Don't Let Him Know (8 page)

‘So where did you go?’

‘Oh, Agra, but only after we moved back from America,’ she said. ‘And that’s very nice, but I mean the Taj Mahal is so clichéd.’

‘I want to go to Agra,’ said Amit who was sitting on the floor drawing with his new pens.

‘Do you know what’s in Agra?’ Sumit smiled, glad for the distraction.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I have a picture of the Taj Mahal on my lunchbox. A king called Shah Jahan built it.’

‘My goodness,’ said Sumit, ‘you know a lot for a six-year-old. Surely they are not teaching history to six-year-olds these days? How do you know about Shah Jahan?’

‘Because sometimes my Ma calls me Shah Jahan. She says I was made in Agra.’

‘Made in Agra?’ Sumit looked perplexed, and then noticed Romola was blushing furiously and casting desperate glances at Avinash, who was looking steadfastly at his tea.

‘Yes,’ continued the boy undeterred. ‘My mother said Baba and she made me in Agra and so I am her little Shah Jahan.’

‘Oh,’ said Sumit as the light dawned on him.

Romola glanced quickly at her mother-in-law and then hastily averted her gaze.

‘That’s enough, Amit.’ Avinash tried to regain control of the situation. ‘Why don’t you show this uncle your drawing book?’

There was an awkward pause as the boy left the room.

‘Very bright boy,’ said Sumit trying to conceal his smile.

‘Precocious,’ said Avinash’s mother sharply. ‘Too precocious. That’s what you get for being an only child. I keep telling Romola that she should have another one. For Amit’s sake, if nothing else. It’s not healthy for a child to grow up among adults and maid-servants.’

‘Well, Ma,’ protested Romola, with a sudden edge to her voice, ‘it’s not enough just to tell me. I would love to have another baby, maybe a little girl. But your son here thinks one is enough. He says look at all the trouble we went through to get this one into school.’

‘Oh, Ma,’ said Avinash a touch testily, ‘you have a grandson to carry on the family name and all that. What more do you want?’

Sumit tensed up realizing he had not just indavertently wandered into well-worn battlefields, but had also tripped over some mines.

‘So,’ said Avinash turning to Sumit, ‘tell me about your work.’

As they talked about computers Amit returned with his drawing book under his arm. He clambered up on to the sofa and settled down beside Sumit. ‘Look,’ he said, opening his book with a flourish. There were pictures of lions and tigers and mountains and a village scene complete with a pond and palm trees.

Then he turned the page. There was a picture of a wedding – a man with a moustache and a woman in a bright red sari sitting side by side.

‘Who are these?’ said Sumit.

‘Ma and Baba getting married.’

‘How would you know?’ teased Sumit. ‘Did you go to their wedding?’

‘But I’ve seen pictures,’ protested the boy.

‘That’s not me,’ said his mother. ‘That doesn’t look like me. Am I so beautiful and is my skin so golden?’

‘That’s you,’ protested the boy. ‘You are beautiful.’

Romola laughed and stroked his head and for the first time since Sumit had met her, her face softened as she let down her guard. Sumit’s gaze caught Avinash’s who looked away as if embarrassed. Romola was not really beautiful but she had a certain easy grace. Her hair was knotted loosely in a bun and Sumit suddenly had a vision of it unravelling around her face like the black monsoon clouds that Tagore sang about in his songs. He wondered suddenly if Avinash still sang Tagore songs. Like he used to on summer nights when they were up on the roof. Sometimes there would be a power cut and everything would be dark – the houses black shapes cut out of an inky sky. Downstairs Mangala would have lit an oil lamp and he remembered the dim smoky light creeping up the stairway. From where he lay, smoking a cigarette, he could see the shadows of people downstairs – elongated and distorted like grotesque puppets. How hot and still it used to be on those nights – and lying there looking up he could very well believe that the stars were made of fire. Burning fiercely in the sky, scarcely bigger than the glowing end of his cigarette. From a nearby house he would hear a woman laugh – the noise jaggedly clear like a glass breaking. And the hum of the city – the noises all melted together in the heat – a yapping street dog, the clangour of a bicycle bell as the rider weaved through the lane between pedestrians and rickshaw-pullers. And then Avinash would start to sing, softly at first, as if he was singing only to himself. Then his voice would get bolder and stronger.

‘Je raatey mor duarguli bhanglo jhorey . . .’
On the night that my doors were broken by the storm . . .

He would lie there contentedly, watching Avinash singing with his eyes closed. About storms, and rain, and unrequited love. During the day they would often laugh at Tagore’s songs. Sumit always argued that they were too sickly and sentimental. But at night he was just content to lie there and let the melodies wash over him and imagine that there was really a storm brewing in the corner where the neem tree stood. A storm that would break down the doors. And maybe the woman who was laughing in the flat next door had fallen silent listening to Avinash sing. He imagined her standing quietly at the window behind the curtain with the pattern of little flowers. Perhaps in one hand she still held the oil lamp she had been about to light. And he would fall asleep on the crook of Avinash’s arm and be woken up by Avinash stubbing out his burning cigarette.

‘Silly,’ Avinash would say gently mussing Sumit’s hair. ‘Do you want to set the world on fire?’

‘Let’s go into our club room,’ Sumit would reply, stretching, his fingers touching the stubble on Avinash’s chin in the darkness. In the dingy storage room on the roof where as young boys they’d once had secret clubs they would reach for each other, the darkness guiding their hands. Later that night as he rode his bicycle home through the shadowy sleeping streets, he’d lift his hand to his face and smell Avinash still clinging to him, his fingers, his lips, his neck, and he would start to sing as well. He couldn’t hold a tune but it didn’t matter as he wobbled down the streets, scraps of song trailing behind him.

‘Penny for your thoughts,’ said Romola brightly.

Startled, Sumit shook his head and smiled.

‘We learned that in school from our English teacher,’ she laughed. ‘We thought it was such a fashionable thing to say because Miss Cole had actually been to England.’

‘It’s just this house. It brings back so many memories,’ said Sumit. Then turning to Avinash, he said, ‘Is the old room up on the roof still there? The one we called the club room?’

Avinash replied, ‘Yes, where would it go?’

‘I would love to see it again.’

‘There’s nothing to see – just old junk and stuff.’

‘Still.’

‘No, really,’ said Avinash with a touch of irritation. ‘It’s all dusty and no one’s opened it in ages. I don’t even know if the light still works. And I’d have to look for the key.’

‘But I know where it is, Baba,’ piped up Amit. ‘It’s next to Ma’s powder case. I’ll take Mickey Mouse Uncle up to the roof.’

‘Now Amit – you have to do your homework.’

‘Oh, let him go up,’ said Romola with a glimmer of a smile. ‘It’ll only take a minute. Why are you getting so worked up?’ There was a slight tone of mocking in her voice that made Sumit glance at her. But he couldn’t tell if it was directed at him or at Avinash.

‘I am not worked up,’ shrugged Avinash. ‘It’s just that there’s nothing there.’

The little room was almost exactly as Sumit remembered it. The door cracked with the streaky green paint faded by sun and rain. Amit opened the door. It creaked on rusty hinges as if it had indeed not been opened in years. Sumit reached around and turned on the light, a naked light bulb dangling from a wire. The room was full of junk as Avinash had warned. There were trunks and suitcases and old half-broken file cabinets all covered with dust. Piles of yellowing newspapers and torn mattresses and dented utensils. Something scampered away behind one of the piles making Amit jump.

‘Did you and Baba play here?’ asked Amit.

‘Yes.’

‘What games did you play?’

‘Oh, just games.’

‘Fun games?’

‘They seemed fun then,’ smiled Sumit, ruffling the boy’s hair.

‘And why did you stop playing?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Because we grew up,’ said Avinash appearing behind them at the doorway. ‘Your mother is calling you, Amit.’

Amit shuffled reluctantly down the stairs.

The two men stood there watching the hustle-bustle of the neighbourhood. They could hear the impatient honks of passing buses and the cries of vendors. The television next door was blaring and the radio was on full blast at the corner store.

‘How little seems to have changed,’ said Sumit. ‘You are lucky. It is easy to keep time still here.’

Avinash lit a cigarette and leaned his elbows on the parapet. Abruptly he turned and looked Sumit full in the face and said, ‘I had no choice.’

‘I wasn’t blaming you,’ Sumit said touching Avinash’s elbow.

Avinash jerked his hand away as if Sumit’s hand was burning hot. ‘After Baba died all of a sudden, there was never any choice for me. My grandmother was still alive and completely distraught. Ma said I had to come back and get married and settle down. And then after I took Romola to America, Ma started writing letters asking me to come home – she was beside herself. And Romola was so unhappy in America almost from day one. I had to come back.’

‘I’m not blaming you.’

‘You don’t have to – it’s there in your face. I couldn’t help it, Sumit. You don’t know what it’s like. You got away. I got married. That’s just the way it is. It’s just something that happened.’

‘I understand, Avinash.’

‘How is it there?’ said Avinash. ‘Are you happy? Do you have someone? Was it all you hoped it would be?’

‘It’s . . . it’s different. Yes, I think I am freer. But sometimes I look at you and feel perhaps you were not wrong. You seem so much, so much safer. Are you happy?’

Avinash looked at him for a minute. Then he looked away and replied, ‘I have a good job. My mother is happy. She has a grandson. Romola takes good care of her. And I adore Amit.’

‘But are you happy?’

Avinash didn’t answer at once. He blew the smoke out and then said, ‘I don’t think too much about that any more. I’m contented, I guess. That’s good enough.’

‘Don’t you ever want to get out, away from all this like we used to plan up on this roof? Do you ever imagine what might have happened if you and I, together, could have . . .’

‘I told you Sumit, I’m at peace,’ Avinash cut him short as if stubbing out a cigarette. ‘Why should I torment myself needlessly about things I might have done? I get up. I go to work. I come home. Watch TV or—’

‘Go for a walk in the park maybe,’ said Sumit quietly. ‘Which park do you go to, Avinash? The one where men like you come out to stroll at night?’

‘You have no right,’ said Avinash fiercely. ‘You have no right. Just let me be, Sumit. Why did you come back? No letters. No messages. Nothing. After all these years. What do you want from me now?’

‘I did write but you never replied. Forget that. But you are right,’ said Sumit slowly. ‘I lost my right a long time ago, Vino.’

Avinash flushed. No one had called him Vino since Sumit had left. That was his name for him and it was as if someone had stepped up to a long-forgotten door and knocked on it.

‘I know you were upset at me for getting married but to disappear from my life like that,’ Avinash flicked the ashes from his cigarette. ‘And now you just walk in like this.’

‘I needed to see you,’ said Sumit. ‘I put it off and I put it off. And if my mother hadn’t pushed me maybe I wouldn’t have been able to do it this time either. But I needed to see you.’

‘Why? To flaunt your San Francisco in my face. To pity me?’

Sumit turned away from him looking across the street. The first stars of the evening were appearing encrusted like diamonds in the pink-flushed sky. He could hear the calls of the birds settling down for the night in the tree across the street. He could see the evening market setting up, the potato seller with the dusty gold mounds of potatoes and onions next to the woman selling eggs. All this used to be his too. Once he had belonged to it as effortlessly as that white cat on the roof next door, sitting there flicking its tail watching the world amble past. Now it was sand through his fingers.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to know why you never replied.’

He slowly turned back to look at Avinash who just stared at him as if he had been changed in to stone.

Avinash opened his mouth as if about to say something.

But just then a voice behind them said, ‘There you are.’

Turning around they saw Romola had come upstairs. Sumit wondered how much she had heard. But she just smiled cheerfully and turned to Sumit. ‘You must stay for dinner. It won’t be anything fancy since I didn’t get any warning. Just simple chicken and rice. My mother-in-law insists.’

‘Oh no, some other time,’ said Sumit. ‘I promised Ma I’d be home. You know how it is when you come back after so long. There’s a special meal planned for every night.’