Chapter Seven

They say that the sun rises every day. But of course it is not about the sun but the earth rotating around its axis. Did it stand still during the night? Because I woke in dark daylight. The windows banged loudly, as if out there a lost stranger was seeking to enter. Sheets of opaque rain curtained my window-panes, obstructing my view of the world. Wafts of morning coffee hung heavy, trapped within the closed doors and windows of my apartment, a signal that Premibai, at least, was at work, undeterred by the storm. I walked into the living room still clad in my pyjamas, and got horizontal on the couch waiting for her to bring my coffee to me. Leaning back, I noticed the ever more complex web woven by the spider, now clearer with my eyes wide open and alert; rainbow colours reflected in the threads belied their lethal intent.

I struggled with my images of Anna. That tall, slim girl with her two pigtails and shorts…childlike, woman-child, innocent, loving…what did she look like now, as a woman? Anna, my childhood playmate, the only girl boxer, matched with a different sparring partner every time. These boxing bouts made the boys shudder. Fights with Anna bordered on desperation. The boys, working hard not to lose to a girl (and thus be roasted till the next fight), attacked her with such purpose. But Anna never complained, and fought back as desperately as them—more, I suspect, from fear that we would shun her, refuse to let her play with us, than from courage.

Do you understand how disturbing it got every time I slid into my memories? Perhaps today I should meet with Dr. Apte before he left for the long weekend to Jaigad. I had yet to fully grasp the circumstances and turmoil that set in motion the events that separated Anna and I. But for now, coffee and Premibai…

As if reading my thoughts, Dr. Apte dropped by for breakfast. Without much ado, he lowered his bony behind into a chair opposite mine, took off his shirt, folded it carefully and draped it over the sofa back next to him. He rubbed his palms together, almost as if satisfied that he had accomplished his goal for the day. His manner ever smug, he leaned back.

“Ah, Peter! How is life treating you?” Then without waiting for an answer, he called out to Premibai, who was busy in the kitchen.

Premibai, who had already set the pot for coffee in anticipation of Dr. Apte’s demand, appeared through the doorway smiling, as smug as Dr. Apte, tray in hand, cups tinkling on it as she made her way to the coffee table to set it down. She smiled at Dr. Apte while she awaited further orders, which he delivered immediately after the first sip of coffee, sending her scurrying back into the kitchen to execute the loud demand for breakfast—generally poha, beaten rice, favoured so much by my Maharashtrian friend. I recall going to Jaigad on his invitation for the weekend. We ate poha for breakfast and a different variation with yogurt for lunch, and then for tea we had a sweet variety of the same thing. Our specialty, he said. Anyway, he ordered, in the offhand way one orders servants, “Premibai, mala poha paheje—I want poha.” Thinking of these two individuals, a Brahmin Maharashtrian and a low-caste Gujerati, and their smug certainty of themselves and their roles in life, I could not but speculate that were Premibai educated, were she a Maharashtrian, were she Brahmin, they may have found each other attractive, perhaps even suitable for marriage.

Premibai merely smiled at the orders, quite pleased she did not have to deal with an indecisive employer, and went into the kitchen, her mood near recovered by now after my admonishment over the spider and the teacup. She did not take kindly to my suggestion to keep the house clean—why don’t you keep the cups on the table, saab? she’d countered.

“Peter, I am leaving for Jaigad. I won’t see you for the next two months. I have to tend to the mangoes in my orchard. It is a very crucial growth period during the rains. My nalike sons will neglect it and I will lose income on it. So I decided to spend the morning with you.”

“I will miss you, Dr. Apte. I wanted to discuss with you some issues that are engaging my thoughts right now. I thought I had time.”

“We do have time; I leave only this evening. The rain is not good to travel in and I could have lunch here. Ask Premibai to make dal, lentils, and bhindi, okra, for me. You know I am a vegetarian.”

Not ready with my questions as yet, I considered that perhaps I needed the weekend with Anna, or at least the notebook, first. I pondered on how Dr. Apte would react to my silence. He would be perplexed that I would want to do something other than take advantage of the opportunity to listen to his words of wisdom. Incomprehensible! I, on the other hand, would find it hard to justify rejecting his offer just to be on my own, reading a teenager’s diary, as I guessed he would characterize Anna’s journal.

I searched for those questions that I had told myself I would ask, the holes in my understanding that arose while reading Anna’s journal. “Dr., I wonder if you could tell me what makes Hindus of today resent Muslims. I mean, on a micro level, why would, say, a person like you develop a dislike for a Muslim? Is it about a personal bad experience you had with Muslims? I mean, did some Muslim hurt you and you cannot let go and have applied the experience across the board to all Muslims?”

“Ah, my best friend, Naqvi, is a Muslim. I have had only good experience with my Muslim neighbours.” Dr. Apte turned away, picking up the small vase on the table in front of him and examining it closely.

“But you did say that you grew up to hate Muslims. Surely it must have been something within your experience of them?”

He looked up at me somewhat accusingly. “I must insist that I do not have anything against them. But of course I must say that it is easy for me since I do not have daughters. If I did, I would not want my daughter to marry a Muslim. Otherwise, I do not have anything really against them.”

“Why?”

“Firstly, if you know us, Indians don’t like to marry outside our community. But then if it must be so, even a Catholic is more acceptable than a Muslim.”

At my hesitation, he added, “Though, not meaning to offend you or anything, but Catholics will want our daughters to convert. Still, we do not have a uniform civil code in India. This personal law stupidity allows Muslims to take four wives. I don’t want my daughter to marry someone and be one of four. We want our children’s happiness.”

I laughed. “With due respect for your feelings, Doctor, how many Muslims do you actually know who have four wives?”

He smiled. “Put that way, I admit, none. But look at the possibility. They can; and they are not bound morally and legally like the rest of us.”

“But then, my friend, I know many Hindus who are not faithful to their wives and have mistresses; for that matter, so do those in other communities. I admit that social taboos and legalities are a deterrent, but then, really, I cannot think of anyone I know with four wives, can you?”

“Peter,” he said patiently, even perhaps a trifle indulgent, as towards a marginally unintelligent child. “Do you agree that all of humankind is racist in some form or the other?”

“I would say yes to that.”

“Yet we called it apartheid in South Africa. That is because it was enshrined within their constitution, if you get my drift.” He hooked his index finger and tapped his forehead, a gesture that he used to condescendingly request that one use one’s brain.

“We were also,” he continued, “brought up to think that Muslims were dirty. Their homes were dirty and if you see the localities where they live…”

“Gosh! Walk around Bombay, Doc. This is a dirty city in many places, but it only reflects the income group and the availability of waste disposal and toilets. Just bad urbanisation!”

“Ah, you are giving me logic. I am speaking of the perceptions we grew up with. There is nothing real about reality except the way we see it.” He had raised one hand halfway, his open palm waving in the air like a silent applause or a gesture gospel singers are wont to do. “What we see is defined by our retinas, the angle of the light, the distance we are from the object, and all that. How do I know whether my retina has the same dimensions as that of someone else viewing the same scene? Does not the majority define the rightness of my vision and validate it?”

“Surely once you grow up to an age of reason don’t you change that opinion? Human organisms are structured to learn and unlearn at will.”

“We are flooded with our day-to-day lives and we blindly follow convention, unless of course we are confronted with some overwhelming motive to change.” His eyebrows meeting, his head cocked to one side, he pondered awhile. “Maybe something earth shattering such as falling in love.”

At this juncture, he took out a small pouch tucked in his pants and began making a paan, choosing from other little boxes that contained diverse fillings, and then folding it into the shape of a samosa. Stuffing it in one go inside his mouth he began to chew loudly.

His words sparked a memory for me. “I’m reminded of the times as a child when I visited my friend Deepak’s home. His mother graciously presided over our meals and served us. At first I thought she was being very caring, but nevertheless, we wanted her to leave us alone to talk our boy talk. Not much later, I discovered she did not want me to touch their spoons; one day she pre-empted my attempts to do so, explaining that she would rather serve us than we serve ourselves. We were sixteen, certainly old enough to serve ourselves. Do Hindus think we are dirty too?”

“Peter, you eat pork and beef. That’s why they don’t want you to touch their vessels; besides, we Hindus bathe in the morning and you people bathe in the evening. It is also a possibility that they were Brahmins. As you know, we Brahmins are particular on who touches our utensils.”

“Weird. We didn’t like vegetables growing up, but we didn’t think that a vegetarian shouldn’t touch our utensils.”

“Don’t get angry. You can touch the utensils in my home, Peter.”