A Fine Family: A Novel (30 page)

Arjun and Priti were particularly struck by a fair, young woman, who was serving betel to the Nawab’s guests. She couldn’t have been more than thirty and certainly did not look fully Indian, although she could have been Kashmiri with her light eyes and broad cheekbones.

‘Hello, I am Sakina, Nawab Sahib’s wife,’ she said coming up to them. She was graceful and spontaneous. She took them to the balcony, from where they got a full view of the sea. The water was dark below and there was a small sliver of a moon above.

‘You must be the Nawab Sahib’s latest find,’ said Sakina to Priti. ‘He is terribly fond of women, you know.’ She laughed showing off her youth and high spirits, not to mention her brilliant teeth. ‘His only other abiding interest is Indian classical music, especially vocal music.’

‘He certainly must feel like a monarch up here,’ said Arjun looking at the magnificent scene.

Soon they returned to the drawing room, and Priti went and sat beside the Nawab.

‘Where is Dumpy? And the tennis players?’ she asked.

‘They are such bores, my dear. They can’t stand my music and almost never visit me at home,’ said the Nawab.

The Nawab was an excellent story-teller and he entertained Priti and his guests with witty anecdotes and Urdu couplets. His guests applauded him even though they did not always understand some of the Persian phrases. Apart from Priti and Sakina only two other women were present. Both were fat and middle aged, with rolls of midriff bulging out of their georgette saris. They looked stony-faced, except for occasional furtive glances around.

Around midnight Dumpy and a half-dozen merry-makers strolled in. They had been drinking since the evening and were in high spirits. They were mostly school friends of the Nawab, and they all worked as managers of foreign companies.

‘I say Hazur,’ said Dumpy to the Nawab, ‘Isn’t it absolutely feudal that Rekha here has to be approved by Aran’s boss in ICL before they can get married. I mean we live in 1972 after all. I know it was done in the ‘40s by Shell and the others. But no one should allow it today.’

‘Rekha, is that why you are here in Bombay?’ asked the Nawab.

‘Yes,’ giggled Rekha.

‘To be approved?’

‘Yes,’ she giggled again.

‘Well?’ roared Dumpy.

‘Well what?’ whispered the Nawab.

‘Do you approve?’ said Dumpy.

‘Of course I approve of Rekha,’ said the Nawab and he gave Rekha a bewitching smile.

‘No I mean the idea of. . . .’

‘I don’t like your choice of words, Dumpy. “Feudal”. After all, you do belong to the Jaipur clan, albeit distantly, and they are as feudal as they come.’

Eventually dinner was ready. Priti watched as a never-ending stream of elaborately cooked dishes was brought into the dining room, followed by brightly lit candles in coloured glass chimneys and bottles of French wine from the Nawab’s cellar. For some time Priti had been watching Arjun who was at the other end of the room. She was struck by the extraordinary contrast he presented to all the decadence about her in the Nawab’s house. The impression which he conveyed to Priti was a wonderfully clean and fresh one, as though he must be immaculate to the hollows of his toes, and she wondered whether she was worthy of his friendship.

She marvelled at how Arjun had grown. From Simla she remembered him as not particularly good-looking, with a broad nose, thick lips and common brown eyes. Now as she looked at him, she realized that the same broad nose revealed sincerity; the thick lips were powerfully sensuous: and the brown eyes suggested a spiritual strength that she found attractive. So moved was she by this realization that she ran up to Arjun. She took his hand and she said, ‘You appear so clean and strong and above this company, Arjun. How can you stand all this? Let’s go away.’

Arjun was bewildered. He grew concerned that she might be sick. He also thought that it would be rude to leave before dinner; the Nawab would be hurt.

‘How I love the smile on your face! It is irresistible,’ she said. ‘Hang the Nawab. Let’s go.’

She came with him to his flat, uninvited and unopposed. As soon as he closed his door, she came up to him. He glanced apprehensively. She turned her face and moved slightly away. Suddenly he saw a tear fall on her shoulder. His heart melted, and he put out his hand and laid his finger on her forlorn shoulder.

‘I’m confused, Arjun. You’re too good for me.’

‘You mustn’t cry,’ he said. Softly, shyly, he kissed her cheek.

She covered her face with her hands. She tried to dry her eyes with her shoulder. He put one hand on her shoulder, closed his other hand softly on her elbow, and drew her to him. Gently, he caressed her. He seemed to grow confident and she felt his reassuring warmth. He felt her shoulders, her back, her hips hidden by her sari, and her round buttocks. He had little experience with women, but by instinct his hands moved up her body. Shyly and softly he stroked her breasts.

‘Let’s lie down,’ she said.

He moved towards the bed.

‘No,’ she said, ‘let’s lie on the floor.’

They lay down on the cool mat of long, thin reeds. He looked at her face, but could not make out what she was thinking. His hand felt her body again. It stroked her face soothingly and gently, he touched her lips. She kissed him, more ardently. Timidly he reached out and touched her knee through her sari. Then his fingers slid to her thigh. He could feel her skin quiver beneath his fingers. She lay quite still. His hand climbed up to her bare midriff and touched her navel. He felt the front of her body next to his. It felt urgent against him. He reached for her high, arched buttocks. She gripped him in a tight embrace, her knee gently but insistently pressed against him.

As if by a common signal they both sat up and removed their clothes. With a feeling of reverence he touched her soft naked body. She snuggled close to him as he moved his lips and tongue along the hollow of her shoulder and neck. He circled her nipples with his tongue, not touching, until she impatiently thrust them into his mouth. He kissed her breasts softly, taking the nipples in his lips in tiny caresses. She put her arms around him and felt his naked flesh against her. Both felt drowned in sharp pleasure as she guided him inside her. For a moment he was quiet. Then he began to move upon her. She lay still, feeling his motion within her. His movement became more passionate. Soon it was over. He clung to her for a long time as if he were unconscious. At last he drew away.

They lay in a mysterious stillness, disturbed only by the rustle of the coconut trees outside. A sea breeze had begun to blow, and it gently caressed their naked bodies. What was she feeling, he wondered? What was she thinking? She lay there with his arm around her, her body touching his.

Eventually he roused himself and drew away from her. He covered her with the cotton bedcover, and threw a sheet across his own body, and went out on the terrace. The sky was full of stars. The sea was in shadow, almost in darkness. He could hear the dark waves softly rising and heaving. The breeze continued to stir the coconut trees. He looked at the stars and wondered what was beyond the great vastness. He turned again to the sea and thought of the fate which had brought him and now Priti to this anonymous city, so far from the vast plains of his ancestors.

He went to sleep beside her, and was wakened by the stifled roar of the first double-decker bus carrying the earliest morning passengers from Colaba to Mahim. He woke Priti from a troubled doze and explored her mouth and eyes and fine hair with a sensuality mixed with curiosity. ‘I must be going,’ she said. Awkward and a little shy, they breathed quickly between kisses; they knew what they wanted of each other, and they were drunk with the sea air, which was an ally in furthering their marvellous, unexpected intimacies.

They dressed languorously and in silence and made their way down the gloomy staircase. On the street they walked together like a pair of accomplices. They did not dare link their arms, but their hands kept meeting involuntarily. They had not shaken off the spell of the night and could not bear to be separated. They parted speechlessly as Priti got into a taxi on Cuffe Parade. She looked back and gave him a long, lingering look.

Walking along Cuffe Parade, Arjun felt the whole city ringing in his ears. He wandered aimlessly about the streets of Colaba and was amazed by how many new buildings there were, and how much that was familiar had changed. It struck him with fresh, wild force that he belonged to the city. He felt as if heaven lay close above Bombay, and he was between them both.

One Saturday afternoon during the break in the monsoons, Arjun caught an unexpected glimpse of Priti walking idly on the street below his flat. She wore a light gossamer sari, almost white, with white sandals. The pale lengthening rays of the afternoon sun fell on the curves of her body, heightening them in the waning light. A taxi went by, carrying a Parsi priest in a familiar black cap. She gazed darkly at it. As she walked past below his terrace, she smiled as if from some private satisfaction. It was a sad, quick smile, one which he rarely saw. There was also something touching and pliantly feminine in it. Soon she disappeared into the exhausted streets of Colaba and he was left forlorn.

Priti was right in believing that the monsoons would change her fortune. She had finally got a job in the traffic department of Air India. It was a comedown from her earlier dreams of journalism, and not even as good as copy-writing in an advertising agency, but it was a job. At the last moment, she had almost lost to a girl from a ‘backward caste’, who had political influence. But even the Finance Minister of Maharashtra could not help when the backward caste certificate turned out to be fraudulent. Bhabo’s reaction was that Priti’s mother would never have worked for an airline. Bauji said that Amrita would never have worked at all. Soon Arjun helped Priti find a room in Colaba, near the Radio Club, and she moved out of Neena’s house. Being financially independent did not make her less moody. She seemed to be searching constantly for something, but Arjun had no clear idea what she was after.

Half-an-hour after he’d seen Priti on the street his doorbell rang. He opened the door and there she stood on his gloomy landing. She gave him a look of terrifying honesty and weariness. He inhaled the warm afternoon smell of her skin as she stepped in. Taking off her sandals, she washed her feet under the tap in the bathroom, and sat down on the cool, tiled floor. Arjun joined her on the floor.

‘You look unhappy,’ he said.

‘I am neither unhappy nor happy,’ she said.

On the polished, red terracotta tiles she felt the cooling touch of the earth penetrate her body. And in that afternoon light she was possessed by a desire to open her heart to him. Soon their conversation was infused with intimacy. Her head tilted, she talked, and he listened. He took her confessions as a lucky omen of friendship. Her ideas were fresh, but later when he tried to recall her conversation he remembered only the pattern but not the substance. He leaned on an elbow as he listened to her and the afternoon became filled with the marvellous healing power of her words. She seemed prematurely exhausted by experience. It gave him an odd pleasure to discover her weakness: her concern for the opinion of others, especially servants and shopkeepers, her small vanities, her total lack of interest in money, her inability to face the unpleasant, and her willingness to accept any superstition that came along.

Now she lay beside him, breathing lightly, and staring at the wooden rafters and the ceiling fan with her large, brown eyes. His eyes took in her shining, brown skin and dark hair, which glowed against the whiteness of her sari. Suddenly he was conscious of an unusual silence in his little flat; he could hear the bathroom tap dripping. She turned upon one elbow and lowering her neck she gazed into his eyes for a long time. Finally she smiled; it was the same sad, feminine smile he had seen many times before. He was about to say something when she pressed her warm hand to his mouth, and she took off her sari and her blouse. He too shed his clothes. They lay on the floor watching each other, eye to eye, their bodies touching and healing temporarily at least the symptoms of sadness, while the languor of the waning afternoon filled the room. He felt her strong mouth on his own, and his arms closed upon hers.

After they had made love, she lay lightly in the crook of his arm, her hair blown across his mouth by the sea breeze. She yawned. Sitting up on the floor she clasped her ankles with her hands, and started to speak. She talked with a desperate urgency as if she had to get it out before someone silenced her. Arjun listened intently. She appeared to be seeking something outside their love, something bigger. Arjun also observed that their behaviour, their attitudes, even their passion was in some ways a response to the luminous, sea-swept city. The one sure clock in their life was the sea and its tides, at which they continuously gazed from the terrace of his flat, or when walking on Marine Drive or along the harbour towards the Gateway from her room. Constantly they drank in the blues and the browns of the seascape among the Gujaratis, Maharashtrians, Keralites, Sindhis, Parsis, and all the peoples of India who inhabited this cosmopolitan city.

Arjun watched his lover’s face with passionate concentration as it was reflected in the benign light of the faded evening. He suddenly remembered one of their first kisses by the sea. It was a kiss broken by her laughter, but later she had placed her hand in his as if to make amends. They had idled arm in arm on the beach the remainder of the afternoon and later had lain for a long time side by side in their wet bathing suits, oblivious of the hawkers and the passers-by, till the last pale rays touched their brown skins in the delicious evening coolness. It had been an overture to a ravenous and possessive sexuality. How did they allow it to come about? Priti certainly was more experienced and seasoned by the disappointments of love. Now in Arjun’s mind the lean figure of Karan still loomed large. Arjun felt that Karan seemed to be watching them. Priti was aware of this obsession of his, and tried to reassure him.

To take their minds off Karan, they went outdoors. Priti wanted to ride a Victoria, and Arjun hailed one on Cuffe Parade. As soon as they got in, Priti’s face flushed with excitement. She felt gay and exultant.

‘Let me drive, Arjun. I want to go sit up with the driver.’

‘Please, Priti.’

‘Whoa driver!’ she shouted. ‘Wait. I’m coming up beside you.’

Arjun held her by the arm to stop her from falling. The carriage sped onward. Her forehead wrinkled slightly as she tried to see better ahead of her.

‘Ah,’ she said as she sat back and relaxed on his arm. Her head came close to his, and he recalled for an instant the warmth of her body under her sari. The city looked entrancing in the monsoon twilight. A gentle wind from the sea grazed their cheeks. They heard the wail of a siren as they went past Sassoon Dock. From the Gateway the sea looked unusually blue, unlike the grey that they had got used to.

They drove past Walkeshwar and up Malabar Hill to Hanging Gardens, where they got off to walk. After some time, they sat down on a bench. A traffic policeman in familiar blue and yellow walked passed wearily on his way home. Other passing faces had a shiny, blurry quality, as they hurried by.

‘Arjun, tell me about your father?’ said Priti.

‘What?’

‘I mean what is he like?’

‘What
does
one say about a father?’

‘I remember him vaguely from Simla. He is a good man, isn’t he?’

Arjun nodded.

‘Very quiet?’

Arjun nodded.

‘Tell me about his religion. It is true that the guru gave you your name?’

‘Yes.’

‘And that you were the guru’s cow in an earlier birth?’

‘If you want to believe that sort of thing.’

‘I do. I really do. And I want to meet your father and his guru.’

On an impulse they decided to go out of Bombay. They both felt that they needed a change, and they agreed to visit Karla caves in the Western ghats. They met at Victoria Terminus early the next morning. She wore a cotton sari. In spite of her plain clothes, he thought that she stood out in the crowded station. She looked younger and happier, like a schoolgirl. In a plastic bag she carried their picnic lunch.

The Poona train was not crowded. They were in a carefree mood, eager to be satisfied by the smallest pleasures. The very names of the suburban train stops echoed the poetry of their journey: Byculla, Dadar, Sion, Kurla, Ghatkopar, Thana, Kalyan. Soon they were out of the city and the countryside was like a carpet of green. It drizzled lightly and Arjun stuck his face out to feel the rain falling on it. They alighted at Khandala and took a tonga. Arjun felt moved as they walked up the hill to the two-thousand-year-old caves. He read to her from a guide book about how Buddhist monks used to live in these rock-cut monasteries. Priti was not much interested in history, but she seemed delighted by the outing. Arjun continued to read aloud about the master rock-cutters who had made the caves in the first century BC.

As they entered the caves, they suddenly became quiet. They stood gazing reverently at the great stupa in the large vaulted prayer hall. They walked around the stupa several times, but they found themselves slowly pulled towards the colossal free-standing pillars surmounted by lion insignia. Each pillar was fifty feet high and stood on a wide cylinder of rock with a group of stone lions supporting a large wheel. Behind the lion columns was a vestibule separated by a rock-cut screen. They passed through a horseshoe-shaped archway and approached the tiers of carvings in rock. Below the railings were panels filled with figures in relief, and, alongside, a series of life-sized elephants, each carved in relief. They walked out of the central hall through doorways, into square cells, which were used as apartments by the monks. There were numerous cells and the cliff side was honey-combed with them, like the nesting burrows of birds.

They sat quietly in one of the cells, overlooking the plain, and Arjun’s mind was filled with the beauty of the colonnade, the lion insignia, and the wonderful carvings. He thought about the rustle of monks’ feet in procession, thousands of years ago, echoing through the colonnade of the prayer-hall. And he was filled with admiration for these men who, urged by their devotion to the Great Buddha, conjured such a majestic place of worship out of the bare hillside.

Arjun looked at Priti and wondered at her lack of enthusiasm. She seemed to be lost in her own world. She did not look bored, merely detached. Arjun felt excluded and hurt. They had their picnic quietly on the hillside. Down below, on the other side of the hill, they spotted a lake.

‘Let’s go and have a look,’ he said.

‘If you wish,’ she replied.

Her indifferent tone suggested to Arjun that she had lost interest in everything. What had happened, he wondered. Was she looking for something else? He had noticed this before, several weeks ago, and it made him uneasy. Perhaps, he thought, that she had experienced everything at too early an age. What was she really after, he asked himself.

At the landing on the lake, Arjun negotiated with a fisherman. He unfastened the rope and they got into the smelly, dilapidated fishing boat. He pushed an oar against the stone landing and the boat gently glided off. The calm surface of the water reflected the green hills. As the ripples rose through the brilliant surface, Pri-ti’s mood visibly changed. She said that she felt liberated by the thought that this day, this moment would never return and that something was slipping away irrevocably.

‘Shall we go to the other end?’ he asked.

‘What’s at the other end?’ she said.

‘Come on, let’s go look,’ he said and he rowed with vigour.

The late afternoon sun shone through the clouds. It was a peaceful, uneventful time of the day. There was only one other boat on the pond. They reached the other side and climbed up to a grassy clearing. They lay back on the grass to stare at the monsoon sky. The rough grass pricked their backs, making Priti feel uncomfortable. It gave Arjun, however, a pleasant sensation of a prickly pain that spread out in a fragmented way throughout his back. Out of the corners of his eyes he saw a heron sitting on the back of a buffalo at a distance. The bird’s supple, curved beak was silhouetted, stretched against the sky.

‘After the lion columns and the great stupa, the boat ride, and you here, it’s almost perfect. In all my life, I haven’t had many such days,’ said Arjun.

‘Are you speaking about happiness?’

‘I didn’t say anything about happiness.’

‘Well, that’s all right then. I’d be much too scared to talk as you do. I don’t have your courage.’

‘Look, Priti, what more do you want than a day like this? What are you after?’

‘I don’t know,’ she answered wearily. With that, she gently rolled over on the grass. Lying on her stomach, she lifted her head and stared across the water.

‘Arjun,’ she whispered mournfully after a while, ‘last night I dreamt that I was dead. I lay still in the middle of an empty room with large windows. It was just before dawn, and outside the light was deep blue. A young man clung to my bed; his long, black hair fell on his shoulders, and his head drooped. I wanted to see his face, but I could only make out his graceful forehead. Instead of the smell of incense and sandalwood, the scent of ripened mangoes filled the room.’

There was a long silence. Arjun watched her intently. Her cotton sari inadequately disguised the roundness of her hips, which were surprisingly large for her slim figure. All at once he felt unsettled, his mind like the lake of clear water was suddenly clouded by a disturbance below the surface.

Soon they had to return because it began to drizzle. On the way back to the station it rained hard and the tonga got stuck in the mud, but they were well in time for the last train to Bombay. Priti took out a handkerchief and dried Arjun’s forehead and hair. A feeling of happiness coursed through him. It was as if the rain had washed away the tension between them.

As they dried themselves in the tiny waiting room at Khandala station, Arjun remembered their first encounter in Bombay at the Gymkhana. Despite knowing her intimately for many months, he was still shy, and looked away as she dried herself with a towel. She, however, felt at ease with him. The air inside got thicker and hotter, and Arjun opened a window. On the roof they could hear the rain beating down. The waiting room had a strangely uncozy atmosphere, but they were determined to make the best of it. Ar—jun ordered a pot of tea and some biscuits. From an overflowing gutter the water poured down in a steady stream onto the platform. It sounded like a waterfall in some faraway Himalayan village.