Who ripples hospitably
out of her halwa-pink blouse
and sari (‘Synthetics are so practical
to wear on trains, na?’). Who invokes
the protocol of Indian railways to ask
for your phone number even before
the journey begins. Who unwinds
her life story, well-oiled,
without a single split end.
She’s Hindu,
a doctor, like her husband.
The Matron warned her
about inter-faith unions,
but she had no doubts,
not even in ’93 when others did.
Her ancestors supplied butter
to Queen Victoria,
His grandfather, better still,
was court dewan of Kolhapur.
‘I’ve been lucky.’
‘The gods have been good.’
‘I eat and cook non-veg.’
‘Many of my friends are pure brahmin,’
‘My sons are circumcised.’
‘My heart is pure.’
‘I practise no religion,
Over lunch she remembers
the day her mother-in-law died in her arms.
‘I bathed her,
and when the body was taken away,
I told my husband
I want to be buried in the kabrastan –
it’s closer to our home than the crematorium.’
Take Mrs Salim Sheikh.