The house was quieter than usual. When Govinda woke he found toast, brewed tea and a boiled egg on the kitchen table. His clothes for the day were ironed and folded, left on the rocking chair in the hallway where Mumbles did the ironing. Usually, Mumbles ironed while Govinda ate his breakfast, but today no one was there. For the first time he could remember, the kitchen was dormant, silent.
He sat in defiance on the floor in his father’s study. He did not care if he got in trouble for being there. What was so special about his father’s study? The room was furnished with plush chairs and a settee. There were elephants carved in the chairs.
The fishbowl caught Govinda’s attention. He got up and inspected the goldfish with their translucent shimmering gills. He reached out and touched the water and the tip of a fish’s tail. Startled, the fish almost jumped out. Govinda lifted the aquarium, and as water and fish spilled out he turned the bowl over and placed it on his head. He breathed deeply and pretended he was an astronaut. He walked all over his father’s study, defying gravity. He walked slowly, carefully, soaking wet and dripping with the glass bowl over his head. He sat on the floor. Placing the fish bowl beside him, he put his ear to the floor and listened.
His father opened the door. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
‘I’m playing Holi like you showed me.’
‘You should be outside, celebrating Dol Purnima with the other children. And why have you killed the fish?’
‘I wondered what it would be like to be an astronaut.’
‘You are an idiot!’ shouted his father.
His father screamed at him about the mess he had created, but Govinda was not paying attention. He jumped up and slipped on the wet floor, narrowly missing the fish bowl.
‘What are you doing, playing Holi with the fish?’ His father loomed large in the room. He wore his typical formal long sleeved shirt, trousers and tie. He looked at the dead fish and the glass and the wet floor. He looked at Govinda. Govinda could see his father wanted to hit him but instead of doing anything Sunil Seth fell quiet. Govinda did not like making his father upset. ‘Get out of here,’ his father whispered finally. ‘I will fix this mess.’
This was the day everyone threw coloured powder and water at each other. It had been Govinda’s favourite festival, but he no longer felt enthusiasm for it.
He walked downstairs, across the compound, past the gatekeeper, out of the school gate and onto the lane, where the sun beat down. His eyes took a while to adjust. Newspapers, advertisements, notices, political inscriptions and posters adorned the rainwater-stained, fungus-coated school wall. Posters of filmstars and starlets dressed as heroes and villains swallowed most of the wall. Other images of Hindu gods and political graffiti absorbed what was left. Every shade of opinion circulated there: red flags, the hammer and sickle, and portraits of the Prime Minister Indira Gandhi and Jarnail Singh Bhindranwale, chief of the Damdami Taksal, a Sikh religious group.
Recently in the news there had been talk of danger from Sikh militants – Mumbles had told him so. Mumbles’ leader, Jarnail Bhindranwale, went from village to village as a missionary and asked people to live according to the rules and tenets of Sikhism. Mumbles called his leader Bhindranwale Mahapurkh, which means ‘The Great Spiritual Man from Bhindran’. He preached to young Sikhs, encouraged them to return to the Khalsa and give up vices like adultery, drugs, alcohol and tobacco. Govinda knew adultery had to be bad because drugs and alcohol and tobacco were. Mumbles said the focus on fighting for the Sikh cause appealed to many young Sikhs, and the government was getting nervous. Just then a red water balloon landed on the Sikh leader’s face. The contents of the balloon smeared all over the poster and trickled down the wall.
Nitesh called out to Govinda as he made his way to the street. ‘About time, Butt-scratcher.’ Nitesh was now blue-skinned. Govinda walked over and joined him and a few others. Almost immediately he was drenched in water and paint.
Govinda observed a fat man approaching on a bicycle. When he saw the children he became agitated and cursed under his breath. He was dressed formally in a white dhoti, cream top, dark green vest, white shawl and white turban. The big man looked majestic on his bicycle. Surely, Govinda thought, the man could see them throwing colours at one another. A group of students, multi-coloured and unidentifiable, had joined them in throwing the cold, coloured water, but still the fat man rode on towards them.
Govinda’s friends were wild and impish. Brilliant blues, popcorn whites, crazy yellows, peppermint greens and pomegranate reds, all sorts of colours were flying through the air.
‘I am ready, c’mon boys. He is getting close,’ Govinda said in a shrill whistle of a voice. He was jumping up and down. His breath grew louder and his heart beat quickly. The man on the cycle looked sick but he kept coming. In fact, everything about the man was magnified. As the children’s excitement grew and as the fat man began to look fatter, making every effort to face them with dignity, the wind blew forcefully. The gatekeeper looked on as he cleaned his teeth with a neem twig.
Clenching his jaw, the cyclist faced the mocking children. Had he forgotten what day it was? The lane had no streets crossing it, and he was too close to turn back so it was only a matter of seconds before he heaved forwards, his chubby legs pumping, his bottom swaying like the rump of a bullock.
The lane was unusually calm as the children lined up their water-filled balloons. They each threw a balloon at about the same time and hit him, but only Govinda looked back as they scampered away. He was the only one who saw how well they had hit their target. The cyclist shook his fist and screamed, ‘Little rascals,’ as he rode off looking like a rainbow and shouting, ‘Where are your parents? Are they having bhang or what? Don’t they know better than to leave you children wild without supervision?’
‘Govinda! What are you doing?’ another voice cried out angrily. ‘Govinda! Come here.’
Govinda turned slowly. It was the gatekeeper, Tenzing Tenzing may have been the laziest man in the whole of Calcutta. He always sat beside the large green gate, which protected the school from the chaos, dirt and poverty that lurked outside. His goat, Billy, stood nearby. Tenzing fed Billy regularly to get him fat for a festive celebration. Later he would use his wickedly sharp kukri knife to kill Billy and chop him into pieces to provide meat for his family. He would then get another goat named Billy for the next year. He was a messy, sick-looking fellow with spiky black hair that stood up straight.
Occasionally Govinda heard Tenzing threaten his wife and their children, and then he would plead with his wife to forgive him. He cared little for what others thought of him. His presence made Govinda question why people did things. Why did his father work so hard while Tenzing seemed to do so little?
Tenzing never called out like this. He rarely made such a spectacle. ‘What are you doing, you reckless fool?’ Tenzing asked in disbelief. He was standing so close to Govinda that Govinda could smell his foul paan-laden breath. ‘Do you know who that was?’
‘What do you mean?’ Govinda asked.
That man you just threw colour on is very dangerous. Perhaps you have heard his name? Ali Khan? He is a powerful man who can have your whole family killed for humiliating him simply by snapping his fingers. He runs this para. Most people dance to his tune or pay the price, but you are lucky because he likes your father. That is why he did not stop and really give it to you kids. Why do you think he was riding his bicycle on Dol Purnima and no one else had touched him?’
Govinda went home to bathe in water that had been warmed on the stove by Mumbles. The hot water along with cooler water had been poured into a large metal bucket. When the temperature was just right the cook left Govinda to take his bath. Govinda poured water from a mug over his head and washed away the red, green, yellow, blue and purple paint from his body and face. He knocked the metal bucket loudly with the mug and poured water over himself again, flooding the bathroom so that miniature waves sloshed through beneath the door. He wondered if Ali Khan would still be angry. What might he do? He thought of the gatekeeper and the smell of his breath. He poured another mug full of water over his head and shuddered. He emerged from the bathroom clean and scented with soap.
That evening Govinda ate very little of the dinner prepared by Mumbles. He sipped Horlicks before going to bed.
‘Is anything the matter?’ his father asked as he tucked Govinda into bed. ‘How will you be strong if you don’t eat?’
‘Do you know a man called Ali Khan?’
There was no answer, but Govinda detected hesitation. ‘Of course,’ said Sunil Seth eventually. ‘I encouraged his eldest son, who was a little wayward, to finish school and graduate from college.’
‘Is Ali Khan dangerous? Can he really kill people simply by snapping his fingers?’
‘Ali Khan! Who told you he was dangerous?’ his father asked.
‘Tenzing did. Everyone says it.’
‘Ali Khan is a not a dangerous man, Govinda. He is a politician.’
Night had long fallen and the festivities of the day had ceased when there was a loud howling in the school compound. It reached Govinda in his bed. He woke up but a dream lingered in his consciousness. In his dream two ghosts, or two lost souls, perhaps his parents, were arguing with a man. Was it Ali Khan? There was the sound of smashing and then Govinda heard shouting. He couldn’t tell whether his dream was beginning or ending. He feared the man on the bicycle had come to do something dreadful like take him away or hurt his parents. Don’t move, he thought, but he could not lie still.
As quietly as he could, Govinda slipped out of his bed. He saw his parents. His father stood close to his mother. His mother opened one of the French doors. Together, they walked out and peered from the balcony. He heard the gate rattle. A person was screaming. His father left the balcony and headed to the front door. Govinda heard him leave the apartment. He went outside to his mother and expected to see Ali Khan. In the semi-darkness, he strained to see who it was. The person yelling was on the other side of the school gate demanding to be let in. For a moment he thought he caught a glimpse of the hijra. Then he heard crying. It was the gatekeeper’s wife who was howling at her husband.
‘How dare you drink bhang and come to me like this? Get out.’ The gatekeeper’s wife was screaming and her voice echoed across the playground, through the compound.
‘But I didn’t!’ Tenzing protested.
‘Don’t say anything. Just get out. Leave me…’ Her voice trailed off. A third figure ran towards them. Govinda stretched his eyes to see clearly. Tenzing slapped his wife. She fell as the figure approached.
If Govinda’s father had not intervened, Tenzing probably would have hit her again.