A Fine Family: A Novel (29 page)

As they turned onto Marine Drive, they were welcomed by a gust of salty air from the bay. The sea was dark and several fishing boats could be seen, lit with hurricane lanterns and rocking gently in the water. Against the western night sky were spread the brightly lighted flats of the rich on Malabar Hill. As they walked along Marine Drive, the sea seemed to grow more sombre and the little date palms on either side cast scrawny shadows. The black and yellow taxis rushed noisily.

Having talked all evening, Priti and Arjun were content to walk quietly and look at the city. They decided eventually to sit on the smooth cement sea wall. They stared beyond the sea at the dimly lit stars which hung in the cloudless night. The water was smooth and dark. It hardly made a sound against the sea wall. A white-haired man holding the hand of a young girl passed by. Two slim boys, arm in arm, followed them, speaking loudly in Marathi.

Priti leaned against his shoulder but continued to look away. Her hair blew across his eyes. Through her hair he looked again at the bright string of boats swaying rhythmically on the water. She sat still leaning gently against him, her face now pressed against his cheek. He gathered her into his arms.

‘Bauji, Priti is here in Bombay.’

‘Priti?’ asked Bauji absently. His mind went back to the rail car journey from Kalka to Simla ten years ago. He could picture the cool, piercing beauty who had exerted a strange, unreal power in the mirror-window.

‘Sanat Mehta’s grand-daughter, Bauji,’ said Bhabo.

‘I met her a few weeks ago.’

‘What is she doing here?’ asked Bhabo.

‘Looking for a job, I think.’

‘Who would have thought it would come to this—their mills closed, their property sold. And this poor girl’s mother now lives in a single room in old Delhi. They say this girl and Karan broke up after a few years and. . .’

‘Stop woman!’ interrupted Bauji. He looked apologetically at Arjun.

‘It’s all right, Bauji. After all, it was ten years ago,’ said Arjun.

‘I knew their accountant was a rascal,’ said Bauji.

‘I’ll bring her to Juhu to meet you,’ Arjun said.

Bauji raised his eyebrows.

‘Yes, I’ve met her several times.’

‘You be careful boy!’ said Bhabo. Bauji too felt apprehensive at the idea of Priti’s reappearance in his grandson’s life.

Next Sunday, Arjun asked Priti out to Juhu. After a nervous meeting with his grandparents, they went out on the beach. Fortunately it was cloudy, and in every way a perfect day to be outdoors. Barefoot they paced along the beach close to the water. Priti had hitched up her sari in the manner of Koli fisherwomen. The sand was smooth and hard and it made walking easy. It was early and there were few people out except for coconut sellers, who had nowhere else to go. The beach was strewn with ordinary white shells and round thin ones which looked like wafers. The waves beat rhythmically beside them and the salt wind blew into their faces. They walked in the breezy calm, and each faint sound near or far seemed filled with meaning. Priti soon felt pleasantly giddy from the salty air.

The beach ended at a creek. They crossed it with care and spotted a large, shady banyan tree behind a white stone wall. They went and sat in the shade, resting their backs against the wall. The clouds had cleared, the sun beat strongly against the sand and the water, and the shade was welcome. They looked at the sea without speaking. A pair of shrieking seagulls flew past. In the distance they saw the white sails of a fishing boat. The waves formed a white wall of foam on the blue water. The sound of the waves mingled with the murmuring of the banyan leaves and the smell of the salt air had a powerful effect on them. After continuously thrumming in their ears, the breeze suddenly died, and they looked at each other pensively.

‘Will you be going away soon?’ asked Arjun.

‘No, why?’ she said absently.

‘Nothing. I didn’t know how long you were staying,’ he said.

He scooped up a fistful of sand from between his feet and watched it trickling out of his fingers. She appeared lost in her own thoughts.

‘Look, I have come here for a job. Nobody seems to believe me. Or they don’t think I’ll find one,’ she said cheerlessly. She looked deeply unhappy. She described a series of unsuccessful attempts so far. She had spoken to his heart, and he gently took her hand.

‘How can I give up? I must find a job.’ She sounded determined but her tone was forlorn and unsure.

Arjun hailed a coconut boy. They bought two green coconuts, which the boy cut open with a sharp sickle, and they drank the juice directly from the shells. Next he scooped out the ‘cream’ from inside the shells. Priti had never tasted green coconut before. She discovered that she liked it.

Moving closer to Arjun and speaking in a low voice, Priti began to talk about the past. As he listened, Arjun watched three boys a long way off at the sea’s edge, picking up shells. He gently leaned against her, and began to idly comb the sand. Her eyes were lowered, and her long lashes quivered as she continued to talk.

‘You were such a mocking, spoilt thing, don’t you remember?’ he said.

‘Was I?’ she said with surprise.

‘Making fun of everyone. Thinking everything frightfully silly. Enjoying seeing people at your feet. . . .’ He suddenly stopped. Her lips trembled as she turned towards him. He saw her distressed look. She said softly, ‘Arjun, you were wrong to think of me so. I was equally vulnerable. I was at someone else’s feet.’ This was the closest reference she had made about Karan. She smiled sadly and ran her fingers through his hair.

‘You know, I’m beginning to like your city,’ she said.

They returned to the house for lunch. Afterwards they sat lazily with Bauji. Pointing to a seagull flying past, Bauji remarked, ‘He is much older than us, and in nature’s eyes he is a much bigger success.’

Arjun looked up enquiringly.

‘Long before man came and began to feel superior to other animals, the seagull was set in his ways, and he has never varied them. Unlike us, Arjun, he allows nature to be his guide, and he doesn’t do anything against the interest of his species. So he endures, and that is a big thing. In our pride we have forgotten that there is a virtue in mere survival. If we let nature have her way, she will reward us with peace and security.’

‘But Bauji,’ said Arjun, ‘It is precisely the questions we ask about our existence, and the demands we make which make life worth living.’

‘I am weary, my boy, of human instability and discontent and violence. Couldn’t we at least learn some social virtue from these creatures? Learn to live selflessly and together for the sake of our fellow man.’

‘Bauji, would you really exchange your life for that of this seagull?’ asked Priti.

‘Alas, that is not a choice open to me. No, Priti. Much as I admire the seagull’s social virtues, I also realize that what makes me cling to life is the same quality that makes me want to protest, and which makes the regularity and peace of the seagull’s life impossible for me. Yet, the seagull over there is wonderful because he doesn’t ask what he gets out of life, or why he should make a sacrifice. He prepares his nest and his young are born. He nourishes them, defends them, and teaches them, and when the time comes he dies quietly. The important thing is not self-fulfillment but that life should go on.’

Bauji turned to look at the sea. The sun was still high. Even though they sat in the shade, it felt hot. They watched the seagull without speaking. The waves beat quietly in the low tide. The humid air was calm. They could almost hear their thoughts in the restful silence. In the quiet Arjun looked at Priti’s face, and wondered if his chief function was merely to see that life should carry on after he had lived his busy and futile life. He did not feel comfortable at having to accept this fate. It amused him to think that man is also the only animal whose existence is a problem which he has to solve.

The black and yellow taxi went up Malabar Hill, rounded Teen Batti, and climbed onto Ridge Road. They passed the gulmohar trees and a bus standing near the WIAA Club, and turned towards Little Gibbs Road. Arjun and Priti were sitting apart, but they were thrown close together as the taxi turned sharply. The street was dug up and some workmen were pushing a drainage pipe into the ditch. Priti’s pale face glimmered under the street light. In the semi-darkness Arjun noticed the long line of her neck, but her features appeared less sharp. He couldn’t make out the expression on her face.

‘I don’t want to go to the party, Arjun. Let’s go somewhere else,’ Priti said, abruptly.

He asked the taxi to turn towards Hanging Gardens. Her bun had come undone and her black hair was flying in the breeze. They stopped at Cafe Naaz. They sat like strangers in the cafe and looked down from the top of the hill as the Queen’s Necklace lit the curves of Marine Drive below and beyond towards Nariman Point. From above they saw lights being switched on in different parts of the city and the clear night sky was slowly filled with faint stars. A thrilling flush of wind from the Arabian sea grazed their bodies.

‘Shall I ask you something?’ she asked.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Kiss me.’

‘Here?’

She nodded her head.

‘Before everyone—waiters and all?’

She nodded.

‘It isn’t done, not even in Bombay.’

‘Do it. Please.’

He quickly leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, and looked around and reddened. She laughed.

‘Why do you laugh?’

‘That wasn’t a kiss,’ she said.

Both of them were quiet for some time, absorbed in their own thoughts, as they watched the lights and the water, and smelled the aroma of the gardens below.

‘It is lovely here. Such beautiful stillness, the sea alive yet so quiet,’ she said. ‘But it’s chilly here and I want a proper drink. Let’s go somewhere else.’

They decided on the Bombay Gym bar. She sat erectly in the cab, and he put his arm against the back rest on her side, just behind her. As they started she leaned back and her body touched his arm. Coming down towards Kemps Corner, it was dark again and she kissed him. Their lips met momentarily. But she quickly turned away and pressed her face against the window.

‘No, no,’ she said.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘I can’t bear it.’

‘Oh, Priti!’

‘I cannot.’

‘Don’t you like me?’

‘I don’t know.’

They were quiet for a while. The taxi cruised on Marine Drive, and turned on the flyover into Princess Street.

‘I feel happy when I’m with you,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Happy. It’s a nice feeling.’

‘Nice? No, it is not.’

‘Don’t you like it?’

‘No. I hate myself.’

‘Still, it’s good to be with you.’

‘Is it?’

The taxi stopped at the red light near Metro Cinema, and she noticed for the first time pictures of holy men hanging on the dashboard of the cab. There was Christ, Guru Nanak of the Sikhs, Lord Krishna, Zarathustra of the Parsis, and even a plaque with an inscription from the Koran.

‘You protect yourself well,’ Priti said to the taxi driver, with an unnatural laugh. ‘What are you?’

The cab driver remained silent.

‘You have covered all the possibilities, eh, driver?’ she insisted.

He looked back at her but he did not say a word. Soon they arrived at the Gym. When Arjun was paying the fare, the cab driver said matter-of-factly to Priti, There is only one God, and He is the same in all religions. Now you tell me what I am?’

‘Bravo!’ she clapped her hands. ‘A secular Indian at last.’

They found many friends at the Gym bar. It was noisy and boisterous. Some rugby types were singing by the piano.

‘I want a drink,’ Priti said.

‘Oh Priti, there you are!’ came a voice from the crowd. It was Dumpy. He pushed up to her.

‘Ah Dumpy,’ she said.

‘Priti, I want you to meet someone famous, the Nawab of Ronepur. Come.’ An elegantly dressed man in his thirties materialized from nowhere.

‘Hazur, let me introduce a dear friend, Priti Mehta.’

‘You’re the tennis star, aren’t you?’ Priti said.

‘Was,’ said the Nawab. ‘How long have you been here?’

‘A few minutes.’

‘I mean Bombay,’

‘A few days.’

‘And how do you like our city?’ asked the Nawab.

‘Don’t say “our city” in that patronizing way, as if it was Rampur or Rajpur or wherever you are the Nawab of,’ she said.

‘Well, I have lived in Bombay most of my life and I feel I belong to it,’ said the Nawab.

‘Well I have lived here a few days and I feel I belong to it too,’ she said.

‘That’s what’s wonderful,’ roared Dumpy. ‘It is everyone’s city.’

The Nawab nodded to Arjun, but clearly he was more interested in Priti. Arjun and the Nawab were passing acquaintances and in fact Arjun had once been to his flat to attend one of his famous parties. The Nawab was a slender man with a deep waist like a woman’s and long, arched, beautiful hands. His handkerchief, with which he was always wiping his forehead, smelled of expensive eau de cologne. His main interest in life was women, and he spoke about them from rich experience. The succession of female visitors to his flat was known to be endless, and rarely did one see him with the same face twice. He had a sleepy look, which Arjun supposed women found attractive.

Arjun stood for nearly half-an-hour by the bar observing the Nawab, Dumpy and Priti slowly getting drunk. At one point Arjun caught a glimpse of Priti, her head bowed as she stared into her glass. The Nawab tried to get her attention, and spilled his whisky on her sari; while attempting to repair the damage, he accidentally touched her breasts. No word was spoken. But Arjun, feeling left out, decided to go home.

‘Goodnight, Priti,’

‘Must you go?’

‘Shall I see you?’

‘When?’

‘Call me.’

Arjun left the bar. As he was walking out of the veranda, someone waved from afar. He could not make out who, but he raised his hand perfunctorily. He wanted to get home. He came out by the Mahatma Gandhi Road entrance and walked towards the Fountain. Normally the busiest part of the city, it was now deserted. Pundole art-gallery-cum-watch-shop had its shutters down. The boys inside Pyrkes Cafe were stacking chairs on the marble tables. The row of shops opposite the University were also closed. At Kala Ghoda he got a taxi and went to his flat in Colaba.

Tucked underneath his door were some letters. One was a bill from his tailor, near the Fountain. He looked at it, without reading it, and after a while put it away. He had already paid for the two khaki trousers, one of which had been stitched badly. The other letter was from his company salesman in Orissa, whose son was getting married. He hardly knew the man; why did a man want to tell the whole world that his son was getting married?

He picked up the morning paper, turned to the sports page and read about a local tennis tournament. It reminded him of the Nawab, and he felt angry. He put away the paper.

He undressed slowly. He opened the dresser and indifferently pulled out the first pair of pajamas he could find and changed. His bed was between two windows. He opened both of them. He switched on the ceiling fan and tried to sleep.

But he could not sleep. A bus went by. His mind would not rest. He was back in Simla. Again it was the scene of the rainy day, with Priti standing in the doorway, with the pink raincoat and black rubber shoes, gazing into the distance.

His mind jumped from one thing to another. But his thoughts kept returning to Priti. He could not think clearly. It was all quite confused. He felt miserable. Another bus went by—this one was a double-decker, he could tell from the sound. Until Priti came back into his life he had not realized that he was lonely.

Two days later Priti dropped in at Arjun’s office. She walked right in, unannounced.

‘Nice office you have, but it’s a bit cramped isn’t it?’ she said. ‘You aren’t
really
busy, are you?’

‘What do you think?’

‘You are.’

‘What have you been doing?’ he asked.

‘I had to see you.’

‘Why?’

‘Oh just like that.’

‘What’s happening?’

‘I was with the Nawab and his tennis pals again last night. But I got tired.’

‘The Nawab is certainly one of the most distinguished men of our city.’

‘He wanted to sleep with me.’

There was a pause.

‘And?’

‘I said “no”.’

‘Why?’

‘He smelled terribly.’

Arjun stared at her. She laughed.

‘I told him that I was in love with you. Poor fellow. It hurt him. But he was nice about it. Don’t stare at me like that. He has invited both of us for dinner at his house tonight.’

‘Do you want to go?’

‘Yes. Will you come?’

‘If you want me to.’

‘I’d better be going now.’

‘Why?’

‘I just wanted to see you.’

‘Have lunch with me?’

‘I can’t. I promised Neena.’

‘Wait. I’ll see you down.’

They walked down the airless stairway. He hailed a cab outside Handloom House. She kissed him on the cheek and left. He suddenly felt embarrassed. He turned around to see if anyone was looking. Did she do it to shock him, he wondered. Whatever the reason, he liked it. All afternoon, the feel of her kiss lingered. He was swept by the feeling that maybe she did really care. About four o’clock he felt so happy that he decided to go for a walk to the Oval Maidan. The sky seemed bluer than usual, the weather unusually fine and everything shone brightly. It took his mind off his work as well. He had been feeling low because he had failed to persuade Billimoria and the others that morning to introduce a companion version of Bombay Balm, positioned for colds and coughs. He had told them that it would contain menthol and eucalyptus, which were useful in relieving nasal congestion. Basically it would be a milder version of the pain balm. He said that it would be particularly good for rubbing on children with colds, especially at night time to allow them to sleep.

‘I can even picture the advertising commercial,’ Arjun had said excitedly. ‘Little Raju comes home sniffing and wet with a cold which he has caught while playing in the rain with his friends. At bedtime his mother lovingly rubs Bombay Colds Balm on his nose, throat, chest and back. While Raju sleeps, the vapours of the balm work all night to open his clogged nose and relieve his cough. He wakes up the next morning, his cold gone, and he runs off to school.’

‘I don’t know if people want another rub,’ said Billimoria to the Sales Director. ‘What do you think, Choudhary?’

‘I’m not sure if dealers will stock a second Bombay Balm. We already have a problem in this recession of getting enough shelf space for one.’

‘Look here, it’s a simple idea,’ Arjun had argued. ‘In the beginning we used to sell Bombay Balm for all kinds of ailments from headaches to colds to insect bites. We reformulated it, positioned it strictly for headaches and bodyaches, and called it Bombay Pain Balm. And we were successful. We have since learned by talking to consumers that the pain balm is used mainly by older people, because it is too strong for kids. Mothers have also told us that they would welcome a safe rub for their childrens’ colds in place of the pills which they take. Thus, all I am suggesting is that we further segment the market: Bombay Pain Balm for adults’ headaches and bodyaches, and Bombay Colds Balm for childrens’ coughs and colds.’

Billimoria had turned to the Finance Director who raised his eyebrows at the high advertising budget which Arjun had proposed, and made some noises about the company’s poor cash flow and the long payout of the project.

Finally Billimoria had turned to Arjun and had said, ‘Look here, I don’t want to er. . . kill the project. Why don’t you go back and check the numbers to see if you can introduce it with lower advertising and give us a quicker payback; and check with the trade if they would be willing to handle another version of our balm.’

‘Why don’t we at least test it?’ Arjun had pleaded. ‘We could try it out in a small town with real people and real dealers instead of making judgements in an airconditioned conference room.’

Billimoria had quietly stood up, and had walked out.

Arjun and Priti thought they were late, but in fact they arrived early at the Nawab’s house. Dinner was rarely served before midnight, and often as late as two. The Nawab lived at the top of a smart building off Carmichael Road on Cumballa Hill. They were led to the main drawing room which was immensely tall with a round glass dome. The extravagant apartment was an odd mixture of styles, with many galleries and high rooms closed in by arches and verandas. It had been built at great cost, but for many months of the year it remained empty, except for the ancestral servants, because the Nawab was away either in Europe or in Bangalore.

The Nawab’s enormous fortune was legendary in the city. Even though Mrs Gandhi had recently abolished the princes’ privy purses, people said that his family could live in luxury for another five generations. He did not care for money, except to spend it. Being so wealthy, he actually disliked it, and never carried it on his person. His credit was good everywhere in the city and his debts were scrupulously honoured by the family clerk. Yet despite his condescending attitude to money, he had an uncanny ability to make it. Although he appeared indifferent to commercial matters, not a single detail of his family’s investments or businesses escaped him. He spent no more than an hour a day on business, and usually confined himself to a single major issue. But when the transaction was completed, it sent waves through the entire financial district. He never dealt directly with the broker in the commodity or the stock markets, or with a buyer or seller, or even a banker. He operated through front men, who themselves did not know on whose behalf they were acting; only the ubiquitous clerk knew. For this reason no one could tell what the Nawab owned or when he had entered the market.

The Nawab sat cross-legged on a richly embroidered matress in one corner. Dressed in a silk kurta, he was smoking and listening to a vocal raga from an expensive sound system. Countless Bukhara rugs lay sprinkled across the floor. Several guests sat beside him leaning against silk bolsters. The guests appeared to Arjun to be provincial, unctuous and dreary people. Although the setting was pretentious, the Nawab himself was a man of considerable education, who genuinely loved music and theatre and even Western opera. He had many cultivated friends in all parts of the world.