KURLA TRAIN TERMINUS, MUMBAI.
Five minutes of exiting the air-conditioned car is all it takes for the humidity to begin bothering him. Beads of sweat begin to line up on his forehead, sprouting and spreading like a rash of blisters. They glisten with the many colours of the surrounding neon lights, shimmering from his hairline to his brow like dew on frosted glass.
Soon they’ll coalesce and trickle down as turgid drops, leaving wet tram-tracks on his face. He’ll search for a handkerchief in his pocket, and, in its absence, avail of the limited expanse of his short-sleeved shirt to wipe out their unwelcome existence. He’ll throw hopeful glances around him for any sign of even the lightest breeze before cursing its truancy, his situation and this predicament—in that order.
But the night sky is clear. The wind is dead and the air around him is in rigor mortis. He wipes his forehead and looks up at the sky, still harbouring hopes for the breeze to make a valiant appearance. For a moment he imagines the wind to be like some mythological hero, trapped and waiting for his wings, looking for that chance to outsmart this celestial conspiracy and rescue human beings from their muggy misery. He smirks to himself when hit with an absurd empathy for his hapless hero, because that is exactly how he feels: trapped and hapless. Trapped between his parental responsibilities and filial duties, and the promises and obligations they engender … and hapless in the face of such confusion. And it is this confusion that has been eating his mind for the last eight years … ever since little Nina was born and he fell in love with her in ways that only a father can.
His face breaks into a nostalgic smile reminiscing that moment soon after her birth when he had held her in his arms for the first time. Her tiny, pink fingers had curled tightly around his thumb. He remembers her cherubic little face, six months old, breaking into a toothless smile whenever he would nuzzle against her tummy. He remembers her first hesitant, tottering steps—in the middle of a busy airport and the celebration that event had generated that evening. He remembers her first words like she had spoken them yesterday even though now, her linguistic repertoire, like that of any eight year old, causes her to chatter incessantly. He enjoys her non-stop banter, he loves to hear her laugh, and his heart breaks if she cries for any reason. And he can never resist the joy of a quick hug any chance he gets.
It is a joy he hadn’t known, or imagined, or could have imagined at a time when his mind was occupied with a new life, a new wife and a new job in a new country. Sixteen years … sixteen years have gone into building a life, a family and a career, a very successful one at that, with all the trappings of happiness that should normally lead to the ‘happily ever after’ conclusion of simplistic fairy tales. But happily-ever-after it is not, for reasons that are neither profound nor perplexing, and he has lived in denial, scarcely mulling over his options even in the privacy of his thoughts, hoping that somehow time will lend a solution that would make his dilemma disappear automatically. But like the guilt that grows bigger with neglect, his mind is now bursting with the very thoughts he had hoped to avoid.
And oh … this intolerable heat!
He curses the humidity once again and retreats into the confines of his car. He instructs the driver to turn the ignition on and let the air-conditioner blow full blast. The driver does his bidding and he sighs with relief as soon as the ice-cold air hits his skin.
From his position in the back seat he can see himself in the rear view mirror. He notes with satisfaction that other than the fledgling paunch, at thirty-nine, he has managed to keep middle age at bay fairly well. His hair is thick and black, and that very morning he had carefully clipped the few strands of white that had crept into his French-beard. He checks out his profile and smiles to himself, mentally agreeing with his wife’s observation that with his owlish glasses and aquiline nose he looks more like a professor rather than the investment banker that he is.
Outside, it is early evening and the hundreds of neon lights around the railway station light up the rapidly darkening sky. Buses and taxis stop by every few minutes, disgorging passengers at the station entrance before driving away, leaving behind a cloud of black smoke as a fleeting—albeit noxious—reminder of their visit. Groups of coolies sit huddled in knots, jumping to attention whenever they spot families alight with heavy suitcases. Longs queues of passengers snake around the ticket counters, curving around the shoe polishers sitting on the ground conducting business amidst the forest of legs. A young man preens himself on the side-view mirror of a parked motorbike, occasionally stealing glances at a flock of college girls passing by. Others mill about, whiling their time on the sights around them. A television continually running advertisements; garish multicoloured cinema posters; political slogans painted on the walls; notices to be on the lookout for criminals—anything that catches their fancy. Tea/coffee shops, bookstalls, magazine stands, food carts and some general stores flank the two sides of the entrance in a wide semicircular arc, vying for attention with their flashy, attractive displays. Closer to him and adjoining the parking area, the perimeter of the station is crawling with vendors, selling everything from electronic goods to fresh fruit. They stand next to their wooden handcarts, their wares arranged into neat little pyramids, and extol their products in quirky voices and funny accents.
He looks out at the sea of humanity milling outside those tinted windows, tolerating, with unmistakable ease, what he cannot bear for five full minutes. It boggles his mind that human beings—or any other living creature for that matter—can not only bear such an infernal existence, but also go about their daily routine like they are immune to the conditions.
Immunity. Immunity, he reasons, can be the only explanation for his loss of acclimatization. For he had grown up in the same town, played in the same weather and waited at the same railway station without needing to resort to the benefits of a personalized, climate-controlled cocoon. He must have been ‘immune’ then, and now, lost this adaptive trait in the sixteen years he had spent in England, first as a student and then as investment banker in London. Sixteen years … a number that rolls off one’s tongue as though it is a small morsel of time. It is only four years less than the time he had spent here in Mumbai, his birthplace, the city that had nurtured his childhood and adolescent years.
But there is an imbalance that isn’t apparent by merely examining the numbers. An imbalance of influences in the most formative years of a man’s life that impacts how and where he will spend the rest of his days. After all, how can the first ten years of childhood influence one’s decision to return to India or settle down permanently in London? Surely the most decisive years in a man’s life are those that form his opinions, his interests, his livelihood and his career? And this experiment to test the feasibility of relocating permanently to India is just that … an experiment, doomed to failure.
He looks out through the tinted car windows at the giant electronic board inside the railway station that displays the arrival and departure times of trains. The distance is substantial and he squints in an attempt to read the latest update on the arrival time of Assam Express—the train he is waiting for. The board is missing a few bulbs and the last two alphabets in ‘Assam’ aren’t lit. He cocks his head sideways and can now make out that the scheduled arrival time of ‘Ass_ Express’ has been pushed back by another hour.
He grits his teeth and snorts in disgust. What a country! Can’t they run a single train with a schedule in mind? Why was it so intrinsically difficult for his countrymen to look at a watch and understand this simple measurement in seconds and minutes? From the electrician who promises to be there in five minutes and arrives two days later, to the government clerk who disappears for a tea break every ten minutes, people just don’t have any appreciation for the fact that someone else’s time has value, has meaning. And people expect him to bring up Nina in a place like this? What will she learn … that everything is acceptable? That there are no rules, and if there are rules, they are meant to be broken? That concepts like time, discipline, norms, law and order don’t matter? How does one build up character here?
His phone rings, interrupting his thoughts. He looks at the number displayed on the LCD screen and his face registers recognition. It is his wife. He touches the ‘talk’ button lightly and puts the phone next to his ears.
‘Hi,’ he says.
‘Hi Atul,’ she says. ‘Did you reach the station okay?’
‘Yeah, I’m here. But Ma’s train isn’t running on time.’
‘Do you know how long it’ll be?’
‘It has been delayed by an hour. Can you believe it? I had asked them on the phone before leaving and these fools had said it was on time. I should never have believed these bastards!’
‘Do you want to return home and leave later?’
‘No, no … the roads are so bad that we’ll get stuck in the traffic and I don’t want Ma waiting alone in the station for me. She will be scared … as will I.’
‘But what’ll you do there for an hour?’
‘What can I do but wait inside the car. It is so hot and humid outside that I might die of a heatstroke. Saala, everything about this country is fucked … the roads, the traffic, the weather, the trains … all fucked. This country is fucked.’
‘Watch your language, Atul. You know someone picks up words from you like a magnet picks up pins.’
He smiles. ‘Hey … good simile. But tell me if what I’m saying is wrong. Nothing works as it should. No one works like they should. The roads are horrible and traffic is just another name for chaos. Nothing happens on time. No one’s word has any value! And they expect us to bring up Nina here? Can you imagine what that upbringing is going to be like? I’m totally fed up! I’ll tell Ma frankly this time that we’ll return to London for good.’
There is a small pause. Then she says, ‘You know I’ve left that decision up to you Atul.’
He sighs. ‘Yeah … you’ve taken the easy way out, Mala. I’m the one struggling with it. It would help a little bit if you could also give me an opinion. I’m the one who’ll have to tell Ma that I don’t want Nina to grow up in this dirty, polluted, miserably hot, lawless place. I’m the one who—’
‘I don’t mind telling her, Atul. I’m sure she’ll understand that we need to live our lives with what makes us happy.’
‘It isn’t that simple Mala!’
‘No Atul, it really is that simple … You’re the one struggling with the decision because you feel guilty about leaving her alone here.’
‘It isn’t guilt … just that for her, as a widow, to manage all by herself …’
‘Atul, she has been managing alone for the last five years without problems. She is in good health. She has friends and a tight social circle and she has told me a number of times that she’ll be happy if you are happy. The question really is what makes you happy.’
‘I’d be happy to get out of this place!’
‘Well, that settles it then, doesn’t it? By the way, don’t forget to get some mangoes when you come home. Nina is waiting for you to show her how to eat them.’
He chuckles. ‘How to eat them? Just cut them …’
‘No, no. She said that you told her about how you used to eat mangoes when you were a kid … something about climbing trees and …’
He laughs. ‘She remembers, huh? I tell you our eight year old is a genius.’
‘She may or may not be a genius but you certainly are a doting dad.’
‘Can I help it?’
‘I guess not … but don’t forget the mangoes.’
‘I won’t.’
He flicks the cell phone shut. He smiles to himself, suddenly reminded of his summer vacations spent as a child in their ancestral home in Bhagalpur, home of the famous Langra mangoes. Every day, in the dry, blazing heat, he would slip out of the house with his cousins and go to the neighboring mango orchard. There they would climb the low set trees, escaping the heat in the sweet and sumptuous shade of the dark green leaves. The branches, laden with mangoes, would sag with the weight of their wares, bowing as though extending a polite invitation to sample their goods. They would reach for the mangoes that looked the right size, pitting them lightly with their thumbs to check if the fruit had softened. A particular consistency, a unique feel when the fruit is neither too soft nor too hard, would tell them that the mango had just ripened. The confirmatory test was a sniff near the tip of the fruit. The beautiful aroma of a freshly ripened Langra would immediately set their mouths drooling. Right there, sitting amidst the branches, they would pluck the fruit and peel the skin with their teeth, exposing the soft orange flesh underneath, still flush with the warmth of the midday sun. They’d study it for a second—like a victor stares at his prize—before biting into the meatiest part, feeling their mouths fill with a soft, warm, pulpy sweetness. Streams of juice would run along the corners of their mouths and drip onto the ground from their chins. Their fingers—sticky and coated with bits of pulp—would sink into the fruit as they chomped deeper into the flesh. Finally, when all that was left was the seed, they would lick it clean, stripping the last bits of fruit with their tongues till the few fibrous strands remaining on the seed’s hard, bald surface would stand up along the edge like thickly gelled hair. Then, tossing the seed aside, they would lick the juice and bits of pulp remaining on their fingers, all the while looking for the next one that would provide them with an encore. By the time they’d had a stomach full of the fruit, their faces would be sticky and covered with bits of mango. It would draw the attention of some intrepid flies that would begin buzzing about their heads. They’d brush off the flies and head for home, their steps slow and unhurried after such a satiating experience. For the next few days their hands would smell of mangoes and a yellow tinge would settle into their palms, reminding them of the experience long after the mango season was over.
Now, for reasons of propriety, he eats mangoes the way the rest of civilization does. Boat like slivers of fruit with or without its skin, scooped out with a spoon or sometimes, cut into bite-sized cubes and pierced with toothpicks, neatly arranged on a platter.
He sighs and shakes himself out of this reverie. He studies his hand for a moment, curls his fingers and smells his palm; then begins chuckling to himself.
To him, cutting a mango into neat little slices and doing away with the seed altogether turned the fruit’s taste into a blander version of the real experience—a difference perhaps difficult to define, but, to a connoisseur like him, as disparate as chalk and cheese. He smiles to himself, tempering down the hyperbole to maybe the difference between watching a singer perform live as opposed to hearing him on the radio. Or watching an exciting game in the stadium with a thousand other fans versus catching it alone at home on television.
Such is the right way to eat a mango.
He lets out a nostalgic sigh. He looks out at the vendors again and decides to use the time to buy some mangoes. He scans them from inside the car and settles on one whose mangoes look to be of good quality.
He walks up to the vendor and begins examining the mangoes closely. He notices that the vendor is distracted, staring at something some distance away, and follows his line of sight.
His eyes fall on a group of four policemen who seem to be walking up to each vendor by turn. As they approach a stall, three of the policemen flank the cart like a defensive lineup and fiddle with the fruits, occasionally throwing wary glances over their shoulders. The fourth one stands closer to the stall owner and begins talking and gesticulating hurriedly. His manner is angry, demanding, while the vendor looks like he is pleading for something. After a brief back and forth something changes hands.
He watches the policemen’s antics with curiosity, and although he has a good idea of what is going on, he addresses the same question to the fruit-seller.
‘These harami policewalas, sahib, take their hafta,’ says the fruit-seller. ‘I have to pay too … one hundred and fifty rupees every week.’
He shakes his head and sighs … this country is truly going to the dogs. Policemen demanding protection money … if this isn’t a world gone topsy-turvy, what is?
He selects a dozen aromatic mangoes and reaches for his wallet. As he is pulling out the money, his attention drifts to the policemen again, now approaching a vendor about fifty feet away from them who is unlike any of the others present.
She is a little girl, whose age, he guesses, can’t be more than ten years. Her face is round, childlike, with anxious eyes being the only hint of emotion on the otherwise flat affect. Her hair, tied back in a single plait, is thin and rust-coloured, with a layer of dust covering it like a faint brown cap. Her light-blue frock is torn at two places and the right half-sleeve is completely missing. Her arms are thin, twig-like, with exaggerated bony prominences sticking out like small subcutaneous tumors. Her feet are bare and she squats next to her own little stall—a wooden plank the size of a chessboard. On it, in three rows of four, are a dozen lightly wrinkled mangoes.
The fruit vendor notices too and says, ‘Her father died a week ago and so she has to sell the mangoes. She hasn’t ever faced these heartless bastards.’
Both of them keep their eyes trained on the policemen approaching the girl.
One of the policemen tucks his bamboo stick underneath his arm and begins to address her. She keeps a straight face and doesn’t say anything. The policeman repeats himself a couple of times and when she doesn’t reply, he kicks the small wooden board, toppling all her mangoes into the ground before walking away as casually as a man taking a stroll in the park.
For a moment Atul is too shocked to react. He stares at the girl and at the figure of the departing policeman with his mouth open, intermittently shaking his head with disbelief. The fruit seller says, ‘motherfucking heartless bastards these policemen are, sahib. But because they are the police, they have all the power. None of us dare say anything. If I say anything they will close down my shop and my family will starve. They are worse than the local thugs and can create trouble for anyone.’
He doesn’t respond. He can feel his jaws clench repeatedly and his breathing become turbulent. Something inside him is burning with anger and it makes him want to confront the policeman. He wants to punch the policeman’s face and whack him with his stick. He wants to make him pick up her mangoes and kiss her feet and beg for her forgiveness. He wants to have him arrested.
The fruit-vendor reads his sentiments like a mind reader and says, ‘don’t say anything, sahib. I know how you are feeling. But this is a regular drama here. You say something today, but believe me, nothing will change except that you will get into trouble. There is a whole chain of policemen involved in this hafta … all the way to the top … and it is next to impossible to break the chain. To protect themselves these fellows are very good at creating trouble for anyone who protests or complains.’
The fruit-vendor’s words suddenly precipitate a strain of concern in his heart. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, the fear that getting involved might spell trouble for him begins to take shape. Could such trouble with rogue policemen jeopardize their plans to resettle in London? Sure … an arrest, and he might have to spend the next couple of years running from one government office to another looking for his passport or a pleading for a ‘good character’ certificate. And how would he explain any potential incarceration on his career graph?
He vents a long, frustrated sigh and unclenches his fists. He had only heard how people in India drive by bleeding accident victims lying on the road for fear of police harassment should they get involved … now he believed in it.
This country was truly going to the dogs!
He stands there and watches the little girl go about gathering her mangoes. She collects them one by one, depositing them gently into the pouch she has fashioned by holding up the hemline of her frock. She counts them a couple of times, looks around as though missing some, before finally returning to her spot. She uprights the wooden board, dusts it clean, and begins to rearrange the mangoes on it.
As soon as she is done, he walks over to her. Her face is as emotionless as a mask. She doesn’t look up at him but continues to fuss over her wares, brushing them lightly with a rag and arranging and rearranging them every so often.
He crouches down to her level and pulls out a thousand rupees from his wallet.
‘Here,’ he says. ‘I want to buy your mangoes.’
She doesn’t look up at him. ‘They are ninety rupees a dozen,’ she says in a voice that is thinner than what he had mentally assigned her. She is probably younger, he recalculates … closer to Nina’s age.
‘Ninety rupees a dozen? Okay, I want to buy all of them.’
‘I cannot find one so there are eleven. That’ll be eighty-four rupees and I don’t have change for a thousand,’
He smiles at her. ‘No, no … you can keep the thousand. I don’t want any change back.’
‘No sahib, please give me eighty-four rupees only.’
For a moment he thinks she hasn’t heard right. He smiles again and says, ‘Listen, I don’t want any change. It’s all yours. You can keep all the money. A thousand rupees.’
‘No sahib, please give me eighty-four rupees only,’ she says.
He is taken aback, suddenly uncertain of himself and unsure how to react. He is at a loss for words. Almost mechanically he reaches back into his wallet and pulls out ninety rupees, handing it to her as though obeying a command. She takes the money and hands over the eleven mangoes to him in a thin plastic bag. She spends a few minutes digging into the small leather pouch near her waist before fishing out six rupees as change. She hands over the money, never once looking up at him.
Summoning his wits, he says, ‘Why … why won’t you take the extra money that I’m giving you?’
She doesn’t reply.
‘Listen,’ he tries again. ‘Don’t you need money for your father’s funeral? Or how about for your family?’ he asks. ‘I’m giving you money so that you can buy more mangoes, better ones and sell them. Don’t you want money? Don’t you need money?’
She nods but doesn’t look up.
‘Then why won’t you take it?’
She is silent for a few seconds. Then, for the first time, she looks up at him and says, ‘I saw you standing and staring.’ Almost immediately her voice chokes on itself. Her defiant, jet-black eyes moisten up and a fresh set of tears race down her dusty cheeks.
Suddenly he can’t bear her look. He quickly averts her eyes. His cheeks begin to burn, his heart feels burdened, and a lump is stuck in the middle of his throat that refuses to dissolve with his gulps.
He picks up his bag of mangoes and walks back to his air- conditioned car. He slips into the back seat quietly. He piles the mangoes on one side and leans back, instructing the driver to shut off the air-conditioner. He feels afraid to look into the rearview mirror; he feels ashamed to look outside. After a few minutes, when his eyes do venture out, the little girl is gone.
The driver turns around and says, ‘you’ve bought a lot of mangoes, sahib. Almost emptied the market.’
He nods. ‘Yes. They are for my daughter,’ he says. ‘I have to teach her the right way to eat a mango.’