventeen-year-old student had set himself on fire to pr
otest the Mandal Commission recommendations. He had been hospitalized in Safdarjang Hospital and was suffering from third-degree burns. Footage from Safdarjang Hospital and the protest demonstration outside followed.

  The news shifted back to the TV studio, and the newsreader said, “His condition is critical.”

  “Suicide?” I asked aloud.

  Politicians came on next, denouncing the self-immolation and expressing grief. I imagined Chakra Dev going up in flames, even though it was a brahmin boy who had protested. If anyone, it would be me doused in kerosene and burning to cinders.

  Rani came in carrying dessert.

  I told her about the news item as she placed the tray down on the table in front of us. She had made kheer.

  I ate kheer only if each spoonful had a raisin, so my mother had asked Rani to go heavy on the raisins. I scrutinized my spoonful of white kheer, making sure there was a raisin.

  “Rani, what’s your real name?” India asked.

  “Basanti,” she replied. It had never occurred to me to ask Rani her real name. The enormity of my thoughtlessness shook me.

  “Should I call you Basanti?” my mother asked.

  I told myself I preferred Rani since it meant queen.

  “Whatever you want, Memsahib,” she said submissively.

  “Would you prefer Basanti?” my mother persisted.

  “Rani, Basanti, same thing,” she said.

  “It’s a pity she’s not educated,” my mom said.

  One of the floating thought electrons from my mother’s brain jumped to mine. In a second the whole world in my head changed. There was no reason for Rani not to be educated. She could go to school now. I could teach her. We could teach her how to read and write. We could educate her enough for her to move from a servant to a worker in an office. I went dizzy with the image ten years into the future of us all sitting on a couch and Rani talking to us as an equal. If electrons could jump from their orbits and leap through quanta, there was no reason Rani could not jump from a lower caste servant to an educated and real Ms. Basanti.