Nineteen

The white van was a quarter full. Vasu was sitting on the watchman’s wooden stool in the shade of the building’s portico, while the watchman was standing in the sun, by the van, keeping an eye on the goods inside.

Mrs Ali nodded to him. “How is it going?” she asked.

“Namaskaaram, Amma. It’s going a bit slowly, but should be finished in the next hour or so.”

Mrs Ali walked in through the wide-open gates of the building, patting Vasu on the head on her way past. “Don’t go off anywhere,” she said.

“I am staying here,” he said. “I have to keep an eye on all the things going into the van.”

“That’s right,” she said. “You have a very important role as a guard.”

Her voice caught towards the end of the sentence and she hurried towards the stairs. Stairs troubled her knees, so she took a deep breath before taking the first step. She had gone up only three steps when she saw Rehman and the van driver above her, coming down with a dressing table – the sinews of their arms straining and their faces pinched with effort. She hurried back down, wincing as she reached the bottom.

Setting down the dressing table on the ground near the foot of the staircase, the men stood up and wiped their foreheads. Rehman smiled at her. “This is the last big item,” he said. “The rest will be down quickly.”

“Be careful,” she said and went up to the flat. She found Pari standing by the window of the now-empty living room.

Pari said, “Why did you come up, Chaachi? There is nowhere to sit here. I’ll be down soon anyway.”

“That’s all right,” said Mrs Ali. “I wanted to see the place for one last time.”

She looked around the flat – bare of wall and floor. Some indefinable essence of Pari and Vasu had leached away from this space and it already looked alien and soulless. A home, Mrs Ali thought, was just like the human body. A physical shell indubitably belonged to a man or a woman for seventy, eighty years, through childhood and maturity, health and sickness, love and hate, but then, within hours of that person passing away, it became nothing more than decaying flesh that had to be disposed of. A home too was animated by the family who lived in it, their sounds, their memories, their affections and fights and petty jealousies. Without the family, a house is just four walls and a roof.

Rehman walked in and, after one glance at his damp brow, Pari handed him a small, frilly handkerchief. Rehman used it to pat his forehead dry, then tried to return it, but Pari shook her head. He put it in his pocket. She remembered old tales of chivalry in which knights embarking on some adventure took with them as a token a glove or scarf of the woman they loved. The world has changed since those days – she was the one going off into the world, leaving a token behind with the man she loved.

“Back to work,” said Rehman, turning to go.

“Stay,” Pari said. “All the big items have gone down. The man from the moving company can manage the rest.” She turned to Mrs Ali. “Your son is in such a hurry to get rid of me. He booked the removal people and the tickets. Now he wants to make sure I don’t miss the flight.”

“I don’t – ” began Rehman.

Pari stopped him by laughing. “Don’t be so serious, Rehman. I was joking.”

Rehman smiled weakly. “Don’t joke about this,” he said. “I’d much rather you and Vasu didn’t go away.”

“Me? Or Vasu?” said Pari, looking suddenly intense.

Mrs Ali stirred. “I’ll go down and keep an eye on Vasu. We don’t want him wandering off at the last minute.”

Rehman stared in surprise as his mother disappeared down the stairs.

“Are you wondering why Chaachi left us alone?” said Pari.

Rehman nodded. A neighbour had accused Pari and Rehman of illicit behaviour. Since then, there had been a tacit understanding among them all to give other people no opportunity to raise a finger against them.

“The door is wide open, the removal man is coming in and out of the flat and there is no furniture, let alone a bed,” said Pari.

Rehman stared at Pari’s face, his face flushing, as he took in the full import of Pari’s words.

“Your mother’s mind is like a computer. She processed all those pieces of information, and the fact that I am leaving town, before she took a single step out of the room.”

Rehman remained silent.

“So, tell me – is it Vasu that you don’t want to go away or me?”

He had never noticed before how gracefully her eyes curved or that their whites were so clear or how vividly they contrasted with her black irises. “What kind of silly question is that?” he said, laughing nervously.

“Vasu or me?” she said. Her lips seemed to him as soft and rich as a cake in the Hot Breads bakery.

He glanced away but his gaze was dragged magnetically back to drown in the limpid pools of her eyes. He bit his lip with indecision then, finally, took a deep breath and said, “You.” His voice was husky and all the air seemed to have been sucked out of his lungs, as if he had stepped off a cliff.

She closed her eyes and when she opened them again, they were glistening with unshed tears. “I love you,” she said. “On my husband’s soul, forgive me for this sin, but I cannot leave town without telling you.”

Under normal circumstances, Pari would not have declared her feelings so openly, but she was leaving and her heart felt as if it were breaking. Once she was out of the way, how long would it be before Rehman got back with Usha? Would she ever be able to visit Vizag and see the two of them together? Could she bear it?

He took her hands in his. “If I’d only known…”

“What would have been different if you had known?” she said, interrupting. “You were in love with Usha, and I am a widow and a single mother, and I dare not disappoint your parents who have been like a steadfast rock in my support.”

“What have my parents got to do with it?” said Rehman.

“You are a buddhoo…That’s why I love you. Why would any parents want their only son married to a widow? Especially a son who is as highly qualified as you?”

He kissed her hands and said, “If we are going to advertise our negative points, then I am an unemployed man who cannot hold down a job for more than a few months. I have a failed engagement behind me and I have no savings or property. I don’t like T-shirts, I don’t like pop music and – ”

“Stop!” said Pari and laughed. “I love you just the way you are. In thy face I see the map of honour, truth and loyalty.”

“That sounds like a quote,” he said.

“It is – Shakespeare, Henry VI.” She stepped closer to him and gave him a peck on the cheek.

Rehman gripped her arms above the elbow. “I – ”

A male voice came from the door. “Excuse me, sir, madam. All the boxes are down.”

Pari grimaced silently and stepped back. “Yes, we are coming,” she said over her shoulder. “Go away.”

The sound of rubber flip-flops could be heard going down the steps.

Pari closed her eyes, wanting to say something, but the spell had been broken. “Too bloody late,” she said in English. Her work in the call centre had taught her slang that she hadn’t picked up from Shakespeare. She moved away and said, “We are both useless fools. What’s the point of declaring our feelings now when we are parting?” She glanced at her watch. “Let’s go. I don’t want to miss the first flight that I’ve ever taken in my life.”

Rehman nodded glumly. Would it have been better not to declare his love?

“No,” he said fiercely, as if in answer to his own question. “I am glad that I told you how I feel. And now that I know that you love me too, I am confident that we will not stay apart for ever. In a couple of years, my work with the water committee will end and nobody here will remember all this nonsense about Vasu. Then we can be together again.”

Pari smiled silently as if agreeing with him. But her experiences of loss and migration over the last few years had given her a maturity that Rehman, for all his intelligence and idealism, did not have. She knew that the most difficult part of moving to another place was the first few months; once those were past, would she want to return to Vizag? She knew that she would never again go back to her father’s village and, compared to what Mumbai had to offer, Vizag was a small place. Would her love for Rehman bring her back, once she had found a career and Vasu had settled into a school and made friends? The thought of leaving Rehman, at the very point in time that they had declared their love for each other, made her want to cry, but she knew, better than most, that tears dried faster than anything – except, perhaps, the springs of gratitude.

They went down the stairs. At the front door the van driver held out a clipboard. “Sign here, madam,” he said.

Pari scrawled her signature and the van pulled away. The taxi, a middle-aged Ambassador, drove up and parked where the van had been. Pari bent down and touched Mrs Ali’s feet in respect. Mrs Ali raised her and enfolded her in an embrace. “Call as soon as you land,” she said, her voice hoarse and her eyes wet.

The watchman hurried to put the suitcase and a smaller bag into the boot. Rehman, who would see them off at the airport, got into the taxi. Vasu bounced in after him. “Come on,” he shouted to his mother, who seemed unwilling to let go of Mrs Ali. His excitement about the novelty of his maiden flight had apparently eclipsed any misgivings about leaving Vizag and the others.

♦

Mr Ali rode his scooter down the road, dressed in a white cotton kurta-pyjama that felt comfortable, despite its having been ironed stiff as a freshly dried poppadum. The sun was high in the sky but the breeze kept him cool. His lace cap was in his pocket and a helmet hung from a small hook in the footwell of the scooter. The police were on a drive to enforce traffic laws and, while their zeal was bound to be short-lived, it paid to be cautious until they found more profitable ways to busy themselves. As usual when going to the mosque, he was wearing his oldest footwear.

The mosque wasn’t far away and within minutes he was parking the scooter at the end of an untidy line of similarly pious steeds. The azaa’n could be heard calling the faithful to prayer and several men were making their way in – shopkeepers, both small and prominent; college students; a couple of gravediggers; retired civil servants; the odd marriage bureau owner – all equal as brothers before Allah.

Mr Ali recognised a friend and hailed him loudly. “Razzaq, Salaam A’laikum.”

Razzaq, the owner of a Rexine seat-cover shop, turned with a casual smile on his face and said automatically, “Wa’laikum…Hey, what are you doing here?” Razzaq frowned and peered at Mr Ali closely, as if he were an old-fashioned schoolmaster.

“What are you looking at? Has the power of your glasses changed?” said Mr Ali.

“There’s nothing wrong with my eyesight, but there’s something lacking in your sense of direction,” said Razzaq. “It’s Friday afternoon and time for your siesta, not prayers.”

“My reputation has preceded me, it seems,” said Mr Ali.

“Seriously, after the trouble at the mosque last time, why come now, just after the imam’s election?”

“It’s my mosque, even if I visit it only twice a year,” said Mr Ali.

“Of course, of course,” said Razzaq, holding his hands up in a placatory manner. “We’ve been through that before. I was just saying that maybe you should let a little time pass and allow the emotions to settle.”

Mr Ali shrugged.

“You were always a strong man,” said Razzaq.

“My wife uses the word stubborn,” Mr Ali said.

The two friends, whose relationship had been strained for a few weeks but which had recovered after the imam’s election, walked together under the arch of the mosque and into the shaded front yard, with its wazu tank to the right and the covered prayer area to the left.

“I’ve come straight from the shop. I need to clean myself,” said Razzaq and made for the tank.

Mr Ali walked to a corner to take off his frayed leather sandals. A young man in his early twenties, with a neatly trimmed beard and long sideburns, stopped him. “Granddad, why did you come here again?” he asked.

Mr Ali said, “Is this a cinema hall that I need a ticket to go inside?”

“Don’t be funny, old man. You were not welcome before the election and you are definitely not welcome now. Go away.”

“Are you my father to tell me where I can go and where I can’t?” said Mr Ali.

Men were streaming into the mosque. The corner where Mr Ali wanted to leave his chappals was now occupied by somebody else’s footwear.

“What’s happening here?” said a voice behind Mr Ali and he turned.

The imam, looking no older than Mr Ali’s challenger, was striding towards them, his spindly legs sticking out below the knee from his Arab robe. “Well?” the imam said to the young man, who had fallen silent.

“I was just telling this gentleman that he is not welcome here,” muttered the young man, looking away.

“Can I help – ” said another voice, familiar to Mr Ali.

“Salaam, Azhar,” said Mr Ali, smiling.

The past few weeks of not talking to the man who was not just his brother-in-law, but also a very good friend, had been a sore trial to Mr Ali. He also knew how much his wife had been affected by his tussle with her brother.

“Have you got into another fight?” said Azhar, then nodded to the imam before walking away, into the mosque.

Mr Ali’s smile faltered. He opened his mouth to say that it was not his fault, but he closed it again. His shoulders slumped and the lines on his face deepened. If he had been looking in a mirror, he would have seen himself age about five years in as many seconds. The imam stared at Mr Ali, then towards Azhar’s receding back. He nodded, looking pleased, and Mr Ali’s anger flared. How dare -

The imam turned to the young man. “This is a house of God,” he said. “Let this gentleman through.”

Razzaq came out of the tank room, pulling his sleeves down over his wet hands. He had covered his hair with a handkerchief, knotted at the back. “Why haven’t you gone inside yet?” he asked Mr Ali.

“I was delayed,” said Mr Ali, shrugging. He felt better for having some friends left. “Come on, let’s go in.”

The sermon started soon after. The unity of the Muslim community, the ummah, had been on the Prophet’s mind during his final years, the imam said, as Islam went from being a tiny persecuted community to the major religion of the Arabian peninsula. He quoted one of the Prophet’s most famous sayings. “Just as the whole body suffers from a high temperature if one part of it is injured, so does the ummah.”

He looked over the microphone at the congregation. Mr Ali thought the sermon was pitched just right – there was no triumphalism from the imam after winning the vote. He was recommending unity, which was exactly what was needed. If only he was a little less literal in his reading of the Qur’an – but Mr Ali had to acknowledge that it was what quite a few people wanted. They acted in all manner of un-Islamic ways out in the world, but here, in the mosque, they wanted the imam to be strict: to denounce any deviance. This was not something peculiar to Vizagites or even Indians. Mr Ali had read an article in a magazine the other day which had, with statistics, shown that churches in the West that were liberal and admitted women priests had declining congregations, while strict, born-again churches, breathing fire and brimstone, were increasing in size and number. It’s the exact opposite of what he -

There was a stir in the crowd and somebody in the front row moaned. Mr Ali snapped out of his reverie and turned to Razzaq. “What happened?” he whispered.

“Shh…The imam, the imam, oh – ”

What had got into his friend? Whatever it was, it had affected the wider crowd, too. Mr Ali saw that Azhar, who was several rows ahead of him, had stood up, against all convention, and said, “No, you cannot do that.”

The imam remained silent for several seconds, then signalled to someone in the front row. The mosque committee member, an energetic man in his forties, jumped up and spoke very loudly straight into the microphone at close range, so that his voice boomed out. “Sit down, all of you. Silence during the imam’s sermon.”

He glared from one side of the room to the other until the crowd quietened down. Azhar, and a couple of others who had stood up, sank back to the ground.

The imam half raised his hands. The cream-coloured sleeves of his robe slipped down, revealing his thin but surprisingly strong-looking arms to his elbows.

“I haven’t made this decision in a hurry. I’ve deliberated long and hard, and thought the matter through carefully. It was hubris that made me think that I could take on a big city mosque as my first posting. A man of God needs to be humble and so I’ve decided to leave this mosque and go to a mosque in a small village. Allah is the greatest planner, and His plans are the best, as the Qur’an assures us, and I received fresh evidence – if any were needed – of the truth of that saying.”

The imam pointed to Azhar, who sat up, self-conscious at being the centre of attention, then continued his sermon.

“No sooner had the thought of leaving entered my mind before I heard from brother Azhar that his granddaughter’s village needed an imam. Some might call it a coincidence, but I prefer to think of it as God’s will. I have spoken to the elders of the village and with our own man, Nasrullah, and everything has been arranged. This will be my last Friday sermon at this mosque. Next week, insha’ Allah, God willing, I will officiate at the mosque in the village and Nasrullah Saab will lead the prayers here.”

Mr Ali’s mouth hung open – it was one of the rare times that he was at a loss for words. Others in the congregation were less inhibited and there was an uproar. The imam and the mosque committee members only added to the din by shouting and asking everyone to quieten down. It was a while before the imam was able to assert control again for the second part of the sermon. He raced through it, before announcing, “Stand up for the prayers.”

Mr Ali stood up with the others, then suddenly broke ranks and started pushing his way to the back.

“Hey,” one man said. “The prayers are starting. Where are you going?”

Mr Ali silently elbowed his way through the lines and reached the exit. He heard somebody, who sounded like the young man who had waylaid him, say, “First he fights to get into the mosque and now he is fighting to get out just as the namaaz is starting. Paagal budah.”

Mr Ali didn’t care about being called a crazy old man. It was as if a djinn – a spirit – had taken hold of him. Out in the yard he searched for his footwear. Unable to find his chappals immediately, he just left them behind and ran barefoot out on to the road. A couple of beggars standing by the exit looked surprised to see somebody leaving so soon. One of them even raised his leprosy-gnawed palm for alms, but Mr Ali didn’t pause. He smacked his right fist hard into his left with frustration when he found that his scooter had been hemmed in from all sides by other vehicles. He pulled out one bicycle but its stand came off and fell against its neighbour, which then fell against its neighbour. Mr Ali almost wrenched his arms, trying to stop them all crashing down like a line of dominos. He gave up trying to retrieve his scooter. Until the prayers finished and everybody started moving their vehicles, his was stuck. It teaches me to come early for prayers, he thought.

That particular road was usually infested with auto-rickshaws, weaving in and out of traffic with abandon on their three wheels and stopping suddenly in the middle, or making U-turns with just one tiny wave of the wrist to signal their intention. Now, when he needed one, it was not a surprise that no such vehicle turned up.

“Allah hu Akbar,” came the imam’s voice from the mosque over the speakers. God is great and he had given Mr Ali two legs. He started running. He had covered less than a hundred yards when sweat began to pour down his face and chest. The stiff starched cotton wilted like blanched spinach and stuck to his body. His bare feet felt every pebble, but the stones were actually a relief from the burning tar of the road. Mr Ali continued to run. His chest wheezed like a blacksmith’s bellows. As he passed a plastics shop, he zigged to get past an old woman carrying a lurid green bucket and realised that he should have zagged. His collided with the plastic utensil, knocking it out of the woman’s hand and into his path. Stumbling over the bucket, he landed heavily on his knees, skinning them. The woman started to shout, but when she saw his grey hair and wiry old man’s frame, she was so surprised that she fell silent. It wouldn’t have made any difference because Mr Ali’s blood was pumping so loudly in his ears that he was deaf to everything else as he pulled himself to his feet and started running again.

♦

Mrs Ali drew her head back through the car window and mussed Vasu’s hair one last time.

“Khuda Hafiz, Pari,” she said. God keep you safe.

The taxi moved forward with a jerk just as Mr Ali came running up, shouting something unintelligible. Mrs Ali was alarmed to see her husband’s state: his trousers torn, his cotton top sticking to his sweaty body, his hair wild and his eyes even wilder, looking like the crazed Majnoun in the desert after his lover Laila had been married off to another by her family.

“What happened?” she asked, moving towards him.

Mr Ali’s legs suddenly collapsed as Mrs Ali reached him. It took her all her strength just to let him down without a big bump.

“Where is your scooter? Why are you running like a madman?”

Mr Ali just shook his head as tears surged down his cheeks. “Too late,” he said.

Mrs Ali tried to lift him up but she didn’t have the strength. Then four more hands scooped up and cradled Mr Ali, carrying him like a child, so that he didn’t have to walk. Mrs Ali looked up to see Rehman and Pari, with their taxi, its engine still running, just behind.

As they made for the Alis’ house, Mr Ali patted Pari’s hand. “You don’t have to go,” he said, smiling dreamily. “There is no danger to Vasu now.”

Pari smiled back at him. “The flight is booked and the luggage has been sent ahead. It’s OK, Chaacha. I’m touched that you care so much but I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t understand,” said Mr Ali, as Rehman carried him to the bed, the way Mr Ali used to carry Rehman many years ago. “Cancel the flight, get the removal people back, let the landlord know that you are keeping the flat.”

Mrs Ali went ahead and switched on the fan. “The sun has gotten to him,” she said.

Pari wiped his brow. Mr Ali wanted to explain that it wasn’t the sun but instead, he fainted.