Shining Hero (31 page)

‘You are welcome to our house,’ murmured one of the girls.

Another shouted, ‘Ma, we’ve got him.’

Laxshmi came out, a short straw broom in her hand. ‘Good girls, good girls,’ she said. ‘Now Bika will be saved.’

Laughter dimpled Bika’s round cheeks. There was a naughty question in her wide dark eyes.

‘Hello, Bika,’ said Arjuna, feeling embarrassed to be standing before her wearing only his wet and muddy pants. ‘Let me have my clothes,’ he said to the girl who carried them.

The sisters shook their heads. ‘You won’t be needing them. You can have them later.’

Laxshmi said to her other five daughters, ‘You can go now. You have done what I asked. Now get on with your duties. Is the kheer made? Has the calf been fed? Did you bathe the buffalo? Is the ghee cooked? Get on. Go away.’

The girls moved off reluctantly but the rest of the crowd continued to jostle for better views till Laxshmi rushed at them and threatened with her broom. ‘Go away, all of you,’ she shrieked. They began to back off nervously – they knew Laxshmi had once been Shivarani’s maid but had had to leave because of her temper.

After war there comes peace. After battle the heart needs rest. After fighting the body needs love. After victory comes celebration. Arjuna, smiling inside and satisfied, followed Bika into the dark, saffron-smelling interior.

‘Sit,’ said Laxshmi. Arjuna sat on the floor while she and her daughter served him food as though he was a son-in-law. They laid before him a banana leaf heaped with rice, fish curry, dhall. They
served him mango pickle, tomato chutney, chupatti, a little heap of chopped green chilli. And then watched him, their expressions satisfied, while he ate, pinching up the food with three fingers.

While Arjuna was eating, Bika and her mother hung garlands over the doorway. They mixed white rice paste and painted patterns on the ground as a mark of respect to Jamai Babu, the new son-in-law. While she painted, Bika kept peeping lovingly at Arjuna. The mother kept glancing at him proudly like someone who had captured a valuable wild elephant.

When he had eaten, Bika poured water over Arjuna’s oily fingers while the mother waited with a towel.

At last the mother said, ‘I will leave you two alone.’

As she vigorously swept a perfectly clean yard, the next-door-neighbour leaned from her doorway and said, ‘So you have got the zamindar’s son for your naughty daughter then?’

‘God has been good to us,’ said the mother piously.

‘A pity the son is so skinny,’ said the other woman, jealously. ‘Skinny like a stick. The father was wonderfully fat.’

‘Being skinny is the fashion of the moment. I have seen that on TV,’ said Bika’s mother, determined not to be done out of her triumph.

‘But since your Bika is already pregnant,’ said the neighbour, ‘What need have you for Arjuna?’

‘He does not know that she is pregnant,’ said Bika’s mother, sweeping steadily. ‘And if you should tell him I will make sure this broom goes right down your throat and out the other side.’

‘Lie down there,’ Bika told Arjuna. The hut was cool and smelled of straw and mango. ‘You are very beautiful.’ A dove cooed sleepily and the melons on the roof creaked in a small wind. The river gurgled as if it was swallowing something.

When Arjuna rose from Bika’s side, it was nearly midnight and inky dark in spite of the little oil lamps the mother had lit and set along the verandah.

Bika became agitated and the mother angry when Arjuna started moving towards the doorway.

‘Where are you going?’

Arjuna blinked. ‘Home. I can’t stay here forever,’ he said.

‘Why not?’ demanded the mother. ‘Is that it?’

‘What else should I do?’ asked Arjuna. He stood waiting for Bika’s mother to enlighten him, his neck bowed because of the marigold garlands they had hung over the doorway to honour him. He smudged his toes among the new rangoli patterns they had created for him as he tried to work out what he had done to make her angry.

‘Don’t you think you owe us something?’ demanded the mother. ‘You eat our food, make use of my daughter. Then walk away? Now don’t you think you owe us?’

‘I have brought no money with me,’ said Arjuna, feeling he had understood. Feeling sad too. Disillusioned. ‘But you can have my watch.’

Bika’s mother burst out in a fury. ‘Your watch? Who has asked you for money?’

‘What else can you want?’ asked Arjuna, now truly bewildered.

‘Suppose you have made a child inside my daughter?’ said Bika’s mother. ‘Who will care for it if the father does not?’

‘What do you want me to do?’ asked Arjuna.

‘Marry her, of course,’ said the mother.

Arjuna stared at her. ‘We do not even know if I have made a baby,’ he said after a long and amazed pause.

‘Look at you,’ cried the mother, gesturing his body up and down with a rice ladle. ‘Is it possible that a great lusty healthy fellow like you fails to bring on a child?’

Arjuna, who had never thought about such things before, supposed she must be right and began to feel gloomy. ‘But I don’t think I could marry her right away,’ he said. ‘I don’t have a job – I am only seventeen. Suppose you let me know later if she is having a baby or not.’

‘I will surely do that,’ said the woman grimly.

Arjuna dressed. All the happy feelings he had had with Bika had been driven away by the mendacity of her mother. As he began to walk away the mother shouted after him, ‘And I am sure she is pregnant. Women can tell these things straight away.’

Next day, Arjuna returned to Calcutta. He asked Parvathi, ‘Is it really true that women can look at a girl the moment she has made love and tell if she is pregnant or not?’

‘Of course it’s not true,’ laughed Parvathi. ‘Have you been making love then? And is the girl’s mother trying to capture you?’

Arjuna thought to himself, how clever Parvathi is. She knows about everything that is worth knowing about.

‘You must take condoms with you wherever you go,’ Parvathi said. ‘For a boy like you is sure to be led into temptation by every girl he meets and it’s not only babies that girls give men these days.’

Thus spake proud and peerless Karna
in his accents deep and loud
And as moved by sudden impulse
joyous rose the listening crowd
.

Shivarani was due to lead a group of women from Hatipur to Delhi to deliver a paper to the Prime Minister demanding three rights for women: the right to life, to freedom from violence and to education.

She had become very restless these days, as though something was on her mind.

‘Don’t you think you are overdoing things?’ DR Uncle asked. ‘Why don’t you give yourself a rest?’

Shivarani would sit with him briefly, on the edge of her chair, looking tense and edgy. ‘Is that chair uncomfortable, Shivarani? Shall I tell Parvathi to bring you some more cushions?’

It was not the chair that was uncomfortable. It was Shivarani’s mind. When people talked to her, after a while they would realise that she was not listening but was thinking of something else. She did not remember things.

‘What about getting me into films,’ said Karna. ‘Has anything happened?’

‘Oh, yes.’ She had forgotten even that. ‘What about approaching your father? Perhaps he can help you,’ she said vaguely.

Karna stared at her with his mouth open. ‘My father? Have I got a father? I thought no one knew who he was.’

Shivarani sighed. Her mind had been far away or she would not have said anything. But it was too late. Karna had got the information and was shaking it like a mongoose with a snake. ‘Who is he? Tell me? What do you know?’

‘I don’t really know. It’s only a guess. It’s probably not true.’

‘You have to tell me. Go on.’ He stood in front of her, his expression intense, his fists clenched. ‘Who is he?’

‘It was the actor who played the Sun God in the Mahabharata,’ said Shivarani cautiously. Karna sat down again heavily. Of course. Dilip Baswani. He wondered why he had not realised sooner, for throughout his childhood people had compared him to the actor though as he grew older and deprivation stunted him, they had ceased to see the similarity. Dilip Baswani, Suriya, the Sun God.

That night, he piled all his possessions – his sports kit, his dolls and his posters of Poopay Patalya – into his car.

‘Don’t just go, Karna,’ said Shivarani. ‘That is not the way. I’ll write to him.’ But Karna was tired of waiting. The journey took three days and at night he slept in his car, curling up in his metal womb, with all the beloved things of his life close to him. He bought soda water, beedis and snacks of food from the towns and villages through which he passed and often in the remoter villages people would cluster round the sahib in his motorcar, so that Karna began to feel like a famous film star already.

On the long journey his mind would become filled with memories of Dolly. Arjuna’s mother, who was so rich, had thrown him away as though he was a bit of unwanted debris and even when he came back to her, refused to recognise him. But when Dolly found him, though she was so poor, she had shared everything with him, going without herself so that he could eat. At other times his mind would dwell on Poopay Patalya, who, because of all the times he had seen her in the cinema, was now someone with whom he felt he had shared his life. Thoughts of her would make his heart swell with love and dedication. He planned all the things he would say to her when he
met her which he felt sure would happen because he was heading for Bollywood.

He would let her know how in his darkest moments she had comforted him, how he had never truly felt alone even after his mother died, because thoughts of her had sustained him. He would tell her that if she was ever in trouble he would be there for her. He would let her know that if she needed it he would gladly die for her.

Sometimes he would think about Arjuna and feel triumphant because at last he had the advantage of his brother. Karna’s father was a famous film star and Arjuna’s was not. This time Karna was certain to win. He even had a little mental image of he, Karna, taking a leading role and out of kindness finding some small and subservient role for Arjuna.

When he arrived in Bombay, he found a cheap hotel, booked himself in, washed the grime of three days’ travel from his body, then set about finding out where Dilip lived. It was not too difficult. Dilip Baswani was extra famous these days, it seemed, for although he no longer acted he was now making films. Everyone wanted to know him and get a part in one of his movies. The hotel doorman told Karna, ‘You’ll have to think of a pretty good line if you want to get in there. The place is like a fortress.’

The following day Karna polished his car till it shone like a jewel, put on his newest, most expensive and trendiest clothes and, keeping their Japanese labels trailing as though by mistake, set off.

As he drove up the road to the actor’s house he began to feel both nervous and excited. He gave a little gasp as the house came in sight, not only because it was so huge and grand, but because beyond it was the sea, something he had only ever seen in films.

He arrived at bolted iron gates. An armed durwan dressed in a uniform that made him look like a soldier stood guard before them.

Karna, who thought he did not know fear, felt his heart hammering as he stopped.

The durwan looked up, glanced at Karna’s unremarkable car and stayed sitting.

In the end Karna had to get out and approach the man. He said, in his most impressive voice, ‘I am here to see Mr Baswani.’

‘Have you got an appointment?’ asked the durwan.

Karna shook his head and said, ‘But when he knows who I am he will want to see me.’

‘Name?’ said the man boredly.

Karna was silent for a moment, while he considered, then he said, ‘Baswani … I am a relation.’

The man’s lip curled in an expression of scornful disbelief.

Leaning forwards Karna stretched his eyes wide. ‘Can’t you see the family likeness?’ he demanded.

‘No,’ shrugged the durwan.

‘Ring him,’ urged Karna. ‘Mention Koonty of the Hatibari.’ Pulling the gold disc from his shirt he waved it before the man’s eyes. ‘Tell him about this,’ said Karna, feeling his chances start to seep away.

‘Whatever you are called, you still have to have an appointment,’ said the durwan.

Karna felt in his pocket.

Instantly the durwan became more attentive.

Karna pulled a handful of notes out. The durwan raised his head slowly, his gaze fixed on the money.

Slowly Karna counted notes into the man’s outheld hand.

‘Wait there, I will call him,’ said the watchman when his fist was full. Tucking Karna’s gift into his shirt he went into his hut, where Karna heard his voice on the phone, ‘The man says he is a relation.’ He came out at last and told Karna, ‘A body search is required. Mr Baswani has suffered a few assassination attempts while he has lived here.’

At last Karna was through. He felt as though he had entered the gates of Paradise. His car scrunched noisily along a pristine drive. It was winter and brilliant bedding plants had been laid out to represent the colours of the Indian flag, over and over. Fountains sprayed out of great ponds of clear water set in a blue grass lawn that gleamed like velvet and the marble house looked as though it had been carved out of the purest icing sugar.

Karna’s heart soared as he reached the great front marble steps. He was about to come face to face with the hero of his youth, with the god of the sun, with Dilip Baswani. He was about to meet his glorious father for the first time in his eighteen-year life.

The doorman at the porch signalled Karna to take his car to the back. Ignoring the man’s increasingly urgent and aggressive commands, Karna parked his dented car right in front of the marble portico, getting it as near to the steps as possible, then he got out.

‘Please do not leave this car here, sir,’ said the man hurrying up. ‘Mr Baswani likes to keep his driveway clear of all but top-quality vehicles. Also other VIP visitors may be coming here.’

‘I am a VIP visitor,’ said Karna, pushing the man aside and climbing the steps.

When he turned around to give his car one last loving glance, he saw the doorman trying to push it out of the way.

‘Take your hands off my car,’ yelled Karna. ‘Don’t you know who I am?’

The man looked up, hesitating. He watched Karna doubtfully as the young man mounted the steps. He did not know who the fellow was but all the same decided it was better not to take the risk of antagonising some big shot, in spite of the fellow’s youth and inferior transport.

Karna reached the front doors. The entrance was large enough for a Calcutta bus to pass through. Beyond the house Karna caught a glimpse of golden beach, walled round for privacy.

He followed the turbaned bearer into the great cool livingroom that was high and wide as a regal hall.

‘What name shall I give Baswani Sahib?’ asked the bearer.

‘Tell him his son has come.’

The bearer looked worried.

‘What?’ asked Karna.

The man shrugged.

Karna smiled. ‘He has other sons?’

‘Exactly, sahib,’ said the man, nodding. There was so much starch in his coat and turban that they crackled with the movement.

‘I am another.’

‘I will tell Baswani Sahib,’ said the bearer. He left the room still looking troubled.

Karna sat there waiting for what seemed like ages. He got up and went round examining things to steady his nerves. Everything looks real and expensive, decided Karna. He did not know very much about art but the pictures on the wall were pleasing and touched his soul in a way he had never known before. ‘When I am as rich as this,’ he thought, ‘I too will decorate my house with statues of shining black and green marble, have vases made of crystal with golden handles and on my floors have rugs that look like pictures and are made of silk.’

When Dilip Baswani came in, Karna at first did not realise it was the famous actor. This old man wore a rather grubby dressing gown, was fat and bald. His rosy cheeks and dark eyebrows were clearly the products of cosmetics. Even Dilip Baswani’s mouth looked as though it had been brightened with lipstick. When he smiled he showed a row of shining white teeth that were clearly artificial.

But when Dilip spoke it was the voice of the Sun God, rich and thick as kheer. ‘I am told you are my son.’

Karna said, ‘Yes.’

Dilip Baswani laughingly scrutinised the young man. ‘Well, dear young fellow, considering you are half my size in one direction and a good deal shorter in another, I fear you are deceiving yourself.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Karna.

‘And who is your mother, dear boy?’

Karna pulled out the golden disc and showed it to the film star. ‘My mother, Koonty, put this round my neck when she was fifteen, before throwing me into the river after my birth.’ Karna could not keep the bitterness from his voice.

Dilip Baswani examined the disc then shrugged and said, ‘I really haven’t a clue who this Koonty is. There were fifteen-year-old girls all over India eager to make love with me and your mother might, or might not be one of them. And I have been to a million Indian villages so could well have been to Hatipur.’

‘She was betrothed to the zamindar,’ pressed Karna. It seemed
important to him that the man remember his liaison with Koonty so that the existence of Karna should have some significance, rather than be merely the consequence of a trivial moment of self-indulgence.

‘I really can’t remember. Though I always tried to avoid seducing girls of good family.’

‘What difference does family make? A girl is a girl,’ said Karna.

The old man laughed. ‘I suppose it was wrong but they all seemed to like it. I kept to the lower castes out of self-preservation. Families of upper-caste girls always made a fuss whereas those of the lower castes were positively honoured by my advances.’

‘I am told she was very pretty.’

‘That is the only sort I like,’ said Dilip Baswani. ‘But although your mother sounds delightful I am sure that if I had made love with a girl of a zamindar family I should have remembered it.’ He summoned Karna to a colossal white sofa.

Karna subsided as though sinking into a bowl of paish and trying again, said, ‘When I was a child people always noticed how much I looked like you.’ He turned his face towards the film star, waited for it to be examined.

Dilip slumped down beside Karna, let out another laugh, and pointing said, ‘Look in the mirror, my boy.’

Karna saw, in the vast and gilt-framed looking glass, himself and the aged star seated side by side, Karna so skimpy and big-headed that he was almost the opposite of Dilip Baswani in every possible way.

But then he remembered. ‘Look at my eyes, aren’t they the same colour as yours?’ he said, almost pleaded. He opened his golden eyes as wide as they could go, and insisted the film star scrutinised them.

The eyes that looked back into his were heavily shot with blood and had dark bags under them. The gold, if it had ever been there, had become obscured.

‘Beautiful eyes, very like mine,’ joked Dilip Baswani. He squeezed Karna’s knee with his fist and said, ‘You might be my child. I am not saying you are not. There are probably a thousand other boys and girls under the age of forty who are my offspring. I conceived them wherever I went when I was young. It was one of my vices, though
I have had to give it up in my old age.’ He paused, appeared to do a mental sum, then said, ‘Isn’t it ghastly? I might have children who are fifty-five years old. I started young you see. How old are you, my little man?’